The Over-Educated Nympho

I start my new job tomorrow. I’m very excited. Not nervous, oddly enough. I assumed that I would have a huge pit in my stomach by now like I did the night before I started my last job. A huge deep gut-wrenching pit in my stomach.

Not so, not this time. There is no nervousness at all. Just excitement.

I’m all ready. I set out the perfect First Day outfit picked out and ironed. I’ve got my lunch packed and ready in the fridge. I signed the huge stack of insurance forms and they’re tucked away in my work bag.

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I just got back from my first run of the season. Yay for Daylight Savings Time!

I only ran two miles. Nothing noteworthy, but that’s not the point. I don’t run to lose weight. I don’t run to look better in a bikini (I already look damn fine). I don’t run for my health. I don’t run because The Mom tells me exercise helps ward off spells of depression. Those are all perfectly good reasons, but those don’t motivate me.

I just run because I like to run.

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Yesterday was my last day at my job. I saw my therapist Dr. Fixer Upper the day before that. They go hand in hand well. Work makes me sad. Dr Fixer Upper makes me happy. Even though I’m quitting the job I hate, it still got to me. It still broke my spirit. And so I thought it would the perfect time to see my therapist.

That, and I needed more Happy Pills. Before my current insurance got caught off.

Between having chronic depression and ADD and some really bad bouts of anxiety where I almost made myself puke, I’ve tried tons of medications over the years. I can cluck off the names of anti-depressants like a child can name Santa’s reindeer. Prozac, Paxil, Zoloft, Perexa, Celexa, Lexapro, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Serzone. I’ve tried nearly every single one of them. Actually, no. As of this week I HAVE tried every single one these, because my psychiatrist gave me some new samples to try. Then there’s the ADD meds, which I’ve had much less success with. I’m still looking for The One that will complete me. I know it’s out there, I just haven’t found it yet.

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Me: Did you read my interview in Maxim yet?
BF: Yeah. –angry pause– You didn’t tell me about that main part.

My brain: Oh shit.

Me: Huh? What are you talking about?
BF: You know what part I’m talking about.
Me: –pretends to read through open Maxim, looking for source of his anger– Well, what?
BF: You know what.
Me: um…. the threesome? With the two guys?
BF: YES that part. You never told me about that.

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The May issue of Maxim is here with my interview inside! It’s part of the “I Dated a Nympho” article, and I’m featured as one of the nympho girls.

A friend called me earlier to tell me the issue is out, so I went out and bought the magazine and am just now getting home with it.

Maxim cover, very top: “I DATED A NYMPHO” COULD YOU HANDLE TOO MUCH SEX?

inside, article starts page 114, my section is under The Nymphos, my byline is Professional Deflowerer

—reading and pinching self* to make sure is real—

My nymphomania is in fucking Maxim. Wow.
It will forever be recorded in millions of copies of Maxim, May 2006 issue, that “when I was 15 my mom sat me down and said, ‘You know it’s true that boys only want one thing, right? So watch out for them, OK?’ I grinned to myself, thinking, Whatever–boys had better watch out for me!”

And that was only the beginning…

*yes, pinching myself exactly where you’re imagining I’m pinching myself

When I was single, I ran out of toilet paper all the time. I rarely did dishes, in fact I ate off paper plates and whenever possible directly from the container/bottle/box to avoid doing dishes or filling up an overflowing trashcan. I forgot to feed my pet hamster and it died. I fell asleep with plates, crumbs, books, boys in my bed that were often an icky mess in the morning. I was your typical Hey-look-at-me I’m-out-living-the-world-on-my-own-with-my-very-own-job-and-everything twentysomething.

Not so any more. Now I’m responsible. There is always toilet paper waiting under the sink. There is always something to wear to work (even though it may be the dreaded makes-me-look-fat pants, it’s clean and it’s there), there is always food in the fridge, and clean (real) plates to eat off of.

How fantastically boring.

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From a friend’s med school text book:

…To many men, the idea of a women with a greater sex drive then their own is somewhat threatening, so they may use the label nymphomania to preserve their own egos: the label “proves” that the woman is abnormal. Similarly, the men with sexual dysfunction sometimes accuse their wives or partners of being “over-sexed” in an effort to hide their own fears and sense of inadequacy, just as some women who do not enjoy sex or object to the frequency of their husband’s or partner’s amorous desires accuse him of being oversexed. In our society, a man who is highly sexed and who has many sexual partners is generally (often enviously) called a “stud”, while a women with the same characteristics is often called a “nympho”, which carries a negative connotation.

What? They’re forgetting whore, slut, tramp, skank, and I’m sure many others that I still haven’t learned.

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This morning I informed my boss that I was giving him my two-weeks notice. Before I even finished the sentence he was mouthing it along with me and shaking his head and chuckling.

Ok, good. Guess he’s not mad. Or surprised.

The talk was quick and delightfully painless. He asked why I was leaving. I lied and went with the most lady-like answer (because I THINK YOU’RE A FUCKING CUNT RAG really just isn’t a way to ensure a good reference in the future). He asked what my new salary was. I told him. His mouth dropped.

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I had my follow-up interview today with firm #2. I told them I was now on a deadline because firm #1 gave me a job offer with a deadline to accept it. I also told them the interview needed to be quick because there were only so many times in the course of one week I could “go to the gynecologist” and have my boss believe me, so I needed to get back to the office as soon as possible.

So the first twenty minutes of the second interview were a fucking whirlwind of tough questions, honest yet perfect answers (with just enough sauciness to make him laugh every two to three minutes), both of us speaking a mile a minute for a climactic brute brusque negotiation over salary–which included me being a hardass over salary, since I had the luxury of throwing yesterday’s generous offer down on the table, looking him in the eye and saying “I already have an offer, with a salary of ###. Can you do better than that?”

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Not much sex here lately. In blog or in bed. Been busy trying to improve my wretched work situation.

But tonight I was in a fantastic mood, and that dreadful time of the month passed finally (it’s just god’s way of really STICKING IT to women, isn’t it?), so it was time for a full-frontal sex assault.

It was fantastic. My nipples hurt and my pussy’s raw and there was a smile on my face. Until–

five minutes later. BF is in the bathroom as I come in to clean up. He grins at me. Sheepishly. “Um, by the way sweetie, I need you to take me to the airport pretty early next Saturday…”

“How early? Five?”

“Well, more like four. I need to be there at five.”

By the way. Bastard.

I got a job offer today.

–commences booty dance–

They offered me a 25% pay increase from what I currently make. I nearly shit a brick. Even though I probably won’t accept the offer, it gives bargaining power with the other firm, whom I’m seeing again tomorrow for my follow-up interview.

I’m breaking out the sexy-yet-professional knee-length skirt, my lucky Superwoman underpants, and a shitload of repartee that will make it impossible for them not to hire me. But I’m not worried because I know they already like me. I got them when I said I’d want to play on the company sports team and oh yes I play as if everything is a full-contact sport.

BRING IT.

It started badly. Between traffic and horrific/confusing construction, I was fifteen minutes late to my second interview.

As soon as I sat down at the conference table, my interviewer brought in a whole posse to help him evaluate me. But this was ok. The bigger my audience, the more charming I am.

We all got along really well. There was lots of joking around, laughter, and an hour and a half later we set up a follow-up interview for next week.

So I don’t know who I like more. I like both. A lot. And they both liked me. ‘Tis a delightful situation to be in.

Eeenie meenie miney mo…