I type my name into the search engine. Various articles titled Sex Addict pop up. One even says, Sex Addict or Slut? And there’s a lengthy debate on whether sex addiction is truly an addiction or whether I’m a whore in disguise. I stay away from that one.
Dr. Banning says that the more I hear and see the two words, the more I’ll become desensitized to them.
It hasn’t happened yet.
I shudder when I click into a new site. Daughter of Soda Mogul Sleeps with Soccer Team. I close out quickly and enter another webpage.
Lily Calloway Reviewed by Princeton after Allegations of Hiring Male Prostitutes.
Apparently being a frequent client of an escort service doesn’t bode well in a university’s eyes. I’m trying not to worry about it until after I talk to my parents. Tackle one issue at a time.
I make the mistake of logging onto Twitter and typing in my name. How do I make light of someone saying my vagina must be stretched and ugly? I haven’t checked lately, but I don’t think it looks that bad.
Besides, who stares at that body part and thinks, wow, that’s the most beautiful vagina I’ve ever seen? Likewise, penises are not all that pretty. I may enjoy them, but I’m not about to snap a picture and decorate my wall. Eyes are beautiful. Sex parts are functional.
My fingers click away and land on Tumblr—my bane. I’m about to search for Lily Calloway, but I hesitate above the keyboard. And on impulse I type in something bad.
Sex gifs.
The magic words open Pandora’s Box, and animated “moving” pictures cascade in an infinite scroll. Girls and guys are tangled lustfully, some positions sexier than others. And a few images are pure close-ups of naughty bits. I shouldn’t be thumbing through anything pornographic, but I begin to relax at the familiar routine.
I hover on a black and white picture with pretty shadows. The girl’s mouth forms a perfect “O” as a cock thrusts inside of her. I can’t believe it’s been two whole weeks since I’ve had sex. I try to remind myself that I lasted ninety days without Lo, no sex in sight. But that feels different than this.
After my addiction went public, Lo wavered on having sex with me. And he chose not to feed any compulsions that he thought would arise. He believes I’ll turn into a wild, sex-crazed monster. Those are actually my words, but when I said them, he never denied it. Sex has been a coping mechanism, the tool that I use to deal with tough situations. And for the first time, I have to confront a hard-hitting issue without a boost of my natural high.
It’s not like we haven’t done things. We just haven’t done it. He fingered me the other day, and last night, he let me give him a blow job. So that was nice.
I sigh. I am desperately envious of a two-dimensional girl’s orgasm, worthy of fireworks and sparklers and red velvet cake.
Suddenly, the lock to the front door clicks, and since Ryke’s apartment resembles a flat （the living room connected to the kitchen） I have a direct view of anyone who walks towards the couch. I quickly shutdown Tumblr and log onto Hollywoodharlots.net, a site that has been incredibly gossipy about my addiction. They even snapped a blurry photo of Daisy exiting Connor’s apartment and captioned the pic: Younger Sister of Lily Calloway: Future Sex Addict?
It makes my stomach churn.
“She wasn’t hitting on you,” Lo says as the door swings open.
“Are you sure?” Ryke asks. He shuts the door and pockets his keys. “She looked like she knew where she was going.”
“She was definitely lost.”
Both shirtless with only running shorts, sweat glistens their toned bodies. Morning runs relax Lo, and all week I have been searching for my anxiety-reducing activity. But those funny positions in yoga revert my mind to sex, and meditation causes me to fantasize. So I started looking at porn again, but I’ve been economical about my usage. I won’t get carried away this time.
Lo plops down on the couch beside me, his eyes flickering to my computer screen. “You read anything interesting?”
“Besides the fact that I’ve officially screwed up my sisters’ lives…”
“Rose and Daisy can handle it,” Lo reminds me. But the whole point of pretending to be in a fake relationship for three years, of keeping this giant secret, was to avoid all of this from happening. I never wanted to hurt anyone.
“I re-watched the SNL skit,” I admit. “I think I found it funnier the second time around.” On Saturday, a comedian impersonated me. She drank so many cans of Fizz that she acted drunk and stumbled into a brothel. A few humorous quips later and I sufficiently turned into a caricature.