Female sex addicts aren't invisible, they're just still acting out.
I have a confession to make. I'm one of those "all talk, no action" girls.
Because I wasn't raised properly, I prided myself on coming up with the filthiest possible things to say to people. Talking like a brazen hussy has served me well throughout my life, and to this day I use vulgarity and shamlesssness to pull me through social situations. But when it comes down to actually doing the dirty, I'm practically a modern-day Victorian.
So how did I become a fucked-up Robin Byrd/Sandra Dee hybrid? Naturally, I have my mother to thank. And for once I'm actually not being sarcastic when I say that.
While other children may have suffered through the muffled sex sounds coming from their parent's bedroom, those kids always had a plausible deniability factor. Not me. There was no pretending that my wildly promiscuous young mother was wailing because she was suffering through another bout of lower back pain. Or when I could actually hear her ask a guy aloud, “Do you wanna fuck? I knew. The sound of squeaking bed springs was my own personal "Psycho" theme.
Having a party mom in her 20s who has tons of regret that she's wasted her youth by having a child, is full of excitement. And by excitement, I mean a pit of anxiety tearing through your stomach at the searing mental images that are sure to haunt you for the rest of your life.
A party mom's good time is often their child's prison of shame. It was probably not the best time to have friends come over for a slumber party, but my party mom invited them. Other kids didn't understand why I didn't love my party mom. But the other kids were about to find out!
It's one thing to wake up one morning, get yourself ready for school, only to find your parents passed out naked on the living room floor. At least I was alone when I suffered through that disturbing hippie nudity. But it's a whole other thing to have everyone at a party watch in shock and horror as your mom hardcore-rides some dude on an outdoor patio chair for all to see. I just stood there, red-faced, as my 16-year-old cousin (the one who was constantly trumpeting his dream to one day be "a pussy doctor") cheered her on.
I'm sure things happened before and after that moment, but it is literally the only memory I have of that night. I can only imagine that other people in attendance that night hold this precursor to online live sex webcams close to their hearts as well.
The next morning me and my buds decided to walk to the Magic Mart to get candy with the money I took from my passed-out mom’s purse. Drunken moms do have their perks. No one had mentioned what had happened the previous evening. But just when I had convinced myself that maybe it was all a bad dream, an undigested bit of beef, one of my friends asked innocently enough, “What makes somebody a slut?"
Call me sensitive, but I felt sure this question was a veiled reference to my mother. But instead of snot-crying as I listened to a little bitch describe what a slut was using my mom as an example, I spoke up and confidently schooled them in what a slut was… by using my mom as an example.
I had lots of stories I could share with these girls to make sure they KNEW exactly what actions a woman must take to insure that society deems her "a slut." I told them about seeing pubes in the morning while I munched a bowl of Sugar Smacks.
The girls hung on my every word.
I realized that "educating" others about sex will bring you much desired popularity.
I spent the rest of my preteen and teen years, being the secretly virginal resident expert. Fooling the dumb kids in my life was even easier than fooling the dumb adults. I taught girls how to give the world’s worst blow-job on a bottle of Blue Curacao. I pretended to be impressed by boys with long tongues and shared completely fabricated stories and cautionary tales.
I often wonder how many girls are still out there living in fear of getting "flapped" during a raucous finger banging, a thing I invented that involved the guy pulling our your inner labia and creating a vaginal wattle. "You can NEVER put it back in!” I warned.Though the girls were fully on board with my baby Dr. Ruth act, the boys were beginning to get suspicious. I just rolled my eyes at them when they accused me of actually being a stealth prude who only talked a big game.
“Why would I screw you when every weekend I'm sneaking into NYC to drink Long Island Ice Teas and hooking up with an older guy who looks exactly like Frisco Jones from General Hospital?" I scolded them. I loved my imaginary life!
I didn't actually lose my virginity until I was 18, and shortly after, enjoyed a standard teenage wild-oats sowing period. The crowning achievement of this time getting accidentally credited with being one of those girls who looooooooves performing anal.
It was like the Holy Grail rumor for an all-talk girl like me. One day while doing it up doggy-style, I was surprised to hear my NSA hookup yelling "Yeah, you like it in the ass!” over and over again. I thought about correcting him but he really seemed to enjoy the misguided (by about an inch) idea that he was pounding the hell out of my butt, so I just rolled my eyes and became a girl with a rep for loving anal without actually having to do any of the legwork. (I also felt pride -- apparently my pussy could be mistaken for a butthole! I do recognize now that this is a sad thing to feel proud of.)
Of course my back door deception was bound to backfire. During our next encounter we had a classic “Wrong hole!” moment and then I had to deal with the sad-eyed confused questions of the anal avenger. "I thought you liked it?" he said wistfully. I struggled to come up with a reason why I didn't want my ass entered. I knew right then that our fling was over. It was the only way to keep my reputation as a buttfucker intact.
After only 6 months, I was tired of my “sex-crazed” lifestyle. I got a boyfriend, who I'm Victorianly still with today. He happened to grow up with a mom just like mine, and was not the least bit shocked by my filthy antics. Well, other than that one time he nervously inquired why I had Googled “pint glass of semen storage birthday present.” (I was just looking for an old Dan Savage column, but I was again sadly proud that maybe, just maybe for a second he thought that I was planning on making him cum into a glass that we would store in the freezer.)
Even though now I’m all monogamous and boring, it doesn't mean I don't have depraved stories to tell and filthy bon mots to astonish with. I've invented depraved acts while drunk sheerly for the thrill of adding them to Urban Dictionary. I’m suspicious that I may have been blocked by a good number of people on Facebook after posting one too many lewd Santorum updates. And in the past two years alone, I had my vagina serviced by 8 different women in one day that ended in somebody pooping on me.
OK, I had a baby. But still.