The Over-Educated Nympho

Woo hoo, I hit the 1000 mark on my stat counter! And I’ve only been active for just over three weeks. –dancing a booty-shake–

Thanks everyone for an awesome start as OEN, I look forward to amusing you with clever, dumbass, meaningful, and sexaholic stories.

I’m just disappointed I’ll be at a wedding all weekend, but I promise to come back with loads of entertaining I’m-so-embarassed-I’m-related-to-these-people stories. Not that I won’t be contributing my fair share, as a bridesmaid I have to look all pretty for the ceremony, but as soon as the reception starts I’m changing into cowboy books and my bright pink cowgirl hat, as a lovely complement to my sophisticated pale blue bridesmaid dress! Give ‘em hell, baby!

Now if you’ll excuse me–I was supposed to leave 45 minutes ago. aw fuck. I’m not going to be wearing a bra under my white shirt in case a cop pulls me over for speeding… which undoubtebly I will be to make it to the damn rehearsel on time. I love my men and my cars to be fast roaring rides. –wink wink–

This is a story I wrote a couple years ago, in the heydey of my singledom. Since I’m leaving soon to go to a wedding for the weekend, I dug deep into my hard drive to find one of my best stories of all time. Read it slowly, because this has to hold you over until Sunday night when I get back.

I have something stuck in my pussy.

Again.

The first time was pretty embarrassing already. It wasn’t anything weird like a cucumber or a piece of Lego—although non-sex-toy inanimate objects have made a few appearances–but a diaphragm. I am so paranoid about getting pregnant that I have three methods of contraception. At least. Ok, well sometimes two, but I prefer three. Besides, I come from a Catholic family. Abortion isn’t allowed. Not that sex is, but Catholic girls are the horniest girls I know. At least I became an atheist so I wouldn’t have that whole guilt complex to deal with after a good fucking.

I should have known to pick something other than a diaphragm when the gynecologist (who looks like a grandmother, to make things even more awkward) had her latex-gloved fingers up my pussy, digging around for a fitting, she exclaimed, “my goodness! You sure have a deep cervix!??

Spiffy.

At first I played it off as my gynecologist, a rather tiny woman of 5’2?? with a tiny pussy to match, not knowing what it’s like to be tall. That means everything else is big too. Except the tits. (damnit). But big everything else. Big feet, big hands, big ass, big hips, big ears, even big mammoth toes. Of course I have a big pussy.

It wasn’t until several weeks, five trips to the pharmacist, thirty dollars, and an embarrassing public announcement that your contraceptive diaphragm? Is that what we ordered for you??? made to the general population of my friendly neigborhood Eckerds did I actually have the chance to examine my diaphragm. I already owned four vibrators, one dong, handcuffs, a whip, and nipple clamps, so I was running out of fun things to offer to my beloved cunt. And besides, the pill is effective only 98% of the time, and condoms (when used properly) 93% of the time. Those odds just weren’t good enough for me. I have a career to plan, clients to swoon, men to fuck, and coffee to enjoy. There’s no room for a baby in my life. Besides, pregnancy puts one hell of a damper on one’s sex life. I nearly fucked a well-hung drunk Doberman after seven weeks of involuntary celibacy. (Not to worry, I found a horny recently-divorced professor (yes, from the same university as yours truly, and the TA for a class two of my friends were currently taking) and fucked him until he couldn’t see straight).

It was with this very man that I brought out my diaphragm for its maiden voyage. The evening went well (despite a notable lack of orgasms for a very important special someone) and it wasn’t until I returned home the following morning to shower and actually sleep that I realized, sadly, strangely, that my pussy was in fact, extremely deep. Not only could I not even reach my diaphragm, it was laughable that I could actually reach my size eleven nicely-manicured finger up far enough to hook around the slippery rim to pull that mother fucker out into the land of the living.

For three days I tried and twisted and writhed and cursed and squinted and tried every possible yoga position I’d seen on tv. The damn thing didn’t move. In fact, it kept me awake at night, quietly mocking me, the overtly and strongly sexual badass feminist who was so stubborn it became a trait worthy of admiration. For three days I fumed, groped, and strained muscles in a comical attempt to reach the diaphragm deep inside me. At last, after some rigorous stretching and a hearty pep talk involving vodka, I went into the shower, lay down with my head by the faucet, put one leg up against the tile wall, and held the other back back back over my shoulder as the other hand dug deep inside my pussy and on the third entry triumphantly pulled out that damn diaphragm.

I was so proud of myself that I immediately dried off and ran out to the living room to tell my roommate. “It was stuck?!?? she asked in amazement. I nodded quietly, head lowered like a child. But then I burst out with a grin and proudly held up the small pale pink plastic half-dome, still dripping with soap and water. “EWWWW!” she screamed and immediately scampered into her room. Oh, right… she’s a Baptist. They don’t have a pussy, let alone sex.

Several months later, testing fate with only two methods of contraception, I managed to top the diaphragm experience. To celebrate hitting the double-digit mark for number of people I’d fucked (keep in mind this was six months into my status as a single girl on the make), I went to one of my favorite sex shops to buy a new toy. Although I have received many glowing compliments on the control of my Kegel muscle (I did mention in an older post that I’m oddly muscular for a girl–that’s right, all the way down to my pussy muscles), I wanted to do some intense training with the aid of Ben Wa balls. At the store I was surprised to see how small they are, only half an inch in diameter. Along with the balls, I bought some flavored lube packets to keep in my purse—after all, you never know when your next fuck is coming. Why not spice up some sex-at-four-am-in-the-mens-restroom with some vanilla lubricant and a glow-in-the-dark condom? Besides, there’s just no room for a bottle of Astroglide when your purse already contains a mini-vibrator, four condoms, and handcuffs.

As I was paying for my goodies, the woman told me that recently a customer came in and said she went jogging with Ben Wa balls every day. Whoa. That woman has got some serious cunt muscles.

Of course the day I bought the Ben Wa balls was a shitty one, devoted to a deadline approaching so quickly that not even vodka could slow it down. I stayed at school until three am, after several different computer hardware and software problems that were not fixed by my coaxing, jiggling, name-calling, or violent beatings. Once my left eye started to twitch uncontrollably from the countless pots of coffee I’d consumed, I decided it was time to go home and masturbate. Just because I had a shitty day, it certainly didn’t need to end shitty.

As I was crawling into bed and eyeing my favorite vibrator (The Rabbit, of course), I noticed the unopened package from the sex shop on the floor. I took the Ben Wa balls with me into the shower for a luxurious bath. In slipped in one, then the other. I waited. Hmm. I looked around, expecting to see a little gold ball floating in the water. They had gone in so easily, and I couldn’t feel them at all—surprising, considering how heavy the balls are. The bathtub was clear, so I supposed the balls were safe and sound in my loving pussy. As I lathered my hair, I did my regular Kegel routine. Actually, the routine isn’t that regular, it’s just that I routinely do Kegel exercises whenever I’m bored and/or trying to stay awake. Very convenient when it comes to 9am Monday morning lectures or boring work conferenes. Especially when that hot client can’t stop looking at you.

After shaving, I dried off and went to bed. Oh shit, the balls were still inside me. I tsked as I looked over my newly manicured vixen-red nails and sent the middle one down in search of the Ben Wa balls.

Oh shit.

Were they still in there?! I frantically dug around with my finger while scanning the floor for two golden balls.

Oh shit. The very tip of my middle finger tapped one of the balls. Correction: barely tapped one of the balls. Those fuckers were hiding all the way in the back. Shitshitshit. Curse my deep pussy!

My middle finger probed a little longer, then I sat up to kneel and spread my legs (come on, gravity!!), and when that didn’t work, I rolled over onto my back and pulled my legs apart and over my shoulders. Nope. Still could barely reach Ben and Wa. Those fuckers were in there for good.

Remembering my past luck with the shower, I went back to the bathtub, lathered up, and resumed the position of something I’m sure one only sees in advanced gymnastics. No luck. Every time I touched one, I just ended up pushing it deeper, and they were just too far away to hook a finger around for retrieval.

Leaving the shower again, I dried off my hair and thought. Come on, now, Vix, you’re good at problem-solving. Just think of how well you fixed your friend’s car with duct tape. Then it came to me. Excited, I scurried into the kitchen wearing only a towel. Ignoring the heaps of trash waiting to be taken out (I woul never ever be a decent housewife), ignoring the fruit flies circling rotting bananas (shit, those are mine, aren’t they?), I threw open the drawer and pulled out the one last spoon. Ew. There was leafy crap on it. Oh well. My gynecologist says that vaginas are very resilient. I ran back to my room. In front of the mirror—like I needed to see the detail of my failure and frustration and another object lost in the throes of my cunt—I stuck the spoon up my pussy. Damnit. It was a big ol’ soup spoon. Why couldn’t there be any clean tea spoons?! Oh, right. I like to use those for scooping out peanut butter. That’s where they are.

The spoon was bloody cold. I took it out and ran it under hot water. Yikes! Too hot. At last I pushed the spoon up my pussy, but it was too wide and too short. Hmm. Handle. I turned the spoon around and made a few rounds with it. No luck. It just came back out with lots of pussy juice on it. Fun for all, kids, a home speculum kit!

With a huff I conceded.

Note to self: buy a melon-baller on the way to class tomorrow.

Last night was one of those awful dreadful nights when the evil monster Depression takes over my head and my psyche is too weak to fight it off. So all I do is cry, sleep excessively, and lie in the fetal position and cry.

Note to readers: if you want entertainment instead of oh-woe-is-me shit, then read Something Stuck instead. Or go visit WSK, she’s hot stuff, especially while in Mexico, apparerently.

I’m leaving for my cousin, Dr. Science’s wedding. I’m totally bummed. I’m not in any sort of celebratory mood, more the I’m-going-to-watch-every-single-thing-on-TiVo mood. The funny thing is I’m no where near PMSing. My chronic depression is so bad that PMS is a non-issue by comparison. Especially since it looks like I’m going to be depressed for life, as all the reest of my extended family is. Hearing that from your mother and then your psychologist and then your psychiatrist over and over just makes you more depressed and wonder why the fuck do I bother ever leaving my apartment? I’ve got a huge book collection, tv, and internet, why can’t I just be a hermit and not feel guilty about subjecting my loved ones to my awful moods of non-stop crying and silence.

This shit gets pretty bad. I’m sure lots of you also suffer depression and know what i”m talking about, that it really IS something that takes over you and no matter what coping skills you’ve learned in therapy, the evil beast of depression just laughs at your futile attempts and keeps the fact that rationally you know better at gun-point. For the last three days I’ve been taking more and more Xanax. Since I’ll be gone this weekend I’m just keeping the damn bottle in my purse at all times.

And then there’s the really sad depressing part that you may just not want to read and there’s still a chance I’ll come back and delete this paragraph later. I’m gotten so depressed a few times that I’ve taken it to the point of hurting myself. Nothing suicidal, I know better than that, but something melodramatic enough to see as a daytime network movie. A couple times over the years I cut myself with a razor. Don’t flip out–I purposely avoid major veins because blood and drama aren’t the point. I cut myself just enough to break the skin, to see a paper-thin line of red.

I did this last night, the first time in a while, and easily the most I’ve cut. three paralell lines across the forearm. The point of this is to forget about the anguish of me trying to face the world, to replace it with a tangible pain I can point to, cover in band-aids, and distract me from the negative thoughts that pass inside. The first few times I did this it made me feel much better, because by moving the pain from a psychological one to a phsyical one I induced myself makes pain so much easier to deal with. I’ve been through serious surgery with an epidural and horrible pain (nothign related to dpression), and that sort of intense pain that percocet can’t mask is so much easier to deal with than the pain of the monster holding you hostage inside your own head.

But when I cut myself last night, it didn’t make me feel better. Now I simply don’t know what to do. The Xanax helps, but it’s like putting an ice bag on your severed leg and saying Sorry hon, that’s all we can do. BF does his best to help, but he has never been depressed and simply can’t empathize and understand what I’m going through. Mom tried to get me to talk to her, but frankly she’s doing on slightly better than I am, so I don’t want her to feel worse on my account. Then there’s that saying You can’t count on anyone but yourself. That used to be fine because I used to be able to handle it. Now depression is so much bigger than me and my little army of anti-depressants, ice cream, and Xanax, that I feel broken into a thousand helpless worthless pieces.

I’m so damn tired of waking up in the mornings and having to face a world I don’t have the strength to go up against.