Addicted to Pain

I have been successful for the last 10 days, 11 hours and 13 minutes. I have found the secret to slowing time down, and it is counting the minutes of your success daily. I am noticing sounds my mind learned to ignore. I have never noticed the clicking noise my clock in the living room makes as it meticulously counts every second of my minute achievements. I now know how often my fridge runs, and how often my neighbor leaves in his car that sounds like it praying for death. I catch all the sounds now — the sounds of my success from my demented sobriety.

I fear sleep. I fear the inability to consciously count minutes that add to my current streak. I am now a professional at braiding my long auburn hair, which is annoying because fewer minutes escape the clock now, and I have to fill the time with additional tasks. This is all so maddening to me. While other people pray for time to slow down — my knees ache from praying for time to speed up. The irony is I am almost out of time. I will strike again.

I am addicted but to something far more damaging than heroine or alcohol. People who think marijuana is harmless — Good For You! I am addicted to pain. I enjoy watching other people feel torturous pain. I comb ads, bars and websites carefully to cull the good men from the bad. I prefer men who expect me to throw myself on my back, legs spread high in the air, in anticipation of the exaggerated girth between their legs. I resent men who are so ignorant from ego that they lump me into the same pool the slut before me convinced them was real. The look on their face when I bring them home, and they understand my true intention is priceless. I am addicted to watching their minds fry like an egg in a hot frying pan, and their eyes tear from the sight of the experience and the realization they will not get laid tonight. Just thinking about it ignites my puerile behavior and my need to do it again.

Tom is a lawyer I zeroed in on when using Match.com. He clearly believes his profession is a gift to women, and he advertises his wealth standing in front of his new mustang in his profile picture. He chose the color white for his car — clearly not a dare devil.

After an expensive meal and two glasses of Dom Perignon for dessert, I invited him to my place to enjoy one of my favorite things. He was eager to accept the invite — after all my hands played carefully with his inner thighs throughout our meal. I have a feeling this experience will be better than Sebastian the doctor two weeks prior. That was fun!

We walked inside my townhouse and I offered him to get comfortable in the living room on my large black leather couch. He complimented the stone wall and fireplace on the adjacent wall while I fetched him a beer like a good host.

“Would you like to watch a movie?” I asked softly while cuddling into him on the couch.

“Absolutely!” He replied while his legs twitched in anticipation and his arm stiffening to avoid the urge to grab and adjust.

I started the movie and it only took three minutes for the collision of reality and horror to rest on his face. I find it amusing that three minutes is all it takes for all of my victims. Of course the experience never gets old for me.

Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Spongebob Squarepants!

I begin wiggling with excitement and anticipation like a giddy school girl as the song plays to begin the movie.

After five minutes their dry mouth, caused by the inability to close their mouth while reeling from the shock, manages to force the same question no matter the guy…

“Is… Is this some kind of joke?” Tom sputtered forcefully.

“What? No! I told you at dinner that I wanted to share my favorite thing with you! Do you not like it?”

And that, ladies, is how you get a rich man to buy you a nice meal and expect nothing in return!

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