What I have is much more than a desire. It’s not just the urge to fuck—any woman can have that. What I feel is a hunger, a fire that consumes me from the inside and refuses to wait. My body burns, my pussy throbs, my clit gets so hard it starts to hurt, and if I try to hold it in, the pain only grows until I can’t take it anymore. Sometimes the pleasure is so intense I almost pass out. Other times it feels like it’s going to destroy me if I don’t relieve it. And even after I come, the fire is still there, just a little lower, already begging for more.
Since I was a little girl I’ve felt different. While my school friends were still playing innocent games, I was already climbing on top of my teddy bear and rubbing myself against it hard until my whole body trembled and relaxed.
One scene that marked me happened when I was ten, when my grandmother caught me in the act while I was grinding on the arm of the living-room sofa. In that moment I froze, died of embarrassment, and ran to my room. Later she came, sat on the edge of the bed, and simply told me not to do that where everyone could see, without explaining what it was or saying whether it was normal or wrong. So of course I kept doing it—only I became much more careful, locking the door and turning it into a private moment I ended up never telling anyone about.
When adolescence arrived and the hormones exploded, everything only got worse. The fire that was already consuming me grew even stronger and I didn’t really know how to deal with it. The slightest thought, any spark, and my whole body would light up. My thighs would press together on their own, my pussy would get wet right away, my clit would ache from how swollen it was. My pussy seemed to have a life of its own—pulsing, always hungry, always asking for more. It was no use trying to distract myself, study, or run. It only calmed down when real sex happened.
It was around that time that I started writing diaries. I wrote everything without a filter: what I felt, the things I did in secret, what made me wet and what scared me, as if by writing I could understand it a little better and at least try to control that fire that never left me alone.
Today I have an open marriage with two people and even that isn’t enough. I end up having multiple partners. I still work as an escort. For me the simplest thing in the world is getting out of a client’s bed with my libido at its peak, my body hot, my pussy throbbing, and feeling excited because I’m about to have another one right after.
This doesn’t act in me like some sexual superpower. It’s a disorder.
At times it pushed me into insane states of self-destruction. I did things and then ran home feeling dirty, ashamed, guilty. I’d turn the shower on as hot as my body could stand and let the water run as if it could wash away everything that had happened, as if it could clean me on the inside too. I had regrets. I took unnecessary risks. All because of a compulsion that never asked permission and never accepted “no.”
Today I understand myself with my pussy, this little beast of mine. We talk. I give her what she needs to eat and she gives me back a little peace and pleasure. What I still can’t answer is whether I’d like to be different. Honestly, I don’t think so. I think I’m a fucking awesome woman just the way I am. I like my appetite. I like when people admire me for it. And I like it even more when I look around and see a bunch of men exhausted from fucking me so much… and I’m still wanting a little more.
So don’t say you have nymphomania. Not until you’re in a cubicle with a guy at the door controlling the line, and you’re in there, breathless, screaming:
— Neeeeext! The whore wants more, motherfuckerrrrr!!!!