“Help! My Girlfriend Is A Sex Addict!” & Other Trials & Tribulations of 2010 (Part I of III)

Posted on January 16, 2010


“Help! My girlfriend is a sex addict!”

Presented above these words is a verbatim clone of a text message I get on the morning of January The First. It’s what wakes me up, the first written words I have the luxury of absorbing from this new and optimistic calendar farce.

Recently my buddy, we’ll call him Marcus, fell hard for this dame, this girl we’ll call Selena. Because I think it is a sexy name, and also because “Mark and Selena” were the two survivors who saved Jim in 28 Days Later, and they were cool. These lovebirds rack up the cool points themselves: both are gigantic tech geeks, she’s always got the latest innovation in communications – he’s always got the latest game console, and they both watch a lot of porn. As in, format options extending back to Laserdisc. Collectible, guy says. Even if you find pornography morally abhorrent, you have to admire the succinct aficionado presence in its depth. These kids have their own place in college town now, her modern furniture modifying the place into some kind of hipster temple of tranquility. One thing to like about Selena is that she does have an eye for visual flair, at least more so than her boyfriend, whose room I remember being littered with week-old snack pack cups and crumpled up gaming magazine tear-out posters adorning the walls. Since they started dating over the summer I’ve seen little of Marcus outside of the occasional blue moon, and so one can imagine my surprise to receive such a bold text from him that morning.

“Well, what do you want me to do about it – fuck her?” is my reply, and I double-take my own phone when what I get in response is a simple “Affirmative.”

I call Marcus.


“Neil, dude, thank God. I need you to do me a big favor. Dude… will you fuck my girlfriend?”

“Uh… why?”

She’s a goddamn nymphomaniac!

“Good for you?”

Apparently that’s the response a guy in Marcus’ shoes expects to get. Apparently I’m also dead wrong, since those afflicted with actual hypersexuality are liable to do pretty much nothing but have sex. As the good people at Cracked.com put it:

Meet Heather Howland, developed hyerpsexuality after suffering a massive brain hemorrhage, which seems like a really awesome superhero background story. Not expected to live, she surprised everyone by waking up and trying to ride her husband like a Shetland pony.

Image Courtesy of Cracked.com

"This is the face of a nymphomaniac." - Cracked.com

Some of you guys are still rooting for the disorder at this point, but that’s because you’re probably assuming the “nympho” only has the hots for you. Unfortunately, that’s not how compulsions work. Howland estimates she boned about 50 random, and probably surprised, strangers in the two years since her accident.

Her husband frequently gets called home from work because she’s in the driveway trying to bone some random dude. Nowadays she can no longer work, and her ability to focus is on par with an eight-year-old armed with a television remote which, in this case, is shaped like a wiener.

Yeah, it turns out pretty much anything can stop being fun once you’re only doing it due to a short-circuit in your brain. And this is actually worse than say, compulsive over-eating or sleeping, because those don’t carry a stigma that will make you famous around the neighborhood and, well, on websites like this one.

Obviously Selena’s case is less extravagant than the preceding example, Marcus tells me.

“So… you’re just offering her up to random dudes now? How come?” I ask, and he tells me that it’s because he can’t take it anymore.

Rather than pulling the age-typical macho-alpha-male dick card and chastising him for being turned off by a woman’s horniness, I ask him calmly why he doesn’t just break up with her. He can’t, he says, because:

“She’s crazy.”

“Thanks, dude.”


“I’m just fucking with you. Seriously, what?”

“She’s nuts. As in, kill-you-and-then-herself-if-you-break-up-with-her type crazy.”

“This is news. We’re just now learning this and you’ve been dating her… how many months now?”

“Dude, shut up. Anyway, I’m gonna break up with her soon, but I need – need some time.”

“Time for-“

“Time to-“



“No, go ahead.”

“Apparently Valentine’s Day is a really big deal to her or some shit, so uh… I figure it’s just better to wait til after that and just kinda bide my time til then…”

“So… you just got this apartment with this chick a couple months ago…”


“And now you’re gonna…”


“Damn, buddy. Not sure what to tell you.”

“Don’t worry about it. But yeah, past few weeks have been interesting. At first I thought she was just making up, like, some bipolar excuse to get away from me or some shit, but then, like, I came home early from class one day and totally caught her with another guy.”

“And that’s how you discovered her nymphomania?”

“Are you kidding? I already knew she was fuckin’ Dee-Tee-Eff, man. That’s part of why I started dating her to begin with. But like… four, five, six times a day – Yeah, it sounds awesome, but trust me, most guys don’t have the stamina they think they do. This bitch does, man. And apparently I couldn’t keep up with her, so she just finds whoever does.”

“Wow. That’s kinda fucked up.”

I think about every time the reverse scenario (guy cheats on girl) appears in the pop culture limelight and think “Ah, doubles and standards and whatnot.”

“Anyway dude, I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m already over it. I just need to keep her satisfied until I can find the most convenient time to break it off – well, I guess ‘least inconvenient’ is more appropriate, heh.”

There’s mentally ill people, and then there’s crazies. You date enough people, eventually you’ll have an encounter with a member of the latter class. Everyone’s been in a relationship with someone, however brief, where one has been pressed to consider that maybe the person that they’ve sworn themselves to for the time being might be off his or her fucking rocker in some way or another.

Take this girl I dated at the beginning of high school, Rebekka, this mall-goth stereotype who wore stiletto heels casually before she could even legally drive. That bitch was nuts. Left dirty, violent, potentially threatening voice messages on my house phone for weeks after I broke up with her. And people like that always wonder why one is inclined to end such romances. Like I said: crazy.

A co-worker of mine, Vanessa, she’s got a similar story. Dated the same guy for two years, even considered marriage, then one day he changes his name, packs his bags, leaves her and their apartment without apparent reason. To this day she still has no idea why he left her. Her side of the story makes it seem like the guy would be a prime candidate for the office of Crazy.

I bet if I heard his side of the story, one could infer the same thing about her.

“Reading your blog on Gen Y, I’m starting to wonder whether or not everyone is a little crazy.”

I digress.

Marcus says: “So… will you take one for the team?”

I elongate: “Uhhhh…”

And he says: “Come on, man! Fuck! She’s hot for crying out loud!”

“Yeah, but the whole thing’s kinda weird… I mean, I went to you guys’ housewarming party and everything and, uh…”

“Dude, come on. Fuck my girlfriend. How often does one man say that with pride and conviction to another?” he laughs. And I elongate again, I say to him:

“Yeeeeeeaaaaah, it sounds awesome, but…”

“Oh. Hah hah. Seriously. Don’t be a faggot.”

He hangs up.

(CONTINUED IN PART II:  Marcus calls back, with new, ultimately-more enticing stipulations for his requests – and he makes a few new ones. In addition, Neil himself has a few run-ins with institutional authorities, complications with the fairer sex, sex and fart jokes of Carlinian quality and quantity, chills, thrills, and pills. All on the next Days of Our Lives.)