Monday, July 13, 2009

My new therapist

A Psychiatrist's couch for shoe fetishists

My new therapist: For the past several months I have been seeing a new therapist. A man this time as I felt I needed the perspective of a male since my hunger for men has increased. He specializes in the psychology of sexual need and came highly recommended as being highly successful with some very complex sexual disorders. I have been told many of his clients are severely sexually repressed so I think he was happy to have me to help ‘balance’ his patient disorder mix. I started out by seducing him. From past experience with male psychiatrists I’d say his defenses were pretty strong as he managed to withstand my allure for a full three sessions before I mind-fucked him and left him wanting me. But I had turned up the heat slowly to let him get used to the feeling before he found himself inextricably entangled in my web. At our fourth session I let him think it was his idea when he took me on the huge leather couch in his office. After that session we became brutally honest with one another. The first thing I did once he became enraptured with me was to renegotiate his fee. I was paying $550 per hour for each session which, while not excessive, I’d rather not pay. So I bartered sex lessons for therapy. I’m teaching him to be a far, far better lover and he is trying to get me to understand (but not fight) my need to sexually dominate almost every man I meet. He thinks my sexual aggression is rooted in my being shunned by my father and my inability to get him to have sex with me. Returning readers may remember that my mother’s husband was not my biological father. My biological father was my mother’s uncle, whose mining fortune passed down to me. Life is complicated, but the up-side of that relationship is that it would have prevented my having sex with my mother’s husband from being incest.

My new therapist, David, was amazed that I have been able to so effectively compartmentalize my feelings so that I can enjoy the physical and mental ecstasy of sex with a man w/o becoming emotionally attached to him. Not that I can’t be gentle, sweet and kind while with him, but just not hormonally addicted to him bound by the flood of oxytocin that sex releases into my bloodstream. What David says I am addicted to is the adrenaline high of physically dangerous sex. Things like breath control to intensify the ecstasy of an orgasm, or having sex beneath a moving train. (I learned to do that under coal trains in South-West Virginia.) Or sex with Caesar, my male tiger. Or dive-sex with a man who shuts off my air where his job is to fuck me while preventing me from turning it back on.

For that last scenario I have (at least for now) run out of men who are willing to have dive-sex with me. You would think a man weighing twice what I do and with much greater upper body strength would have no problem subduing me but even though I have offered a huge amount to any man who could subdue me long enough to bring me to the surface unconscious after we had dive-sex, not one of my seven partners for the project has been successful. In the nine attempts to win the prize only two of them have tried twice, the rest quit while hospitalized while I’ve come away with only a minor sprain and some bruises.

Adrenaline addiction: I do so love the thrill of having amazingly virile males fill me with sperm, their biological drives going full out attempting to pass on their DNA by creating a new life in my belly. Of course it’s possible that I could have a contraceptive failure especially since I try to take as many men as possible when I’m fertile, like today when I’m CD11 my estrogen is peaking and my cervix is ripe and draining fertile cervical fluid. But there are other options if my Oves cap fails, like Plan-B and Mifeprex if should I start producing hCG, the pregnancy hormone. But one of the things that curls my toes is the possibility of needing that back-up, the possibility that a man could actually get to me intimately enough for his sperm to fertilize my egg. The risk of being impregnated and being starved for oxygen during orgasm are two of the greatest thrills and adrenaline producers for me. David thinks I have a death wish. He thinks I’m taking out my frustrations with my ‘father’ (mother’s husband) for not having sex with me by attempting to bend every man I meet to my will. If so I’ve been marvelously successful at it so far. But then I was given a beautiful body and a devious mind and not many men object to having a pretty woman wanting them to take her to bed.

After the first few times I had sex with David, while we were in afterglow still laying on that huge leather couch in his soundproof office, I told him I really enjoyed sex with him and I’d never had a single thought about him being a surrogate for my ‘father’. He smiled, stroked my hair which was loose and framing my face and told me again, as he had many times before, that my trauma with my father shunning me is buried deep in my subconscious and is manifesting itself as an irrepressible need to conqueror attractive males to prove to myself I was capable of having any man I desired, except my father of course who started the whole thing and has been dead for years. He said that since my father is dead there can be no simple closure to my need and that I should be grateful that my problem is not more destructive than it is and that it should be manageable. I was disappointed in that bit of wisdom because I’d been managing my ‘problem’ successfully for more than 20 years! The only aspect of my hyper-sexuality of real concern to me is the possibility of getting an incurable STI, but I’m very careful about that. Not even accidentally being killed during an intense sexual encounter, though that possibility is a driver for massive infusion of adrenaline which I crave, would be all that bad since I would be totally involved with having sex with a man when it happened.

David hasn’t called me a Nymphomaniac, but he talks about my “insatiable need for men” and says I’m an “aggressive sexual predator”. Or perhaps that’s just a “sexual predator” because I wouldn’t be much of a predator unless I was aggressive, right? I rather think of myself as being very assertive rather than aggressive, but when I grab a man by the balls and squeeze while he’s still wearing trousers, I suppose that could be considered aggressive. I’ve only done that (in public) on one occasion when the guy wasn’t taking me seriously but that instance has become a viral legend about me now so guys tend to stand sideways when we are talking face to face. Sigh! I did ask David about the rumors that I’m a succubus and if I should try to combat them. He thinks I should just carry on as I always have and that people will eventually get tired of talking and move on to something else. I’m trying to do that and really thought I’d be able to ignore the talk but that hasn’t happened, at least not yet. I think succubus is a bit too strong a term, but I don’t deny that I have strong appetites. The buzz does give me a cachet that other women in my circle don't have which I’ve found to be useful in my line of work, getting men to do what I want both as a performer and in the business world. But women rarely introduce me to their boyfriends or husbands any more.

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Powys , Wales, United Kingdom
I'm a classically trained dancer and SAB grad. A Dance Captain and go-to girl overseeing high-roller entertainment for a major casino/resort