Either that, or it’s the sometimes-blonde woman my husband married, and frankly, I think I’m more comfortable with the bird thing. Who wants to be labeled a sex addict (besides men, I mean)? But men don’t get slapped with the unflattering term nymphomaniac, they get nicknames that have them bursting with pride, like Don Juan, Lothario, Romeo, skirt-chaser, Casanova, lady-killer, and my favourite, playa. Men are expected to love sex, want sex, and even go to extremes to get sex. Women, however, are supposed to loathe the act, to consent only for procreation’s sake (and even then, begrudgingly), and to lie back and think of England until the night’s pounding is over. Well, that used to be the case anyway. I’d like to think that sex is more than just a wifely duty these days. Whispering in the office ladies’ room on a Monday morning tells me this is so. Prime time television tells me this is so. My wobbly bits tell me this is so.
Hello, my name is Jamie, and I’m a nymphomaniac. I have an absurdly high sex drive. I want it, I need it, and I get it, often. I am a woman, and I’m addicted to sex (believe me, it’s one of the nicest addiction to have). And yes, you can be a sex addict and keep it to the confines of your marriage (actually, the addiction is a lot easier fed when you’re married). It takes a lot of work, and a lot of play. My husband has his hands full, but you don’t often hear him complaining. I don’t remember the last day we didn’t have sex; Jason estimates it to be around October. But once a day is a rarity for us, because most days are one fluid sexual act. From the time we wake to the time we sleep again, the day simmers with sexuality, from intentions to actions. We touch constantly, we stay connected, and everything we do or say, no matter how seemingly innocent, has evolved into a form of foreplay. It makes for an interesting life.
For me, it all started when I was about 10. No, not the sex part; my mother called it being 'boy crazy.' I had crushes on just about everyone, from Kirk Cameron on Growing Pains to 3 of the 5 New Kids on the Block. I learned about sex by reading Danielle Steele novels. I waited for my little-girl chest to grow into the 'milky white' breasts I always read about. I didn't know for sure what a 'throbbing manhood' was, but I thought I had an idea (I was wrong). So what happened between my swooning and my sex addiction? When did I veer off the beaten path? It's hard to say.
Not so long ago, nymphomania was a diagnosable mental illness. Women were put away into institutions for being dominated by insatiable sexual needs. Today, the medical community stays away from such disparaging terms. As a major in sexual psychology myself, I can attest that as far as paraphilias are concerned, there are bigger fish to fry. Sexual addiction is not necessarily a bad thing. And if it is a problem, then it is more a problem of morality than of science. Hypersexuality is a subjective judgment based on values. Who is to say how much is too much, or for that matter, who is to say what is normal? Sure we know what the average is, but the average is not necessarily what is right. We know for a fact that the average weight in North America is considered to be unhealthy, so you tell me which is 'normal': the average, or the ideal? And what the hell is ideal? The "average" rate of sexual activity among married couples is 3 times a week (obviously, lower for singles). That may be average, but when asked what their ideal is, some men will say they want more sex, some women will say they want less, and quite quickly we see that while some are happy with the average, many are not. But 'ideal' is a slippery little bugger, because it will vary with every person you ask.
Even if we establish that the average is close enough to 'normal', and assign it a value of 3 times per week, then we also have to decide what is 'abnormal'. Is 4 abnormal? 14? 40? And what about people like me, who don’t have isolated sexual acts? We can’t count orgasms because men are fairly limited in that area, and women are all over the map (some don’t orgasm at all, and some of us would consider a mere 7 orgasms per encounter to be a miserable failure). So what then?
Let’s take a look at the addiction process:
a) preoccupation: Fair enough, but let me ask, isn’t it human nature to think about it? If I’m not lucky enough to be bedded at the moment, then chances are, I’m thinking about it. About where I’d like to be touched, or how hard I want to suck, whether I’ll give or receive, where I’d like it to happen, whether I should put some old sheets on the bed, or switch to a crotchless pair of panties. And don’t try to tell me you don’t think about it too. Julie thinks about blowjobs so much, she's cleverly renamed them dickfests. When you’re stuck in a meeting, or on the bus, or in line at the supermarket, I can’t think of a better way to pass the time.
b) ritualistic behaviours: I don’t slaughter any lambs, and contrary to popular belief, I've never actually killed a goat, but on any given day, I may take part in any number of behaviours that have become a rite of having sex. I shave my legs (or other places), check the status of the goodie drawer, take the phone off the hook, light some candles, raid the fridge for possibilities, put on some mood music. A certain someone I know changes into her Melina underpants. Someone else checks to make sure the dogs haven't eaten all the Astroglide. In other homes, it might be putting the kids to bed early, popping some mints, leaving suggestive notes, donning some lingerie, petting on the sofa, taking a shower, or....well, I won’t give away all the secrets, but I’m willing to bet most of you do something to signal 'It’s sex time.'
c) sexual act: Well after all that work, you bet we’re going to seal the deal! After a day of thinking about something specific, be it your favourite position, or that special curve on your partner’s body, your engine is primed and ready. Then, you go through the motions of setting it up and making your thoughts a reality. If you’re lucky, it’s still a little naughty, no matter how many times you’ve done it before. Some men still hold their breath when they go for that first feelski. Some women still blush when they reveal a teddy underneath the Mom uniform. And then, you get your swerve on. And it’s a lot sloppier than what you see in the movies. In real life, the messier it is, the better it is. Hair does not stay in place. The sheets do not necessarily cover all the floppy bits. There’s bouncing boobs and sweaty brows, and funny noises, and it’s all great. It’s sex (unless of course it's someone else's sex).
d) despair: Whoa, hold the phones. I may have regrets in life. I probably regret ever attempting to write about this subject, but I’ve never, ever regretted sex. I don’t feel depressed afterward, or worthless, or anxious. I feel elated sometimes, and other times, drowsy. If Jason’s lucky, he’ll get a cuddle. Sometimes I’m just raring to go again. But the aftereffects of sex are always positive for me. I’m grateful to have sated my desire. There’s a certain glow that goes along with it, and I’m not just talking about married sex. Even single, I never had sex that I felt bad about the next day. I may have a high sex drive, and I do go to great lengths to satisfy it, but I still make respectable decisions.
What is the difference then, between a woman who adores sex, and a full-fledged nympho? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe it’s all in the name, and how you wear it. And what’s in a name? That which we call a nympho by any other word would still fuck as often. And how.
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