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How many a night had I said NO? How many a night had she said PLEASE? — until I got the crazy idea in my head that I might be able to change her whoring ways. I’d come home at night from a long day at the office and she’d jump all over me with her panting, “Have me. Have me.” All I’d want to have was a stiff drink and a soft bed. All she’d want was a stiff cock and to give head. Our peak hours were not in sync.

I took to trying to mollify her by caressing her forehead, gently stroking her hair and whispering to her as if she were a dog who could be lulled to sleep by the gentle love of its master. But all she wanted was the bone. It didn’t matter if it were my bone — anyone’s bone would suffice for that hungry hound.

At night Lo would try to grab my package, slowly unbuttoning the button-fly of my pajamas. When I’d try to brush her away she’d say “I don’t want to fuck it, I just want to caress it.” Inevitably, I’d give in and, in a swoosh, she’d jump on top of me and add, “with my vagina.” While she was straddling me, going back and forth as if rowing a boat, she’d tell me, “You know, it wasn’t until my second year of college that I could say the word ‘vagina.’ It’s amazing how far I’ve come.”

“Yes, and how frequently,” I added.

When, after repeated nights of this kind of failed attempt at breaking the girl, she grew antagonistic, short-tempered, and frequently hostile; when, night after night, she would turn over in a huff after hearing my unconscious snoring begin and she’d take to her phone and jill it to her porn; when, after many a night of her hungry pleading, I had had just about all I could take and had given just about all I could give, I resorted to the ole standby: Craigslist.

“We’re going to find you a fuck buddy,” I said one afternoon when Lo was particularly petulant.

“Why, Daddy? You know you’re my favorite toy.”

“Lo,” I said, patronizingly, “What did you jill it to last night?”

“How do you know I jilled it last night?” she said in a manner suggesting that she didn’t finger-fuck herself in bed next to me looking at naughty videos on her phone.

“Lo, we’ve been together too long for that line to work,” I retorted.

“Well, I’m not telling,” she said like a proud child not admitting to getting caught with her hands in the cookie jar.

“Tell me,” I insisted.

“I’ll tell you later. . . ,” she said, suggesting that she’d tell me when we were in bed as ‘pillow talk.’

“You better, or I’ll have to beat it out of you.”

“Oh, Daddy! Have me! I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Foiled again.

“Sit here!” I said, insisting that she pull herself up off the floor and sit on the couch next to me. I opened the computer. “Let’s see here,” I said as I began to formulate the new post.

After some initial disagreements and minor edits, we crafted this:

Looking for a man or a woman or both to fulfill my nympho needs. I’m in a long-term, meaningful relationship with a fella and he’s fine with this — even encouraging — because my libido is too much for him.

Musts: 1) Be honest 2) Be single 3) Be D&D free 4) Be good in bed 5) Be attractive 6) Be willing to talk on the phone first 7) Be articulate, intelligent, and respectful of women 8) Be interesting and fun.

Write to Lola with “Nympho Needs” in the subject line. Include a pic with a face, need not be explicit.

We added a couple of photos and up it went. Per usual, within mere moments there were dozens of responses. Within 24 hours, there were hundreds. Most of them could be weeded out fairly easily.

But then one day Lo looked up from her computer screen and complained, “I don’t get it! This guy is asking me if I like black cock. I don’t know why these people ask if I like ‘black cock’ or ‘thick cock’ or ‘uncut cock.’ I LIKE COCK! All kinds of cock: Big cock; little cock; black cock; white cock. Cock. . . and puss!” She was exasperated.

“Really, Lo?” I said.

“Yeah, really.” After a pause, she said, “What?” annoyed by my smirk.

Little cock?”

“Well, you know.”

“I know what?”

“Gerald. Remember Gerald, the steroid user I dated in college.”

“Yes, I remember Gerald.”

“I would get so horny and it became a challenge to see if I could draw his jizz out of him,” she said, pleased with the opportunity to reminisce. “I would get into a feeding frenzy before he came over and I would meet him in my dorm scantily clad. I’d grab it, pull it, suck on it, and have him fuck me. I knew I wouldn’t even feel him going in. He’d lie on top of me and I’d run my hands over his big, bulging biceps and I’d tell him how big he was — not his cock, his arms — how strong, how sexy. I’d do anything to get him to cum. But he never did. I even faked orgasms so loud that all the people on my floor could hear. I wanted them to know that he was there just for a booty-call; that he showed up, fucked me good and hard, and left. I wanted them to be jealous. I’d tell him how big he was loud enough for them to hear. But ultimately I knew that that was not to last. I needed something, someone with girth, and length and heft who could make me sorry that I ever asked to be fucked.”

“Right,” I said. “That’s my point.”

“But I’d still take that to nothing.”

That night as I fell asleep, Lo was on her phone going through her e-mails, fingering herself as she looked at all the cock pics her paramours sent to her.

“Stop it!” I finally said, unable to sleep due to the rocking of the bed.

“I can’t stop it till I know someone wants me.”

“I want you,” I said, “Isn’t that enough?”

“Then stuff me full of cock and shut me up.”

[From the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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