Notes from a Nymphomaniac: An Essay

I don't believe in transparency all the time. It is overrated. Some things are better left unsaid. But being that this website is anonymous, I feel that I can unravel myself in a way that I cannot among those closest to me.

The truth is, because of certain circumstances and diagnoses in my life, I have been labeled as a nymphomaniac. This is both fortunate and unfortunate (depending on whom you ask and what sex they are). Men seem to think of it as some sort of divine gift from heaven, and, in some ways, they are right. But it takes you on the edge, on the brink of collapse if gratification is not found in some form or another. Masturbation and sex are the only two solutions.

Most people think of nymphomania as just a very promiscuous woman. That is not always the case. Nymphomania is a complete obsession with sexual ideas, urges, fantasies, or behaviors that interrupt the person's daily life, such as work or school. There are many nymphomaniacs out there (myself included) who are not sexually active in any promiscuous way, but the obsession with sex is so prominent that it intrudes on who you are.

I am 35 years old, and my number of lovers are extremely conservative: I'm in the single digits. Out in the streets, I appear innocent, almost naïve to the evils of the world. But when I am enclosed in my six walls, with only boundaries facing, it's these depraved, dirty, delicious thoughts that bounce off the fences like a boomerang and come right back into my mind.

Thus far, this essay must sound like a plea for help, and it's really not intended that way at all. All in all, I am happy with my nymphomania; yes, there are times it drives me absolutely bonkers, but its double-edged sword sinks into my pussy more than it does my heart. I thank the man upstairs for giving me this gift of nymphomania (or hypersexuality as it is also known); it gives me creative outbursts, it gives me writhing sweats of unfulfilled lust, and the wanting of every man I can think of.

If I want every man I can think of, I'm in serious trouble! This fact has gotten me into mischief before: I've contacted ex-lovers in the throes of hypersexuality, only to be responded to as if they were doing me a favor. That kind of cruelty is no trophy. I'd rather be given nothing than thrown a bone.

A woman in the fever of hypersexuality is a victim to her own desires. The feeling of sex and masturbation is, without a doubt, one of the most heavenly here on earth. But it's almost as if you're high on nicotine: one cigarette is too much, while one hundred is not nearly enough. The orgasms come more frequently, with more intensity - and yet you are never truly satisfied. You want more passion, more orgasms, more sweat, more dirty talking...and then, before you realize it, the sun has peeked its golden head above the pines, and it is time to say goodbye. Without so much as a sigh of relief or a bow for a phenomenal performance, you have parted ways with your current lover.

Here's where it gets tricky. Most women (myself included) cannot have sex without getting emotionally involved. It really is like a magician's trick you've played on yourself: you sought out the rabbit to impress and woo, and before you know it, the wand of daylight has made him vanish! Back in the hat he must retreat.

For women like myself, who prefer to stay conservative in their number of lovers, masturbation is the key to the lock. Hell, there's all sorts of ways you can get off these days: erotica, pornography, the seediest chat rooms with the seediest of men. And they're all things I am grateful for. They've made me orgasm time and again without the time, effort, inconvenience, or the natural manipulation of the male ways.

And speaking of men, they know I need it bad. They may not diagnose me or slap a label on me, but they know when my hormones are racing and that I'll do nearly anything for my fix of semen. With this kind of desperation coupled with lust, they have the upper hand. And for a group of species who are supposed to be so dumb, they play their hand very well: I show them my cards and they show me their palm. I curse myself because I know these sordid creatures like I do my own self, and yet I allow them to fool me with sweettalk because the excitement is so overwhelming, I just have to experience it - no matter what the cost.

That's why I enjoy writing erotica so much. I can't say I'm the most talented or creative at it, but it helps me release some of the excess sexual energy that I often feel. Kinks are allowed. The freakier the better. Forbidden fantasies? Let's talk about it. Leave your jury at the door and enter the most virtual Studio 54.

In writing erotica, I can explore sexual ideas without exposing myself to the real-life pains that often accompany a relationship, or even a one-night stand. Fantasy and imagination are sometimes preferable. In the world of the imagination, things always go the way you want them to. That must be why reality in such a rude awakening on a Monday morning!

Ever since the pandemic hit in 2020, I've had more kaleidoscopic visions of sex than I ever have in my whole life. I want it badly. I need it badly, and yet, sometimes it is not available to me. I am no Christie Brinkley: I can't just walk out into the world and pick up a man just like that. I'm an ordinary girl; unassuming and shy.

These kaleidoscopic visions of sex that I have are pornographic in their content. I have my limits in real-life, of course, but there are no walls up when I'm dreaming of sex and men and cocks and sperm and cum and fucking and making love and blowjobs and bukkakes and the utter X-rated world that can only exist in one's mind. It's a vision of perfect bodies, untroubled waters, pleasure without difficulties, and the idea of bathing yourself when all you've been doing is thinking, not doing.

So, that's a peek into a nymphomaniac's world. I do not know if I represent other nymphs well, I can only claim my own experiences: Perfection in the imaginary world, chaos in the real one.