Rating: NNNNN
For the better part of two decades, I led a double life and didn’t even realize how risky it was.
My secret existence revolved around getting wasted, dangerous sex, illicit drugs and a perverse attraction to the mentally unstable. This twisted behaviour began back in my university days and continued for the next 17 years.
I went from good-girl corporate professional by day to reckless nympho by night. It’s nothing short of a miracle that I emerged from that prolonged period of debauchery relatively unscathed and HIV-negative.
Every Friday evening I’d leave the drudgery of my office and head out for “a couple” of drinks. Around 3 am, drunk and dishevelled yet still “respectable” in my power suit and “come-fuck-me” pumps, I’d end up at the local after-hours joint trolling for coke, E and wayward sexual encounters.
If I scored successfully on all three counts, I’d spend the entire weekend inebriated and out of control. Then, during the wee hours of Monday morning, I’d devise yet another excuse to explain my lateness at work or why I hadn’t shown up at all.
In the beginning it was all fun and games. I was having the time of my life. I was young, horny and hot. Men and women desired me, and I them. I loved the attention, the manic highs and naughty sex. I especially enjoyed playing the straitlaced ingenue at the office while hiding the wild child within. It didn’t faze me that, despite a never-ending supply of forbidden fruit, my appetite for deviance, drugs and danger remained unsated.
One time I met a guy recently released from a psychiatric hospital – for killing his girlfriend no less. (“She begged me to do it,” he claimed.) In the throes of distorted desire, I allowed him to bind, gag and handcuff me while we played a game of “rape.” Panic set in when he refused to release me. But when he finally did, I ignored my distress and laughed the whole thing off.
On another occasion, I awoke, naked and sore from a night of binge-drinking and wanton fornication, to discover that my “date” had absconded with my jewellery and a number of other items. Ah, well, at least no harm had come to me. And by the following weekend all was forgotten.
I went on to meet a well-dressed and absolutely charming fellow who invited me back to his tastefully decorated and fastidiously spotless condo. But it was a little too clean, if you know what I mean. Not to mention his unnatural concern for where I sat, where I placed my glass and what I touched. Did any bells go off? Well, sort of. But the booze was flowing, the cocaine was free, and he was irresistibly cute. So I stayed.
After a disappointing and oddly clinical fuck, things got really weird. (Can you say “American Psycho”?) Fearing for my life, I grabbed my clothes and ran.
Then came the loco lesbian. We met on a sunny afternoon at a popular Queen Street dive. After I’d agreed to accompany her home, a guy I was crushing on happened to drop by. Within minutes, he and I were sucking face and dry-humping in the bar. (Discretion and impulse control were not part of my repertoire.) My new “girlfriend” was not amused. “Are you with him or with me?” she demanded. (Oops. Somebody was jealous.)
Back at her pad, we drank wine and engaged in some raunchy “bad grrrl” sex, followed by an argument. She didn’t want me fooling around on her, damn it! (Hmm. Perhaps a one-night stand with Ms. Possessive wasn’t such a good idea after all.)
Next, I picked up a homeless guy, clearly off his rocker and his meds. When I sobered up and realized my rather profound error in judgment, psycho boy refused to leave. He’d fallen “in love” and believed we were destined to take up residence together. After several hours of gruelling mental gymnastics (ever try reasoning with a paranoid schizophrenic?), I managed to bribe him to leave my loft with five bucks and a pair of sweatpants. Then I called in sick for an entire week. And I truly was sick. Sick of myself. Sick of my conduct. Sick of my fascination with the dregs of society.
After a ridiculous number of encounters with freaks of similar ilk, I began to wonder if perhaps I was mentally unbalanced myself. My perilous routine had become a complicated, physically demanding and emotionally exhausting way to live. Shame and depression were taking their toll. Still, I didn’t stop.
One friend was aware of the weird shit I was into. He commented on several occasions that it was only a matter of time before my body would be found naked in a ditch or floating in Lake Ontario. Incredibly, despite my education, street smarts and capacity for rational thought, this had never occurred to me.
I hit rock bottom the night I picked up a guy who, during the cab ride home, informed me that he “hated sluts” and demanded a commitment on the spot. Recognizing that I was in jeopardy, I told Mr. Scary that I’d changed my mind and asked the driver to drop me off. That’s the last thing I remember. When I came to, my apartment door was wide open and, once again, I’d been robbed.
At that moment, I knew I had to put an end to my irrational impulses and hazardous sexcapades before it was too late. But how? Changing my high-risk, self-destructive behaviour would require a colossal measure of self-control and willpower. Or therapy.
So I went to a shrink and told him everything. It wasn’t easy, but he restored my sanity and saved my life. It seems that childhood trauma and sexual abuse, unresolved abandonment issues, flawed thinking (no kidding!) and my need to rebel against an unnaturally strict upbringing had driven me to my libidinous lifestyle. Did I actually have a death wish? Probably not. I was just too stupid to notice that my extreme antics were bringing me ever closer to getting myself killed.
After months of arduous introspection and several more embarrassing indiscretions, I gave up my relentless quest for mood-altering drugs and stopped playing sexual roulette with the criminally insane.
And, thanks to the guardian angel of recovering nymphomaniacs, I found the perfect alternative: a beautiful man with the soul of a woman – a “reformed slut” just like me – with whom I can be completely honest and who doesn’t judge me. He’s provocative, sexy and just kinky enough to keep it interesting.
These days, dysfunctional psycho sex has been replaced with sweet sizzling love, and I couldn’t be more sexually fulfilled.
