CHAPTER ONE
Dealing With Nymphomania
It was, it was … Fuck me … I’m not sure what the time was, didn’t care what the time was, because as he stared at me, I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Utterly horrified, my shoulders slumped, because it suddenly occurred to me that the time must be twenty-five past Nightmare-o’clock. HE kept staring at me, his expression full of concern and disbelief, and even though I was truly rattled, my heart sank when I looked into his eyes, because he looked so lost and helpless. My mind was initially in denial, because this shouldn’t have happened, I mean His best friend David Burke came to Paradise Gardens once a month to see (I mean hump) Mia, so surely David would have, SHOULD have subtly suggested to him, So Brian if you’re ever thinking about popping into a Knock Shop, try the ones in the city, because Paradise Gardens is not a good option for you. But no, obviously David had never discussed brothels with my him, because my father was standing fifteen feet away from me, staring at me. With my mind on the gallop, I suddenly realised that I was completely naked, and that rattled me even further. When I was working, I never waltzed around the customer area completely naked, and I couldn’t remember undressing, couldn’t even remember clocking on, couldn’t remember anything, couldn’t think clearly, because the man who had been involved in my conception was staring at me. I sensed noise and movement, people moving around me, yet all I could see was my father, and I contemplated folding an arm across my breasts and discreetly slipping a hand over my groin, but I guess it was pointless. No doubt my father would have seen me naked as a baby, yet here he now was, staring at the naked young woman that his daughter had become. I had been so focussed on my father, that I didn’t even notice HER until she bowed her face. My mother was standing behind his left shoulder, the bowed head shaking negatively as she tut-tutted.
I’d had a recent experience where a married couple had come to my place of employment to try and ignite the significant spark that had gone missing in their marriage, but What the Hell … my parents shouldn’t bother about coming to a brothel to search for lost sparks, they should just concentrate on making tasty dinners when their daughters came around to visit them. My father was shocked and upset, yet it seemed like my mother was thinking, Yes, I knew this would happen …. In the myriad of confusing things that spun through my mind, one started to become dominant; I had been exposed (in every possible way) and the exposure would surely lead to casualties. I could imagine my dad begging me, Jem, Jemma, you have to quit immediately … although to me the choice seemed pretty obvious; your parents or your job? I hung my head in despair, because I knew that something important, something special was just about to slip out of my life. To me it was an easy choice; Sorry dad, I love you, but for my own emotional survival I need to keep doing this, because this is my dream job … and mum, arhhh … I don’t really care how this affects you, because I think you’re a twat!
I skimmed my hand over my vagina, and God, I’d just been waxed two days ago, and my pussy was so smooth; then I rolled over, and after my mind had processed my last physical action, I blinked my eyes open … Huh, what? Smooth pussy, roll over …
Slightly dazed, I saw my ceiling, then after turning my head to the window, more processing began running through my mind, because with a subtle suggestion of dull light spearing into the room, I assumed that it was morning. I sat up and shook the drowsiness from my mind, and being a perceptive person, I realised that I wasn’t standing naked in the customer area at Paradise Gardens, I was sitting up in my bed. Ohhh thank fuck for that … I must have been dreaming.
I remembered having a chill stick before I bedded down the previous night, and while it did chill and relax me, I suspected that the chill stick may have also been responsible for my freaky dream. I was becoming a decisive person, and as segments of the freaky dream floated through my mind, I made the on-the-spot decision that I would never chuff before climbing into bed ever again. One part of the dream made me giggle, Mum, you’re a twat! Although quickly, I glanced at the bed, just to make sure my dad wasn’t snuggled under the doona somewhere, and Phew … he wasn’t.
Being an inquisitive and explorative nymphomaniac, I watch a lot of porn and I read a lot of erotic literature, and I’ve never understood the Daddy-Daughter thing. Maybe some weirdos get off on that kind of thing, but it’s a fantasy, isn’t it? It couldn’t be real, surely. I mean when me and my sister were younger, we didn’t say excitedly, Ohhh, dad’s going to have a shower, so let’s go and have a peek … because to us dad wasn’t a male, he was simply the tall person who woke us up in the morning and drove us to school. During our teenage years, mum decided that Saturday was Girls clothes washing day, so all our panties and bras and ‘delicates’ spent Saturdays on the backyard clothesline, and to protect our privacy, dad very rarely ventured into the backyard on a Saturday, and that’s normal, isn’t it? Like most dads wouldn’t pull up a chair and sit by the clothesline as they watched their daughter’s underwear drying, because that’s creepy. My dad wasn’t creepy, he was normal, although I was unsettled that he’d made a surprise (and very unwelcome) appearance in this dream. I knew it wasn’t his fault that he’d appeared, it was mine, or more likely, it was my sub-conscious’s fault.
Waking up naked in the morning normally meant that I’d kick the doona off, get comfortable, and then blow one out, because in my on-going masturbation fantasy, me and Shana (and Evie) were still in the Greek Islands, but Nahhh … I would delay my wake-up blow until later in the morning. I needed to get my mind off the disturbing dream, so I slunk out of bed and grabbed my laptop. I was a self-confessed nymphomaniac who’d just had a very unsettling dream, so I typed in nymphomania, and various options appeared. One of the options that appeared stated, Treatment for nymphomania. I clicked on that option and read the summary of the article; Nymphomania is a mental disorder marked by compulsive sexual behaviour. Treatments for the disorder include;
--Cognitive behavioural therapy (to help you cope with triggers)
--Family or social therapy
--Medications, including antianxiety medications, antidepressant medications, and antipsychotic medications
--Talk therapy.
Holy fuck Medical People, get real! I’d just dreamt that my dad and my twat of a mother had seen me naked at the Brothel I work for, and you’re suggesting that I discuss my nymphomania with my parents? And what … you think I should go on antianxiety, antidepressant and antipsychotic drugs? Fuck off Wankers! I felt like screaming the Heavens down, but I didn’t, because I’m not, and I repeat, I am not psychotic! I just like sex (I mean I love sex) and now I’m working in an industry that deals exclusively in sex, and that means that I’m as happy and jubilant as I’ve ever been, so you can stick the anti-whatever’s up your bumhole! If I was a counsellor and I was tasked with giving advice to young nymphomaniacs, I would say, Forget about the stupid doctors and the mind-altering drugs, instead embrace your nymphomania and slide those panties down!
Part of the medical diagnosis was correct… Nymphomania is a mental disorder marked by compulsive sexual behaviour … and yes, I’m saying, guilty to the compulsive sexual behaviour aspect, but I don’t need therapy or drugs to help me quell my urges, because the compulsive sexual behaviour keeps me balanced and aligned. And fuck off, stop calling nymphomania a Mental Disorder! Not all nymphomaniacs are the same, and while a few nymphomaniacs may require treatment to prevent them from being exposed to dangerous and risky situations, making the harsh generalisation that all nymphomaniacs suffer from a mental disorder is way off the mark. Generalisations should never be applied to human beings, because every person is an individual. You can’t say that every religious person is the same, because every religious person will have their own individual traits and eccentricities, and you can’t say that all blue-eyes blondes are the same, or all bald men are the same, or all Taurus’s or Aries are the same, so stop generalising about nymphomaniacs. Did someone once say, Be who you are … and yes, I have gleefully accepted who I am, and I don’t present a danger to myself or to the community in general. And what’s the Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (to help you cope with triggers) thing about? What triggers? Do you mean triggers like being deliriously horny and needing to rip all my clothes off so that I can blow one out? Seriously, I would be more worried and concerned if I WASN’T being constantly triggered. From my point of view, I have a healthy sexual appetite, and when the Triggers trigger me, rather than shun them, I embrace them. Admittedly, just about anything can trigger me (my friend Marcie is still teasing me about masturbating while I watched a documentary on Siberian tigers) and I can often find myself in awkward situations. Recently I did my weekly grocery shop, and a gorgeous young man smiled at me, and I stared at his bum as he waltzed past me, and then an attractive young woman in a low cut top came into view and I had multiple glances as she bent forward to pick up an item from a lower shelf, and my clitoris was sending pleading messages via my internal communications network, Hey you, don’t forget about me, I mean I’m being triggered here! And via the same internal communications network, I was obliged to advise, Listen, how about you settle down until I pay for the groceries and drive home!
And anyway, if nymphomania is a mental disorder marked by compulsive sexual behaviour, shouldn’t 99% of guys be called nymphomaniacs? When guys get aroused, they deal with the compulsive sexual behaviour in three ways; first, if they have a girlfriend/wife/partner, they root that partner, or secondly, if they don’t have a partner, they wank, or finally (and this is my favourite option) if they don’t have a partner and they would like another person to be involved in their compulsive sexual behaviour, they go to a brothel, and then someone like me can let the horny male hump me, or I can wank him, suck him, or whatever. Equality between the sexes is slowly evening up in this modern and even changing world, except when it comes to sex. If guys score and hump regularly, they are called Heroes or Legends, but if girls spread their legs regularly, we are stigmatised and called, Sluts or Whores or Nymphomaniacs. And yes, I identify as a slut, a whore and a nymphomaniac, because I’m a prostitute and I love sex, but it’s so gender-discriminatory that no-one calls me a Hero or a Legend. If a horny male came to Paradise Gardens and gave me some of his money, he would find that I provide a Heroic performance, because I’m willing, eager and enthusiastic, and I was the prostitute who never said No, so after I’d wanked him, sucked him, and let him fuck me, he’d probably be thinking, Wow, that was Legendary! So come on Dictionary people, get rid of the words slut, whore and nymphomaniac, and for girls who love sex, just place us under the banner of Hero. In the Dictionary, the word Hero is described as, Bold, courageous, illustrious, magnanimous; an illustrious warrior, one greatly regarded for his achievements or qualities … and hey Dictionary people, that’s me! I was Bold and Courageous, because I never said No, and while I didn’t know what magnanimous means, I should be greatly regarded for my achievements and qualities, because on average I got humped five times during every shift. If a guy humped five girls a night, they’d call him a Super-Hero, but I got humped five times during every shift, and then I get called a slut. In the Dictionary, they describe a slut as, A dirty and untidy woman, a slovenly or immoral woman … and yes, maybe that was relevant in the 1800’s, but more than two hundred years later, the meaning of the word needs to be redefined. Maybe they could say, Slut; a legendary heroine who likes sex … and while they’re updating, maybe they should add another meaning to the word Hero, and the meaning would say, Hero; a lovely girl who puts out.
Anyway, redefining unflattering words would have to wait for another day, because I was disturbed by the dream, so in order to soothe my anxiety, I needed to do something positive. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 7.37, and that meant that my friend Marcie should be awake. As soon as a positive action entered my mind, I nodded in approval, then I sent a text message to Marcie.
Hi, I think you’re a stupid dickhead!
In less than two minutes, I received a reply.
You’re a cock-sucking whore,
and anyway, how are you?
Girls shouldn’t call other girl’s whores, they should call each other Heroes or Legends, but my best friend was a Dickhead, so I replied,
Pretty good, how are you?
I opened her reply.
Good, but piss off because I have to get
ready for work.
I was disturbed that I’d had a late night chuff and then my father had appeared in my weird dream, and I was equally disturbed that my best friend appeared in my dreams even when I didn’t chuff. People shouldn’t appear in other people’s dreams without first getting consent from the dreaming person, but Marcie was a screwed up total dick, and she wouldn’t know the first thing about asking somebody’s consent to appear in their dreams, so I sent another message;
Sure, have a good day, and break a leg …
or break both your arms, and I’ll punch you
on the nose when I see you.
She replied;
I have to go, and I can’t wait for Thursday!
Yeah, just quietly, I couldn’t wait either, because this coming Thursday was the day of our big photo shoot. When I was working at the Insurance Company, my life was really boring and nothing exciting ever happened to me, I mean the highlight of my year one time was when my favourite porno site gave me a 15% discount for being a frequent user. But now I get excited every time I bounce into work, so I could understand Marcie’s excitement. I’m sure that she wouldn’t say to her parents, Mum, dad, I’m so excited, because today is another weekday and I get the opportunity to go to my Bank and hand out money to rude and unfriendly people!
If I excluded Evie and Davy humping her on her twenty-third birthday, this could possibly be the most exciting thing that had ever happened to Marcie, and I felt very pleased, because even though Marce was a Top-Of-The-Totem-Pole screwball, I wanted her to be happy. And I wanted her dreams to come true, and also … I wanted her to stop calling panties knickers, and I wanted her to stop being an idiot, and I wanted her to stop appearing in my fantasies … although, if we were to take our clothes off and smile and bend over as a man took photos of us in all our natural glory, would that then mean that one of my sordid (or more accurately, one of my sixteen-hundred sordid) fantasies would come true? Surely she should be aroused when we squeeze in and hug one another in our birthday suits, and I could say nonchalantly, Yeah, I’ve lost all my inhibitions Marce, so …
At school, the bullies called Marcie a skinny little bitch, and at the nightclubs, the guys who lacked imagination referred to her in the same unflattering terms, but I had seen her completely naked three times on her twenty-third birthday, and I definitely wouldn’t refer to her as skinny, because she was slender, and she had a collection of subtle bumps and curves that at the very least had caught my attention.
