Chapter 1

Before going into intimate details about my sex life, such as it is, I think it only fair that I relate to you readers some of the pertinent details about my appearance and general attitude to life and personal relationships.

I was born on a February 29th morning in the middle of a howling storm that threatened to cut off the electrical supply to the downtown hospital without warning. My poor mother was constantly reassured that they had a perfectly adequate back-up with a generator of some degree of power creation capability. She often told that boring story to her dinner party guests with me sitting at her side like some ventriloquist's dummy replete with insipid smile and stiff neck. Please don't let me get into my mother because my shrink has constantly gone back to that murky well like an obsessed diver looking for elusive pearls of wisdom that have teeth and bite viciously.

Despite the perils of the storm, Amanda Jones (me!) was born in the year 1969 making me an unbelievable 47 years of age. It is a matter of such deep-seated aversion that I seldom admit to it unless I am under interrogation for some crime I am suspected of. I have to admit the privacy of that fact is far more important to me than the simple truth of guilt or innocence.

I was a chubby girl with glasses and wore a horrible brace on my teeth like some monster created by the formidable Doctor Frankenstein. Unfortunately, for me, I was cursed or blessed with an astonishing urge to have sex that banished all such shortfalls from my mind and led me down the trail to a promiscuous youth. I developed every trick in the book to get young boys or adult men to introduce their shafts of enlightenment into my orifices with sinful intent to rob me of my dignity and pride. I did my best to hide my devious devices from my parents and the sisters at school that seemed to have the ridiculous assumption I was training for Holy Orders.

By the time I reached the ripe old age of sixteen I was ready for action on all three entryway fronts for the soaking up of sexual experience that would last me a lifetime. In the next two years which I like to refer to as my "higher education period", I determined that I was particularly adapted to a submissive posture and that anal antics were my forte.

Shortly after that time, I took my first husband. His name was Ralph and he was not really a topic I like to discuss because he turned out to be a homosexual with boyfriends in the nasty part of town. I shed him quickly before I could become contaminated with the pity of my friends for being second best in the gender selection lottery.

I confess that the whole concept of age is a sore point with me and I often lie outright but in all honesty my defense is that if you take birthdays seriously, I am only about twelve years old since I was born on a leap year and only had a birthday once each four years. I know that is a ridiculous argument but if truthfulness is the criteria, then I can argue the unassailable fact I am only twelve years old despite my biological age of forty-seven.

Now you can understand the reason why my therapist keeps telling me that I am driving him crazy with my convoluted logic. I think that is one of the reasons why I am much more comfortable talking to female rather than male acquaintances. My internal stream of conscious thought is much more compatible to female thinking than the way men tend to view even the most common sense conflicts.

I was quite athletic in my university days and my promiscuous attitude was well-suited to the atmosphere of free love and open relationships that seemed to be all the rage at that point in society.

My sexual problems started after I got married.

Of course, my first husband was a disaster but I feel it was entirely my spouse's fault for his "in the closet" mentality and his predilection to taking it in the ass from total strangers. Enough said on that subject, it is painful to even think about the humiliation.

I did have that brief period between husband #1 and husband #2 when I was a total slut and would bend over for any Tom, Dick or Harry that suggested I do so. It was a period of self- loathing and not exactly a highlight of my past sexual history.

My second husband was a writer.

He was difficult to get into the mood for proposing marriage but I cornered him in a weak moment when he had just finished a first draft of his "War novel" and was bursting with self-importance and pride of accomplishment. I buttered him up with constant compliments and suggested we could become closer as husband and wife allowing for me to constantly remind him of his greatness and give him all those special tingles that any man would be willing to die for. At first, he was not overly enthusiastic but after a few intense sessions of me giving up my anal secrets, he decided it might be better to have an available female at home for such delights and save time for him to write instead of searching the crowded bars and meeting places to find suitable bed partners even for a one-night stand.

We were married for five years and I was just beginning to get used to his sometimes kinky demands when I caught him humping his editor right there on my kitchen table. I wouldn't have minded too much except for the fact I thought the beautiful young thing was attracted to me and I had used her pretty face between my legs on more than one memorable occasion. I think I was angrier at her than at him for the betrayal.

The fact that I never had any children was a blessing in disguise because I spent the next few years as a twice divorced woman with free pussy on offer to anyone with the funds to buy dinner or take me to a half-way decent hotel. I insisted on the use of condoms at all times because of the hoopla about the AIDS epidemic and I was grateful my first marriage was over long before the plague hit the headlines. A couple of times in those chaotic years, I hooked up with some disreputable characters that took pleasure in draining my last vestiges of pride and dignity with abnormal demands on my compliant flesh. At the time, I considered my behavior as lacking in good form and downright naughty if Santa was putting together a list of gift recipients.