This is a story of a girl who accidentally suffered from discovering her nymphomania. Yeah, I know it was slightly censored. This piece is experimental, just so I could test the x-rated waters and somehow make something fresh, something out of my league.
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IT WAS NEVER my intention to say it, but I uttered it out of nowhere like some paranormal, sinister spirit corrupted myself. My entire body was shaking, profusely sweating, eyes dilating, and then I was shouting Ben! Ben! Oh, Ben! in this spontaneous, sexually-driven way and the mattress was croaking from the intensity with its bare metal-to-metal scratching like live springs orchestrated by making love.
It was almost eleven in the morning and my boyfriend and I did it again for the fifth time, non-stop, after drinking shots of left-over vodka from last night’s birthday celebration. He passed the Nursing Licensure Exam and of course, the entire clan left their bank accounts in a state of destitution and the sum of it was used to launch some grand congratulatory bash for him as if he was debutante. Only did the guests wear comfortable clothes instead of itchy gowns and suits, and all of us (most of the visitors are common friends) had fun with three vodka bottles given by his fifty-something uncle who has this phony-looking silver beard and a month of stubble. If there’s someone who’s really happy with the results, it’s his phony cardiologist-uncle and his varnished wooden cane. I could almost think of him jumping secretly in his bathroom the way old people do after knowing the results, as if it was something miraculous. I have to admit the news was something unexpected since he was never serious about Nursing. Of course he’s no douche bag who chases after drunk tattooed men at around midnight. He’s pretty decent, not really spiffy-looking but moderately okay for me.
The celebration had to end at 11 pm after someone puked spaghetti all over the dining table. The rest of our friends, including archbitch Jinky who once was my boyfriend’s ex (and probably the lamest of all the girlfriends he tucked in bed), reacted with all the known puking sounds known to man. The next thing that I could remember, the transparent glass table became a wretched field of belched spaghetti and spewed intestinal colors of reddish white and foams of saliva and the gastric smell of an overloaded celebration and the stench of vodka. I can’t imagine how their maid cleaned it up but it has to be the worst part of her job.
Then we did it at the bathroom. It wasn’t really spacious there but we did the kissing soon after we smoked the cigarette sticks left on his shelf – he rarely smokes, by the way – and after we brushed our teeth and bathe ourselves with water and the hot kissing. We were very much of a hygienic couple, believe it or not, but at desperate times we just forget about the germs and all and just do it. It’s part of the thrill anyway. But with the puking scenes we have seen downstairs at the dining table and the pool of spit and spew, I don’t think we can stomach it. Maybe we secretly wished to brush our teeth.
It was really tiring doing it but the clitoral bouts of hunger and my indefinite sexual desire which I got ever since fourth grade, after one of my elder playmates and I did it, was something impossible to miss. It’s something elusive, something that’s very much ephemeral that I can’t help but grasp it and do it with the fear of not experiencing it ever again. I don’t know why I think of sex as if it wouldn’t happen ever again; not that it’s in my genes or that I look fugly enough not to get my own dose of carnal satisfaction, but it’s something that troubles me a lot. My boyfriend once commented on how abnormally gigantic my sexual appetite was, but I just can’t help it. Everything else seemed quite obvious that I’m a nymphomaniac, or at least to him, but I can’t seem to open up the topic to him. He’s oftentimes touchy, so I have to confess this to him at the right time, the right day, the right occasion. Heck, why do I even have to confess it to him: he should know that quite a lot since he’s a freaking nurse.
In High School I was nothing but a girl with a meek disposition, mainly because I don’t really blend myself a lot with my classmates except for a few who had had the same experience, the same penetration, the same virginal rupture. But no, I don’t talk about it and they don’t really need to know. I just study a bit the way normal students do. I’m not really that kind of exceptional, though I once was elected as the president of the Dance Club – the god-awful Dance Club and their interpretative folk dances. Anyway. I’ve only had two sexual partners in High School and we would always do that either at the school’s bathroom or at their respective houses: one’s a complete pervert and his untrimmed nails (and don’t even wonder where he’s using those nails, it’s horrible) and another one’s a once-inexperienced shy-type of a guy who’s a real chess grandmaster. If I were to rate them from one to ten in terms of their sexual performances, the grandmaster would have all the tens in the world. In comparison to that one-of-a-kind pervert who’s really sick and demented and the missionary he was doing for the love of the world, the grandmaster simply is a grandmaster. He’s too much of an experimental guy – maybe out of applying Queen’s Gambit or Pirc Defense in sex – who would really dare himself to try anything just to satisfy his partner, like the sex should be mutual (and it should be), and it was – excuse me for the term – fucking great. That’s why I make it to a point of finding a chess grandmaster at my age, just so to conclude that those geeks play really good in bed.
I admit, I committed a lot of lies with my current relationship but that’s just because my boyfriend wouldn’t grant me the sex I was craving for. I think it’s reasonable, though, to seduce someone else by phone and make him come over your house and do it until death. Okay, I’ve had some steamy nights with some guy – my ex-boyfriend, actually – and the latest was like, three days ago. I can’t seem to put it in words: I don’t really love him, but I just really crave for the idea of him thrusting and I can see the bulging nerves on his slender biceps and his abs and all. It feels great. Every time I think of the scene, I’m half-wishing my boyfriend to be dead by now.
Then I was probably having a hang-over or something but I got sort-of delirious while my boyfriend and I were doing it for the fifth time. I was probably hallucinating over the vodka or maybe my consciousness was fading. He was boringly on top of me as usual and I just shouted Ben! Ben! Oh Ben, fuck me hard! for like ten times in this hushed, voodoo-ish manner like I’m some witch cursing my boyfriend. I really did. I really told myself to just behave while saying it since his parents are sleeping downstairs on the master’s bedroom and we were tugging ourselves, though I’m quite sure his drunkard Dad wouldn’t even give a damn about it.
Shoot, my boyfriend wasn’t Ben.
I know it’s pretty lousy to reason out that I shouted the wrong name.
Post header courtesy of Deviantart.
