Years passed, but time stopped. While external, life-changing things happened, externally, my body, mind, and heart were in a sort of stasis-like holding pattern. Life and my age advanced; the house was now my home, and I was hitting the venerable thirty years old. The relationship between my parents, especially my mother, and me remained strained, but we still kept in contact. But, in that span of years, I’d evolved from an ashamed slut into a sexual force of slutty nature. Love, however, still eluded me.

My parents were held in reserve, hardly ever mentioned to anyone, until I found somebody that I “knew” I was in love with. If a lover and I made it past the two-month milestone, I’d introduce them to my parents. Mom would dress like a trashy, hippie slut to greet them, talk like a sex-crazed pervert, and pretty much push them away from me. The odds of a breakup shortly after meeting the parental units were incredibly high. If I hadn’t scared them off by then, Mom and Dad finalized the ordeal with their behavior.

Dad became a hater. He absolutely loathed each and every lover of mine. He had liked Jen, and an ill-fated union with a woman named Emily was met with neutrality. Otherwise, he’d deny any blessings, usually following with a long list of all the person’s flaws and why they weren’t good enough for his only daughter.

Even though they only held my best interests in mind, I constantly rebelled against their disapproval, telling them that I didn’t need their input and that they were the one for me. They accepted my folly, letting me discover my personal truth through my own methods. Despite my age, I acted like a petulant child toward them, determined to prove them wrong, which would, by proxy, vindicate my feelings and actions.

My age was no cause for concern. While the number of candles on my birthday cake, nearly every birthday celebrated alone, grew in volume, my body stayed in a sort of stasis, very much like my entire life. My boobs refused to succumb to gravity, my torso remained lithe, and my energy levels stayed at their peak. I may have been twenty-five, twenty-nine, then thirty, but I looked like I wasn’t old enough to buy booze.

The Goddess, having built me to fuck, imbued me with youthful vitality; an overwhelming passion that bubbled just beneath my flesh, waiting to erupt; and a body that didn’t seem to age past my late teens or early twenties. Externally and physiologically, I both looked and felt almost exactly the way I had when I graduated from high school. Her divine job was completed. I loved sex, could never have enough orgasms, and I not only looked like a young, witchy slut, but this wanton, sexual aura emanated from me as if I had “I’m a slut; fuck me hard,” tattooed on my forehead. Had I not loved fucking and sexual adventure so much, it would have been worthy of despair.

There were plenty of life’s milestones over those years. My empty, rich-bitch house was now filled with furniture and knickknacks, and I’d found a career, a job I truly loved and excelled at. While in the midst of all of this, I was clueless about these things being milestones, but they were.

Because I couldn’t find decent employment, with the possible exception of sex work, which I didn’t want to get into, I never had much in the way of disposable income. The extra, financial burden of helping to support my parents also dipped into my play funds. Even though things were awkward between us, they were still my folks, so I helped them with their bills while surviving on a diet of Ramen noodles and wine.

Over the years, Dave’s IT company began breaking a profit. As I was instrumental in helping my ex become his true self and also single-handedly providing the funds to save his life’s dream from failure, Dave and his boyfriend and business partner deposited my share of the profits into my account regularly. At first, it was just a few dollars, but the amount grew steadily. By the time I’d reached twenty-seven years old, I was receiving more than two hundred dollars each month. When I hit thirty, the deposits were around two hundred dollars each week. I never really wanted his money, but had it not been for that, I’d have starved.

Unable to afford any more classes, I still returned to campus several times per month. I’d made a few friends there, mainly professors and other staff, and went to visit them sporadically. There was a cozy, little bookstore just off campus, owned by a graying gentleman named Bob. His store mainly sold used college textbooks, but he had a vast collection of used books of every kind imaginable. Whenever I visited campus, I’d bring along a stack of books to trade in, swapping them for ones I hadn’t yet read.

After several months of being a frequent customer, Bob and I built up a very friendly rapport—nothing sexual, just two lovers of the written word who got along well. When one of Bob’s staff graduated, leaving him with an opening, he mentioned it to me. It was Dave, my brief-but-now-ex-husband, and still a very dear friend, who convinced me to apply for the job. I got hired as part-time help, which grew to full-time employment. In time, I was promoted to store manager. Since I had no life to speak of, my coworkers grew into friends.

During those times, I was both extremely happy and miserable. A rewarding job, surrounded by books, which I dearly love, was optimal for me. I had free rein of the store, running it as I saw fit, and profits increased. I had a lovely home located in that no-man’s land between the city and the real country, and, while I wasn’t wealthy, my exterior life was fairly easy-going.

Internally, though, I was a complete and utter wreck. Embracing my sluthood greatly curtailed having close friends, being socially accepted, or being seen as a productive member of polite society. That harsh reality no longer consumed or drove my life, but the loneliness was devastating. Even worse, the endless queue of failed, short-term relationships only edified the echoing taunts of my youth. I was the problem; I was broken to the point that nobody would ever love me. I knew that and accepted it as a painful reality.

Sex was easy. If I wanted sex, all I had to do was walk down the street. A plethora of virile young men, each of them instilled with a bad attitude or lacking a spine, would grace me with their latest pickup lines or tell me what I’m missing by not bouncing up and down on their cocks.

Resigned to my slutty fate, I assumed that life would always be like that, for me. I counted my blessings and found them to be ample. It wasn’t a bad life; there was just so much emptiness. While I had a rewarding job and a house, now with a garden in the back, and wasn’t starving, the house and my heart were empty.

I had lovers, some of them extremely wild and eye-opening, but nobody to share my life with. I usually went to sleep and woke up alone. That isn’t to say that there weren’t benefits to that. I ate what I wanted when I felt like it, wore what I wanted or nothing at all, and followed my whims, both carnal and mundane, at my discretion. I may have been miserable, but my life was far from abject despair.

I was simply broken, not dateable, and definitely not wife-material. I went from man to man and from woman to woman, always having similar, catastrophic results. Either they’d start completely accepting of me, overjoyed at how much of a slut I was—because that meant that they’d get lots of kinky sex—and then they’d leave or become controlling, or get so jealously insecure that each hour brought a new argument. Every spat was rooted in my promiscuity and flirtatiousness. It was a harrowing load of self-loathing, manifesting in my poor choices of partners. The good ones, it seemed, I’d play with and then move on, feeling good about myself. As soon as I’d go further than a few, heated trysts, I was vilified as the loathsome, worthless slut.

Holidays were the worst. While others were off with friends or loved ones, I would be at home, drinking wine, masturbating, and wondering why I couldn’t find somebody foolish enough to have me. I realized the problems were me and my choice of partners. Ultimately, my physical and emotional needs were at odds with the other.

I needed to be appreciated, accepted, and loved. My romance novel conditioning convinced me that I wanted what every woman wants, a love that completely consumes me. I also needed to be constantly lusted over, brutally fucked like the slut I was, and to have the freedom to pursue my sexual impulses with impunity. For the long term, I also needed somebody intelligent, creative, humorous, and devoid of ego. I needed both Jekyll and Hyde but with the body of a model and a PhD. A person like that, as far as I knew, simply could not exist. Nobody could ever be everything all at once, but that was exactly what my slutty body and the train wreck of my psyche demanded.

Yes, woe is me. While I had nothing but justification for the emotional wreck I’d become, I could no longer point the finger outwards, casting blame onto the tormenting populace of my hometown. As an adult, I was the architect of my disaster.

I lived like that, enjoying myself but unfulfilled, for years. Dozens of lovers, playmates, and short-term partners fell beneath my slutty weapons of seduction and feminine wiles. I grew to understand that I was cursed to never find happiness. I was a strong, independent woman, but my heart pumped black emptiness instead of rosy red. Men frustrated me with their insecurities and domineering bullying, and women were different, but just as toxic for me.

After the fortieth or so case of true love, and the obligatory, “I’ll show you, Mom, this time, it’s real love; you’ll see,” I met Rick. Dad called him Rick the Dick, and he was correct. I discovered that the hard way. Rick was a rebound; my pattern was such that every new lover was a rebound. I ricocheted from one person to the next, clinging to them for dear life as if my future and happiness relied upon the union, which I felt it did.

I was deeply in love with a woman named Gretchen. She was, at first, as wild as me, and I felt as if I’d found a life-long partner in horny crime. The first two months were fantastic, and we were so wild that my head was spinning.

“You think you love her because she’s a great fuck,” mom told me after the two-months-in introductions. “She’s not a good person, Kryssi.”

Mother knows best, the slutty bitch. Before the third month had passed, Gretchen became very serious, and all our fun had to immediately stop. Behind closed doors, she wanted me to be her personal slut. In public, or if she wasn’t in that sort of mood, she expected me to just turn off who I was.

In the span of three weeks, I went from thinking that I might be bisexual to swearing off women. Whether they possess a penis or a vagina, all my lovers ended up being the same. She wanted to cage me, imprison my spirit, and force me to behave in ways that ran counter to the person I was. I loved sex, flirting, and experiencing erotic delights with others, and I was her woman, no longer allowed to be myself.

Her attitude toward me left me unsatisfied and miserable. Regretfully, I found solace in her stepfather, who also had an impressive cock and lasted a long time in bed. I was used to her berating me, calling me a slut and a whore, but I became a trashy, slutty, cheating whore in her eyes and verbal admonishment. My retort, just before I left, was that if she hadn’t been such a bullying, abusive cunt, I wouldn’t have fucked her stepdad who, incidentally, made me cum more and harder than she ever could.

By contrast, Rick was sexy, muscular, had that bad boy vibe that made me wet, and he seemed nonplussed at my slutty antics. He was both willing and available, so I fucked him. Our first coupling was on a picnic table in a park, followed by oral as he drove to his place. We spent two days and three nights at his shitty, messy apartment, fucking and sucking each other, eating take-out food.

Nothing was ever said, but he assumed that we were together. I was overjoyed that he liked me acting like the Goddess of sluts, so my habit of convincing myself that he was “the one” took that happiness and turned it into true, undying love in my delusional mind. After that two-month hurdle, things slid straight to Hell.

One night, as we were preparing to go out for dinner, which I was paying for, I put on a skimpy, tight, green minidress. It showed my ass with every movement and was scandalously slutty.

“Are we going out, or are you going to work on the street corner? You’re dressed like a fucking whore. No woman of mine will be seen in public dressed like a cheap, fucking slut. I forbid you to ever wear that dress again.”

It was the very same dress I was wearing the night we met. I wore it because I wanted to remind him of when we met. Instead, he slut-shamed me for wearing a dress that he complimented, before. Dinner that night foreshadowed the real Rick, a controlling, verbally abusive, slut-shaming, warden. Still, I kept trying to save the relationship.

That tiny voice of reason within my core spoke truth to me. Rick was a domineering prick, lording dominion over me. However, he fucked like a wild man, and I, at the very least, could get railed like a fucking slut. Over time, his callous attitude, not to mention that he was always out of work and angry, wore on my soul. I consoled myself that at least I had somebody, thinking that a slightly handsome low-life who treated me like a possession was the best I’d ever get.

I turned to online communities, seeking connection, validation, and attention. Family-friendly sites segued into erotic ones, which ultimately caused even more friction in the relationship. Every few nights, I’d get stoned, drink some wine, and pleasure myself while I chatted to random strangers online. I tried out cybersex, finding it lacking, but at least I garnished some pleasure from the virtual affairs. In that electronic, virtual world, I was praised for my slutdom, and the pictures of my still-youthful body I chose to share were praised in perverted, crass ways.

During this period, Bob, my boss, introduced me to erotic literature sites. Bob was a kind, generous man, pleasant to be around, and fascinating to converse with. His experiences, laid-back attitude, and harmless, encouraging attitude toward sexuality made work a personal haven. Outside of work, I was terrified and miserable.

I looked forward to spending my nights and evenings alone; solitude, as much as I craved love and companionship, was superior to Rick. I had myriad online friends, and they gave me the attention and camaraderie to feed my starving heart. I even began writing erotic stories, poorly, but it gave me a feeling of pride and accomplishment. I wasn’t just a slut; I was a smut-slinging slut.

Initially, Rick exhibited all the traits I was attracted to. As time went on, his inner darkness possessed him, and he took out his self-loathing, insecurities, and anger on me. I knew better than to keep trying to salvage the relationship, but, as usual, I chose worse. Eventually, the path I set myself upon became riddled with emotional and physical landmines, and my entire life exploded.

The details of that are not important, but the events that unfolded, all caused by Rick, left me in a terrified, depressed state for years. In my youth, the emotional torture I endured, the way I’d been treated all my life, and the physical harassment at the hands of society had made me strong and thick-skinned. Nonetheless, my heart and mind were completely shattered.

After that horrible, fateful night, Rick the Dick came knocking on my door. He told me that he’d set up all those things to teach me a lesson, to “cure” me of my dangerous, slutty impulses. My spirits were so low that I knew that my life was destroyed, and I’d never recover from the trauma, but some tiny mote of self, the last vestiges of my soul, ignited with all the fury of the cosmos, reclaiming myself, my identity, and my personal strength.

Reclamation took the form of a Louisville slugger, a hardwood baseball bat my father gave me. Rick lost two teeth that night, as well as receiving a black eye and a fractured shoulder, followed by a restraining order. I am a pacifist of sorts; I never condone unjustified violence. This, however, was more than justified.

It was a year before I could do anything other than drive to work and back home. I survived on takeout food, wine, and Dad’s weed, as he had been on a quest to create the perfect marijuana strain for intense sex. All of my online activity, linked to the terror Rick had put me through, ceased. Social media, chat sites, and my beloved erotica communities were scrubbed of any evidence of my existence. I’d become invisible, and I realized that all I needed was a cat, and I’d become a stereotype.

Another year passed. My damaged, fractured psyche healed somewhat, and I could once more function in society. Then, COVID gripped the world in its talons, and the entire planet copied my habits of self-exile, going into quarantine. I, of course, was one of the first people to contract the nastiness, but my youthful vitality fought it off, leaving me physically damaged, but not beyond repair.

Slowly, over the ensuing months, I became a shadow of my former self. I spent my time gardening, which amounted to my discovery that the Goddess was wise in making me infertile. I couldn’t even nurture plants, let alone another soul. But planting green and flowering things to admire their beauty, on the off-chance they grew, occupied my mind and time.

I’d climbed out of the pit of eternal despair and darkness, but my unsure feet were still trying to find firm footing on the rim. My constant, overpowering sex drive came back, amplified exponentially. Had psychologists been alerted to the dozens of times per day I masturbated, they’d have committed me. But, just like my mom. Mother Nature gives the test first, then the lesson. At about the same moment in my life that I was ready to recommence my quest for love, feeling that empty darkness still within my soul, I met Vince and, later, his wife, Karen.

The lesson from the divine—always be your true self no matter what—also drummed into my brain by my parents’ demented tutelage, was learned through my friends with benefits. Braving the harsh, cruel, Krystal-hating world, I’d begun shopping in public once more. I realized that as emotionally damaged as I was, I was still an enticing piece of eye candy to everybody else. While shallow and meaningless, it did boost my ego, somewhat.

I was in the grocery store, shopping for particular shapes of produce, as well as food. I was fondling cucumbers, squashes, and other phallic-shaped vegetables to masturbate with. I had plenty of dildos, toys, vibrators, and handy, household items that I masturbated with, but variety is the spice of life. I joined the Panty Wearing Club, because only sluts dress for sexual thrills and easy access, and my cute, lace undies were getting saturated with the thought of stretching my cunt with a mammoth zucchini I’d discovered.

“Looks like you have the makings of the world’s biggest salad there,” a kind, mature, calm, and friendly male voice said.

I saw the man speaking when I turned my head. He was very cute, bordering on handsome in a confident, businessman sort of way. His brown hair was fashionably cut, a little gray on the sides, and his clothes were custom-tailored. He had a sexy aura about him, making me feel accepted, desired, and, above everything else, safe. By no means stocky or fat, he had the barest hint of a belly paunch, as men in their fifties often do. Otherwise, it was obvious that he was in good physical condition.

That forgotten feeling of vibrating, horny pleasure crept out from hiding and danced a ballet over my flesh, giving me goosebumps. I realized that I wanted him, followed by the knowledge that the slumbering slut in my essence had also come back with a vengeance. I felt the steaming-hot power fill my body, and a devilish smile erupted on my face.

“Well,” I smirked, blushing slightly, “those things,” I pointed, “are for my salad. The rest are going to be sex toys, unless you’d like to donate your hard, thick cock, instead.”

“Is this some joke? Am I on camera?”

I approached him, stroking a cucumber very suggestively. “I haven’t had sex in far too long. I don’t want a relationship; this is not a joke. I want you and your cock.” I took inspiration from Melody. “Yes or no?”

My shopping cart was abandoned as we left together and went to a nearby hotel. He even paid for the room! The door hadn’t even swung shut before I attacked him with the lusty fury pent up in my system. I pulled off his pants, surprised at the nice, thick cock they hid, and plunged my mouth over the shaft, coaxing it to hardness. When his cock was at full mast, he pushed my mouth off and tossed me, playfully, onto the bed.

What he did, after that, can only be described as pure sexual worship. For longer than an hour, his hands, fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth slowly peeled off my clothing. Each bit of flesh revealed was adored with loving, fiery adoration. He set my entire body on fire, and, soon, I was a writhing, cursing, moaning, mess of horny, passionate bliss.

Complimenting my body at every step, he was not only attentive to my physical form, but his words, tone, and playful nature made me forget all my pain, lifting my body and soul into the cosmos and reopening Pandora’s Box. He was a courteous, competent, and insatiable lover.

My first orgasm erupted from his gentle caresses over my panties. When he peeled them off of my quivering, lust-reddened body, he sucked my nectar from the fabric before lowering his head to drink from the source. His tongue on my clit gave me a screaming orgasm, followed by his hands masterfully teasing me, holding me for long, agonizing minutes at the brink of orgasm, then making me cum so intensely that my vision blacked out.

With his mouth on my swollen, aching tits and his fingers buried in my snatch, I stroked his hard cock while his hands got me off until I begged to be fucked. More than two hours had passed before he finally rewarded me with his cock.

“Fuck me like you hate me,” I pled. “I need to get fucked hard and rough. Slap me; call me a slut.”

He forced me onto my stomach, thrusting his hardness into my pussy with brutal force.

“Harder! Fuck me harder! Punish your slut.”

His hard shaft jammed into my cunt so hard and fast that my head was scooting into the bed’s headboard. A hot, erotic stinging sensation lit my ass cheeks on fire; the sounds of his hand spanking me reverberated through the room.

“Is this what you want, slut? You like it rough?”

“Yes,” I screamed. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Take my cock, slut. Tell me how much you love it.”

“I love your cock. I love your cock. Please, fuck me. Fucking fuck me. I’m fucking cumming.”

The swarthy, venerable businessman used my holes and body for hours. It was dark, outside, before he came, shooting his spunk all over my tits at my request. We lay in the bed, him smiling and sighing with one arm draped around me and me purring while I rubbed his jizz into my skin, just to be super-slutty.

Then, his phone rang. “Oh, it’s my wife. I need to take this.”

“You’re fucking married?!” All those feel-good, happy vibes I had been feeling were decimated. “Fucking men!” He laughed at that.

“Hey, babe,” he smiled into the phone. “You won’t believe what just happened. I was out shopping and this wonderfully fun and sexy redhead…”

He stopped, looked at me, and asked. “What’s your name.”

“Krystal,” I huffed. My tone betrayed my displeasure.

“I’m Vince,” he whispered to me, returning to his phone.

He spoke to his wife once more. “Krystal picked me up and just fucked my brains out.”

He listened to her for a few moments, nodding and giving the appropriate grunts of affirmation.

“Yes, dear, I’ll still have plenty of energy left over for you, tonight.” He paused. “No. She’s maybe twenty or so. You’d love her—very smart and a quick wit.”

“I’m in my fucking thirties,” I objected.

“Well… I’ll ask.” he put the phone down. “My wife, Karen, wants to say, ‘Hello,’ to you. We have an open marriage.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t bullshit. Had Melody and Tom not been such a prolific influence on me, Vince would have never gotten the benefit of the doubt. Karen, his wife, was bubbly and energetic, and she babbled at a hundred miles per second. To prove they were both on the level, Karen suggested that Vince and she got on video chat, so they could show off the matching wedding rings. She not only gave me her blessing but also took my cellphone number, so we could get to know one another. The mantra of my parents and their swinging friends, make friends out of lovers, not lovers out of friends, was a creed my new friends followed.

“So, what now?” I inquired.

“The room’s paid for the rest of the night, and my wife is out with friends, so we can do whatever you want.”

I smiled, resigned to this serendipitous fate. “then give me more of your cock.”

Vince reignited my true nature, empowering and emboldening me to once again unleash my inner slut and give her free rein. Although everything with Vince was centered around sex, there was so much more to it than that. He was a wonderful, interesting, and stimulating conversationalist, and his wife was also a slutty genius. A night or two each week, we’d go out on a facsimile of a date.

The knowledge that he was married made our tryst taboo, and that just made everything all the hotter. Public play, flashing, bondage, dirty talk, and almost anything sexual one could imagine became our activities. In between the constant, hard fucking and sexual play, Vince’s personality and empathy allowed the withering flower I’d become to blossom into radiance. Then I met Karen, his wife, in person for the first time.

Although not a real relationship, even by my standards, which were about as rock-bottom as one could get—if they hung around after they came, it was a relationship for me—those waning embers of my true heart and soul were fanned back into a roaring bonfire. Through those months, Karen and I began texting each other sporadically, then daily, and, ultimately, constantly. That grew into phone calls, which became torrid, sexy, and lengthy.

After several nights of girl-on-girl phone sex, us having ordered matching vibrators to play with together, Karen suggested that we meet for lunch. Our luncheon meeting confirmed the spark we’d felt on the phone, and lunch ended with us being politely asked to leave the dining establishment and never return because we had our fingers in each other’s pussies. We continued our mutual exploration at Karen’s beautifully decorated home until Vince arrived. He sat on the edge of the bed, touching us with his hands and masturbating, but letting us get to know one another.

Vince helped me regain my lost essence, giving me the emotional support I needed and so desperately craved. His perverted kinkiness made my promiscuity seem tame. Others could judge me all they wanted, but I was back and stronger than ever. He showed me that my insatiable sexual hunger was a part of me along with everything else. Granted, he was far from the first person to spoon-feed me that wisdom, but I was with him when I accepted that fact.

Karen was a sexual dynamo. The woman’s libido and love of risky and taboo sex matched my own. She was the one that swayed me to finally admit that I was bisexual, and she was more than eager to go out and flash people, have public sex, experiment with toys and other kinks, and, like me, she got off so hard on how slutty she acted that she couldn’t keep her fingers out of her cunt. Only my curse-laden dirty talk was, initially, superior to hers.

Together, those two opened my eyes to the possibility that I could be my true self and also be happy. I’d always seen it as an either-or sort of thing. I was closer to forty years of age than thirty, but my eyes had just been opened. Like nature, I could be whatever I wanted, including all things at once. They also restored my love for writing.

One magical evening, after dinner at a fancy restaurant, the three of us were at my house drinking wine and watching porn on my laptop. I mentioned that I’d written and published some erotica on a website, and they wanted to read my stories. As the website wasn’t one that I’d deleted my accounts from, I logged on and let them read, ready to be ridiculed. Instead, they loved them, fawning over the flow and how creative I was. Very soon thereafter, my passion for writing surged, and I’ve written, almost daily, since then.

Throughout that entire three-way affair, the nympho slut I’d become stayed on the prowl. If I was physically or sexually attracted to somebody, man or woman, I’d grab them and fuck them. I’d evolved into the scandalous slut my youthful tormentors had prophesied. Not satisfied with proving those vile cretins correct, I surpassed their expectations and kept going. I’d become an always-horny, oversexed, hypersexual, foul-mouthed, perverted and kinky slut.

What I was no longer bothered me. Like Karen, Melody before her, and my mother before both of them, I wore my sluttiness like a badge of honor. My first encounter with most people usually involved me letting them know what a slut I was. This instantly weeded out those that would cause me emotional or physical pain, and people’s reactions gave me keen insight as to a possible future with them.

I embraced my pagan, carnal, slutty nature once more, integrating my primal self into the rest of me. Mastering the arts of slutty seduction, I found some solace in my new emotional armor. Let them judge, talk, and point the finger; I had a middle finger reserved for my retort. I even began making amends with my parents. Through all of my issues, trauma, and aimlessness, constantly submerged in self-pity, my parents accepted my ire, never once wavering in their support. I, on the other hand, blamed them for my plight and distanced myself from them as much as possible.

“Who’s your true love this week, Kryssi?” Mom sang out when she answered the phone.

“I, um, called to apologize, mom. You were right… about everything. I’m so sorry for being such a stupid bitch, mom.”

Tears were shed, most of them mine. Over an extremely long conversation, I profusely apologized, begging my parents for forgiveness. Luckily, they not only understood but had that whole “forgiveness is divine” mindset.

“I knew you could only find your way on your own, you stupid slut. You’re so much like me that I understand that you feel everything all at once. You had to find yourself in all that emotional clutter before you could advance.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that, before? You could have saved me decades of repeatedly destroying my life.”

“I did, you stupid bitch. Did you listen then? Would have listened at any other time?”

“Fuck you, mom.”

“Welcome back, dear.”

Like my emotions and newfound confidence, our newly patched relationship was fragile, but it was a start. Months passed, and my nocturnal hunts continued. I’d grown tired of relationships, finally realizing that I was my own worst enemy. Anyone that stuck around longer than twenty minutes was suddenly my one and only, true love, forever and ever after. Only users and abusers put up with that needy crap for more than a month or two.

I was neither happy nor contented, but my life was, at the very least, satisfactory. I was lonely and desperate for love, but my conflicting needs could only be fulfilled by somebody who couldn’t possibly exist. I no longer felt resigned to my slutty fate; I accepted it, usually with some pleasure.

The revolving door to my bedchamber never stopped spinning, and I took great, sexual joy in expanding my kinks and experiences. Willing flesh was a common commodity, and men, women, and couples worshiped my fleshy altar continuously.

As Spring began to warm the sleeping world the following year, I grew tired of still seeking love. I decided that true happiness, the sole desire, was simply not my fate. I was thirty-eight years old and had a good life except for the emptiness in my heart. The decision to never have another relationship, only sex, was a calming resignation. I was done with men, who were nothing more than insecure cavemen, and I was over relationships with women, who were nothing more than jealous harpies. Those things were neither accurate nor true, but they were to me, at that precise moment.

Vince and Karen were my exceptions. They were my dear friends, my sexual mentors as much as everyone else in my life had been, and the sex was amazing, dirty, and kinky. They were my sustenance, all the others merely snacks or a dessert.

Eventually, and much to our mutual depression, Vince was offered a promotion to vice presidency in the company he worked for. While it was fun for Karen and me to call him “Vice-Vince,” the promotion required relocation halfway across the country. We parted ways amid hugs and tears, and we still keep in contact with one another to this very day.

I missed them; my cunt missed them. However, the angst of my latter teenage years had morphed into power. I’d weathered the slings and arrows of slutty misfortune for nearly forty years, and now I found it all laughable. I grew to be powerful, strong, assertive, and self-assured. My heart, mind, and soul still pined away for a love that consumed me, but I knew that true happiness eludes almost everyone.

I wasn’t proud of the person I’d become, but I could accept it. Self-confidence and feelings of self-worth were still in an infantile stage, but I could accept my behavior and personality for what it was. Self-awareness, the knowledge of exactly who and what I was, both the good and the bad, further empowered me. I finally refused to be anything but my true, slutty self, and damn they who condemn me.

The impossible quest for a partner that was everything all at once, mirroring my incessant and varied needs, was abandoned. I may have been lonely, but I was never alone. My romance and fantasy novels, constant treats in my endless reading, maintained my burning need for romance, and the armies of horny flesh kept my pussy company. I settled, giving up any hope of finding real love, true romance, and exciting sex that left me wet and limp.

Any pagan will tell you that there’s a balance to nature. Some call it Karma, others “As you sow, so shall ye reap.” Physicists will posit that for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. I didn’t know it, but my entire life had been me paying my dues for what I was about to receive. May came, and, with it, my first, ever Renaissance Faire. My slutty ass was about to be blown away, and I hadn’t the slightest clue.

To Be Continued…