I Am Not A Nymphomaniac

"Mr. Barnes, the applicant, Valerie Kimble, is here."

"Send her right in." I locked my computer and straightened my tie, looking up just as the door opened. Whoa.

She was beautiful ...

There had been a culture change happening in our corporation over the last two years. The new CEO, Cheryl Rhoads, had brought a new social and environmental awareness to our old conservative company. Recently a memo had filtered down to all middle managers:

To all managers:

As you know, I have made commitment to our community a key priority of GenWharton Corp. This includes those with disabilities. To this end, I am setting a company-wide incentive program where each manager has a goal that disabled persons make up 5% of their total subordinate workforce. I have ask our various HR departments to actively recruit disabled candidates to assist you in meeting this goal.

I have also expressly urged them to seek out candidates with mild mental health disabilities. While more typical physical handicaps have made great strides in lowering barriers for employment, many prejudices and false assumptions still exist about mental health disabilities in the workplace. In the vast majority of cases, with proper medication and treatment, such workers can be just as productive and talented as any other. While these types of disabilities have traditionally been a source of shame and hidden in the workplace, there is simply no need to do so.

Outside of this incentive, please remain aware that law and our company policy forbid all forms of discriminatory behavior or treatment due to disability. It will simply not be tolerated. Any manager or employee found treating a disabled candidate or employee in a way which is discriminatory, unfair, or even just disrespectful will be subject to immediate termination.

So, honestly, I was a little nervous about this interview. The candidate had been located by HR, and she had some form of OCD or Tourettes, but by all accounts was very smart, capable and reliable. I had so little experience with this, and was a relatively new manager anyway, so I was actually quite scared I might do something wrong or say something insensitive about her disability that could get me in big trouble.

Plus, since she was young and female, I knew I'd also have to be very mindful of our company's sexual harassment/intimidation policy. So many land mines. I'd have to watch where my eyes wandered, be careful of my body language. Man! I'd always dreamed of advancing to this point where I'd be on the other side of the interview desk, and now that I was here, I discovered it was far more nerve-wracking than being the applicant.

So, her being so ridiculously attractive is about the last thing I needed. Just my luck.

All this was running through my head and I became aware that I was gawking and we had been standing in silence for an awkwardly long time. I quickly walked to the little circular meeting table in my office and sat in the chair nearest my desk, beckoning towards the opposite chair.

"Please, Ms. Kimble, have a seat."

But she did not sit. She didn't move from the door, still holding the doorknob of the half-open door. She looked quite nervous. She eyed the little glass conference table, then looked back at me. For a split second, I thought she looked at my crotch. Though that was ridiculous, I told myself, I still felt a warm flush in that area.

"Ummm..." she said, looking nervously side to side.

"Is something wrong?"

"Did my placement agent explain..."

"Yes, yes, please, no problem whatsoever, I'm completely aware of your...issue. Please believe me, I don't care in the slightest, our company hires entirely on merit and we encourage people with any kind of disability or condition to apply. Rest assured it will have no effect on our interview or our hiring decision."

She nodded as I said this but didn't appear to be fully listening. Still she stared at the small, circular table and the empty chair rather close to mine. "I...I appreciate that, but did they explain about the furniture...um...issue?"

"Oh," I said, slightly taken aback, "no, I actually didn't really read all the details, but if there's any kind of special equipment or conditions you need to work effectively, we will absolutely make any accommodation. It's a committed policy of our company, and in fact there is a separate fund to buy any kind of special furniture you need."

"No I don't need special furn- so you didn't get the details of my condition? None?"

"I'm so sorry, I should have prepared better, I guess I'm a bit of a skimmer. Ummm...I gather that you have a sort of medical condition, but I didn't delve into the specifics. Actually," I paused, "I kinda thought it was better not to dwell on it, to assure that I don't treat you differently than any other applicant, which I won't. Which, I can't, by the way, by our policy and by state law. But, I wouldn't want to anyway."

"Well, I should tell you..." she hesitated.

"Please, feel free to tell me anything you want to say about your condition. Or nothing if you prefer."

"No...no...I definitely should tell you...I just wish- Oh," she sighed. "It just would have been much easier if you had already been informed."

"I'm very sorry-" I began.

"No, no, don't apologize, it's fine. I'm sorry, I'm making it into a much bigger deal than it is. It's just I'm very nervous, and-"

"That's completely normal to be nervous in an interview," I interrupted.

She hesitated. "Wh- well, thank you, but what I was saying is that when I get nervous, my condition tends to get worse...it's harder to...I mean, my control is...poorer."

I was now very curious, but didn't want to prod. We sat in silence for a moment. She was still standing in the same position, holding the door half open. She looked back out the open door, almost wistfully, then firmly took one more step forward.

"Can you please close the door?"

"Oh!" She looked startled. She looked at the door then back at me. She really was nervous, much more so than most of the applicants I'd seen over the last week. Finally she slowly shut the door and then turned back to face me. However she still did not sit.

"Don't you want to sit down?"

"No. No thank you." She continued standing, hands at her sides.

That was really odd.

"Okay, then...I guess we'll begin..." I looked up at her still standing. "You don't mind if I sit while you stand?" I asked, feeling a bit comical.

"No, of course not. I should...sit...well, first, before I sit, I should explain..." She paused.

"Yes, perhaps that would be good."

"Oh God. This is not going well."

"Please, Ms. Kimble, it's fine, it's fine. Does, this, um, standing have to do with your condition?"

"Yes. Yes. Okay, so...boy I wish they had already explained this." She hesitated. "So, my...condition...is..." She paused again. "Well, it's not...I mean it is...I mean I'm not..." She stopped, took a deep breath.

"I am not a nymphomaniac." She said this suddenly and stridently.

I think the shock showed pretty clearly on my face.

"I mean.. I mean, the fact is I'm a virgin. Oh God. That's not...what I mean to say is. Oh this is so unprofessional...I'm very sorry." She stopped and took another deep breath. "I just get very nervous in interviews, and especially with men, and especially with men who aren't already familiar with...me."

I was still too shocked to say anything.

"I should just go." She abruptly turned and opened the door and left.

I just stared, stunned, at the now-empty doorway.

I sat shocked for several more seconds, but before I moved to get up, she suddenly re-appeared in the doorway.

"I am so sorry, I'm being ridiculous. May I please come back in?"

"Yes, certainly."

She stepped in and resolutely closed the door, then grabbed the back of the chair and then froze for a split second, staring almost in fear at the tiny table, then suddenly pulled it out firmly and quickly sat down in it, banging my knee with her knee a bit painfully in her haste.

"Ow!" we both said in unison. I laughed. She didn't.

She stared at me like a scared rabbit, hands palms down with fingers spread as if they were glued to the glass table top. I noticed beautiful manicured red nails and slender, feminine fingers.

"Please relax, Ms. Kimble, it's fine, just a preliminary interview. No need to be so tense. In fact, we already know from your resume that you're someone we're very interested in."

"You are?" She seemed to relax just a hair. "Oh, that's great, thank you."

"So, you were explaining..."

"Yes, yes, please let me get that out of the way." She cleared her throat. "I...I have a condition. I've had it all my adult life. It's a...a variant of OCD..." she looked up in my eyes inquisitively, "have you heard of that? It's Obs-"

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder," I said, "yes, I'm very familiar with it. No problem. Really, Ms. Kimble, you don't need to worry about your condition having any bearing whatsoever on a position here or our hiring decision."

"Well...thank you, but, well..." She hesitated. "It's not exactly what you would call straightforward OCD, it has certain specific...manifestations." On this word her eyes briefly flicked down and stared through the glass directly at my crotch, then darted back up to my eyes. She seemed immediately embarrassed that I might have noticed her glance.

"I'm so sorry," she began, "I'm just not used to sitting at such small tables."

"Oh, we can move if you like, do you have some kind of fear of tables?"

She laughed abruptly. "Haha, no, I'm not scared of tables. No that's not it at all. I...well, I'm just going to say it."

"Yes please do."

"I...have trouble being near men."

"Oh, I...I see." I hesitated. "Do you have a fear of men?"

"Oh no, not fear. It's just, I have a...um...tendency towards what my doctor calls 'anti-social' behavior. When I'm in proximity to men. Especially attractive men. Well, no, actually, all men."

Her hands began to wiggle and slowly slide back towards the edge of the table. Then she suddenly looked down at them moving and they froze, again as if glued to the table but now closer to the edge.

She had broken out into a sweat; I could see dark areas in the fabric of her blouse growing under her armpits, and a bead of sweat dripped acress her forehead. "I'm sorry..." she stammered. "It's just so difficult...getting my thoughts together...when it's so close. My hands..."

"There's something wrong with your hands?"

"No. Well, yes...kind of. My compulsions all revolve around my hands..." She looked less calm. "Oh, I don't think I can do this. I can't...Oh damn it. I was so perfect for this job. Same damn story. Just forget it." She moved to stand up.

"No wait," I said. "Please, let's just finish."

"No, it's no use. I can't relax unless I..." she faded off, staring down through the glass table towards me, then continued, "Well, I don't think I can stop-. Can I please- I am sooo sorry about this-"

Suddenly she lifted her hands and in a flash slid them under the glass table and forward and I was shocked by the sensation of her contacting the crotch of my suit pants. She immediately began a rapid massaging motion with both hands all around my crotch on the thin fabric of the pants. I sharply inhaled in surprise, then was about to express my surprise when the wave hit me.

Do you know what it feels like when a woman rubs her hands on your crotch? I mean, not hypothetically, but when it actually happens? You lose your mind. Like almost literally. You lose the ability to think. The arousal surges out like a wave, and you're instantly, instantly helpless against it. You might have been thinking something completely different seconds before, but that is all completely and utterly gone, washed away by that wave.

I've actually even experienced it with a woman just touching my knee. Like on a date, I recall once I was set up with this girl, and I had made up my mind that I wasn't really attracted to her and was nodding as she spoke, rehearsing in my head the words I was going to say to gently let her know that I wasn't interested and was going to leave. I mean, those exact words, "I'm not interested," were literally going through my head the second before. And then she put her hand on my knee and squeezed. And the wave happened. The warmth and gentle feminine pressure on my knee made me hyper-aware of only one thing - how close it was to my crotch. Just a few inches of thigh between her fingers and my penis, which I felt immediately tingling and swelling at how close her hand was.

If it's ever happened to you, even once in your life, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. She squeezed my knee, and instantly, I was thinking, how can I get her to come back to my apartment so that maybe, just maybe, she could make direct contact with my cock. I was putty in her hands. Instantly. She changed my mind for me with that squeeze. She directed my thinking with that squeeze and the consequent wave. I was helpless against her power.

So. That's what happens with a knee squeeze. Multiply that by, oh, about a million, and you have the effect of a direct massage on the crotch. Forget about it.

"I am sooo sorry about this..." she said, as both hands massaged back and forth, twisting and caressing under the glass table. The pleasure actually comes a second or two after the pure arousal wave. Now it was hitting me. It was exquisite. I was immediately hardening. And I realized she was very, very good at it. Oh man. I couldn't speak. I just listened. She continued to massage me, now locating my hard shaft through the material of the pants, pressed against my thigh down the pant leg, squeezing it between her thumb and fingers while the other hand continued a general rub, while she kind of rambled.

"Oh, that's so much better," she said while massaging my cock. "I can actually think now. Oh man. I...so this...this... is my... compulsion. It feels so good not to be holding my hands back, that's so difficult. It's like...have you ever felt an itch and deliberately tried not to scratch it? That's OCD. It just builds and builds and it's almost like your attention to not scratching makes it multiply until it's worse than a pain. God I'm so much happier now. Thank you for letting me, I am so sorry about this. Believe me, I fully, fully understand how unprofessional this is. I wish I could control it, it's been terrible for my career." I still could not speak, I felt the pleasure building.

She continued, "There was a miscommunication or rumor or whatever at my last job that my condition was nymphomania, which it's totally not, and it's just so annoying. I don't have sex, I've...never had sex. I just...I just have to do -this-" she squeezed a bit more firmly on my shaft and head through the pant material on the word "this".

"It's clinically distinct from nymphomania," she continued. "In fact it's closer related to Tourette's, where my own fear of antisocial behavior and of embarrassment make it harder for me to stop it. I am so sorry. It's always worse when I'm nervous, or especially when I want something from a man, like this job."

"I-" I stammered.

"No, no no," she interrupted, "I'm not saying I expect the job," she said as her hands continued their wonderful stimulation and made me begin to feel an orgasm distantly approaching. "I mean the opposite, I know now it's out of the question, given my utter, utter unprofessionalism. I'm just saying that for whatever reason when I want something from a man or hope a man will do what I want him to, the urge in my hands becomes that much stronger. They start to shake."

Her massaging accelerated ever so slightly and now I was sure I was going to come.

"I feel much better now, thank you. I'm so sorry to have inconvenienced you with this interview; I really thought maybe I could hold it together and get the job, but I blew it." Her hands switched to a smooth rubbing up and down the length of the shaft. This was guaranteed to make me spray.

"If you'd like to... um... release, please do, it actually helps me with the disengagement process, which can be difficult for me. I mean, we don't want to be here all day right? Haha." She paused, smiling nervously at me. "Sorry, not funny. I know you probably are about to, that's fine, don't worry, the first time is super-fast with everyone, not just you, pretty much every time. Only I know these pants are really expensive. It's like the first thing I noticed when I came in, I saw your expensive pants and that then made me really nervous that I might ruin them. I knew it was probably over at that moment; I should have just turned around and left and saved myself the embarrassment. God I'm so pathetic."

I started to come.

She felt the pulsing begin and she worked my shaft faster. "Oh, good, you're spraying. Oh..." she half-closed her eyes and tilted her head back, apparently enjoying the sensations from her hands as the wetness leaked out through the thin material, wetting her hands. I was in a world of perfect pleasure, erupting stream after stream. She also seemed in pleasure.

"I love that feeling - it's like the most perfectly satisfying scratch on an itch you've been resisting. So nice," she said, staring at her hands now rubbing with soaking wet palms. "I know it's an illness. I know. But..."

"But what?" I hoarsely spoke.

"But it just makes me so happy. I know it's an irrational urge that is just a manifestation of my brain being wired a bit wrong. But still...when I can't scratch the itch I feel like I'm going crazy, but when I do scratch it..." Her eyelids half-shut in rhapsodic reflection. "When I do scratch it, it's so, so good. So good in every way. I feel right with the world. I feel healthy. And calm. And so good." She raised her soaking hand and observed her right hand, spreading her fingers and watching little ropes of bubbly semen stretch between the fingers. "I love it," she said, staring at her hands.

She looked down at my soaked, ruined pants. She sighed. "Sorry again. I knew those pants were toast. God, I'm absurd." She shook her head. Then looked back at me. "Well, I thank you for your time. I might as well get out of here."

I sat stunned for many minutes after watching her leave, just sitting disbelieving what had just happened, feeling my soaked mess of a crotch grow colder and damper.

I scheduled a follow-up interview through HR, and her response was to request the interview be done by phone. Since we had already had a face to face, that seemed a perfectly reasonable alternative. Believe it or not, I was relieved not to have to face her again. Despite the undeniable pleasure of it, every minute since had been so stressful for me.

My first instinct was not to offer her a follow up interview. I was scared to see her again, scared she would sue me for what had happened, scared someone would find out, scared that somehow my behavior had been behavior that someone could consider insensitive or taking advantage of her disability. Just scared.

But then, I grew more worried that rejecting her outright as a candidate would put me in a worse position. Either make her angry or make the case to a third party that I had made the decision based on something other than her qualifications. Which was true of course.

In the end, I just gave her highest ratings on the HR form and checked the box for a follow-up.

"Mr. Barnes, I have Valerie Kimble on line 2."

My hands were literally shaking as I answered.

A few minutes later, I realized the phone interview was a brilliant idea. Removed from the stress of her compulsions, she was a completely different person. Her voice was much calmer and, well, charming. And smart. And professional.

We discussed her experience and resume and I challenged her with example business situations and her answers were spot-on. She was quite funny while being very proper and professional. I myself completely relaxed and found I greatly enjoyed talking to her. The difference was quite remarkable. Finally I had to comment on it.