The Campus WHORE by Joanne Weston
An unflinchingly honest account of a descent into sexual addiction told by a woman who went to university at the age of thirty-nine, and shed her previous life to embrace the temptations of campus life â€“ a story of liberated need and despairing craving.
Before Joanne attended the University of York, she was a â€˜not-unhappyâ€™ wife and mother to two teenagers. As an insecure mature student she soon discovers the many and diverse opportunities that university can offer, and realises that the person she thought she was didnâ€™t really exist anymore. Slowly the layers are peeled away to reveal a women whose compelling need for sexual contact and attention gained her a reputation on campus, a reputation which sucked her into a shadowy world of exploitation and squalor.
This is a story of an addiction, an addiction not just to sex, but to being randomly promiscuous, being available, beingâ€¦â€™Anybodyâ€™sâ€™
I sit here typing. It is late afternoon and the clock is ticking. I decided right after waking this morning that I would stay in tonight. I always think that. But I know the clock is ticking. And those ticks are getting louder and louder as the afternoon starts to move towards evening. They are starting to sound like a giantâ€™s footsteps in the distance. And they are getting louder; coming closerâ€¦soon they will be upon me, in my head. Soon.
I try to shut them out, think of other things; writing this, tomorrow, other things. But deep inside myself I know that I will be going out again. Sooner or later my mind will just flip from that determination to have at least one night â€˜inâ€™ to; what does it matter? Suddenly I will convince myself that while I am still in control I am somehow choosing to go. I could stay in tonight, but no, Iâ€™ll go out. Stay in tomorrow. My mind will start to roam through my wardrobe, selecting this, rejecting that; trying on various â€˜looksâ€™, imagining the effect they will haveâ€¦on othersâ€¦on me.
And where will I go? Which day is it? Which place will offer me what I want? I do complex calculations, working out the best combination of dress, location and night to find what I need. And as I do them I start to feel my skin itch. Like insects running all over me. They will give me no peace, wonâ€™t let me rest. I need to shower, need fresh clothesâ€¦ I canâ€™t just sit here typing can I?
I think back to last night, and know that I really shouldnâ€™t go out again. I never feel good in the mornings. Not because of the alcohol, I rarely drink enough; but because of the remorse. If I had a man back I will feel cheap and somewhat ashamed, if I didnâ€™t I will feel inadequate and insecure. Rejected.
Last night, as more often than not, I did. But already it is difficult to bring him to mind. I have to make a real conscious effort to remember anything about him, where we met, what we did. Even the memory of the sex is faded, shrouded by the veil of regret. But the details are less important to me than the fact of it. Whoever or whatever he was he was better than no-one, better than staying in. Better than denial. Better than sitting here typing.
As I feel I shouldnâ€™t, as I know I will regret it, as I understand that I while I can resist I no longer want to, I decide. I click on save, I shut down the computer and I stand up.
The footsteps are banging in my head; the insects are crawling over my skin.
Such is my life.
â€˜So how did I go from Mrs Boring-Bland of Scarborough, wife, mother and lady who lunched to what I am today; a barfly who spends her free time sitting in bars with a skirt too short for her age and too many buttons undone to be accidental?â€™
â€˜I had become a sex addict. I was (and am) a sex addict, I was known on campus as a sex addict and targeted by some because I was a sex addict. I was burning my life bridge by bridge. And somehow I managed the feat of not caring and despairing all in one. And thatâ€™s the point where I always wanted them gone; the point where I wanted to be alone. I knew the tears would come, my tears, my business. My life.â€™
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June 28, 2013 Tags: amazon, amazon kindle sex stories, degradation, encounters with strangers, erotica, exhibitionism, flashing, humiliation, humiliation stories, kindle bestseller, kindle erotica, kindle sex, Kindle Store, milf, milf humiliation, milf story, non-consensual story, public exhibitionism, secret life, sex stories, university of York Posted in: writing