Compulsive Promiscuity

MY ORDEAL OF MENTAL ILLNESS, INCEST, ABUSE, AND DEPRAVITY

Please Note: Slang and Profanity are to be found within as well as dialectic speech. The subject matter is meant for adults. All sex acts described are between adults.

Lizzie Borden---A Tale of Mental Illness, Incest, Abuse, and Depravity

A few words of introduction:

The story is based on a patient's treatment when I completed my graduate degree working in a mental asylum. Lizzie, suffering from extreme promiscuity, is undergoing psychiatric treatment. She is intelligent and coherent, but her sexual behavior is both abnormal and erratic. During therapy, her mind wanders, yet she is ever ready for sex, 'as hot as a pistol, as one of her many lovers observed. During the ninety days she was committed, Lizzie wrote this lengthy commentary attempting to understand her situation. She quotes various people from her experiences, mostly her Psychiatrist Dr. Thomas Frankenstone.

A Schizophrenic hears sounds that originate from their brain. The classic example is the person walking down the street and hears a voice coming out of a mailbox, or the criminal who claims the devil ordered him to do it. In the case of Elizabeth Borden, her life is a series of self-generated songs, the sad banshee wailing of the distraught Leonard Cohen. Leonard struggled all his life to find meaning in relationships. He searched for mystical experiences using LSD and methamphetamines, hoping these drugs would reveal the meaning of life and confirming God's existence. Cohen spent his life escaping from his family and quitting his lovers. In his old age, like a salmon, he returned to home waters to die in the arms of the now-adult children he'd abandoned, in his pursuit of fame, sex, and his selfish desires. Was Cohen a great or minor poet? Perhaps, but he was an unreliable drug user most of his life.

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Lizzie Borden is obsessed with Leonard Cohen. She sees parallels in her life with the lyrics of Cohen's songs and imagines a relationship with him, secure that he would have understood. She treasures a napkin with four lines that she believes Cohen sent her in response to a letter she penned when severely depressed.

Borden was committed to Saddlebrook, not only for her schizophrenia but also for rampant promiscuity. This conduct shocked her parents, who believed it was potentially life-threatening. Just when you think she has revealed her last recollection of a sexual encounter, she recalls another. She can't help looking sexy and approachable. She is a beautiful woman, five foot seven, 119 pounds, big-breasted, light brown hair that falls in bangs across her forehead, think a huskier Marilyn Monroe clone.

Borden's well-formed lips seem made for fellatio, also her slight overbite. She is a strong female with a nicely proportioned curvy ass. The distance between the base of her nose and her upper lip seems shorter than it should be and gives her face a rounder, softer look. When she is seated, you'd think she was short, but you will be surprised when she stands up. Her legs seem longer than they should be. At the conclusion of this report, I have enclosed the Psychiatrist's diagnosis, symptoms, and prognosis for the future.

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MY ORDEAL OF MENTAL ILLNESS, INCEST, ABUSE, AND DEPRAVITY

"Lizzie Borden took an axe

and gave her mother forty whacks.

When she saw what she had done,

she gave her father forty-one."

My name is Elizabeth Borden. No, I'm not the "forty whacks girl." But my life is a tangled web of craziness. I am 25 years old, and I'm still trying to figure out who and what is going on in my head. In case you are wondering, I have no intention of killing my Mom and Dad.

Christ, my parents are the ones who are paying the bill for my 'incarceration' here at Saddlebrook Farm, hoping to cure me of my craziness and extreme promiscuity. I know it's confusing because it isn't a farm at all. It's an asylum for the mentally ill. Here I am, trying to figure it all out in the next 90 days. It already seems like an eternity.

When I think of all I've been through, my finger always wanders down to my pussy, damn it, it is always wet. It's been some wild ride. Growing up, I was a pretty conservative kid. I used to sit up in the attic listening to Pat Boone on my grandma's old 45 records. By the time I entered High School, I had moved on. Poetry and the songs of Leonard Cohen became my obsession. The song I played over and over was

"Suzanne." You probably know it,

Now, Suzanne takes your hand, and she leads you to the river

She's wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters

And the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor

And she shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers...While Suzanne holds her mirror...

( Leonard Cohen 1965 Suzanne" 1965)

There were mysteries and sadness in that song, a confusion of beautiful images with no conclusion. "Suzanne" originally was a poem. After reading it to Judy Collins, who recorded it, it became a hit song. The subject was a young woman Cohen had watched grow from adolescence to maturity. She had married and divorced, abandoned with a child. Cohen, infatuated, wanted to possess her but never did. His sexual interest rebuffed, his fascination remained frozen forever in a haunting poem. With time his love turned to disdain.

I sometimes think that I am Suzanne, pursued by every male that crosses my path. First, they are fascinated and chase me. After sex, they are satisfied and thrilled with my wildness. Yet, for some reason, in the end, I am always abandoned. Other times I think I am Cohen, with an inextinguishable need to have sex with every person who desires me.

Maybe that's why I have the problems. Would you believe, I thought of traveling up to Montreal to find the real Suzanne, to sit with her near the river and drink her orange tea that "came all the way from China." And then, Suzanne and I would retire to a dark corner where we would make the brilliant love that she and Leonard never shared. Perhaps, that would end my mental confusion. Of course, at that time, Suzanne was an old homeless lady living in her automobile in Venice Beach. Reports that she died in 1965 are incorrect.

I'd ever met Leonard Cohen, I know he would have fucked me, got me pregnant, and left me as he did with all the other women. Why should my experience have been any different? I wrote to him when I was a depressed teenager. I couldn't believe he sent me back a napkin with four lines of a song he penned for me in an hour, so he said. Cohen was famous for taking years to finish writing a song. I am very grateful and pleased. Later I will reveal this unknown song, but for now, I will continue with my story.

Puberty broke through in my junior year; that's when I began to wonder about sex and stuff. In the year before graduation, my breast size went from A to double D's in 12 months. As if that is not bad enough, my waist is very narrow, which accents my breasts. When I graduated high school, I was 18 1/2, looking like a playmate model. Naturally, all hell broke loose. I couldn't walk down the street without truck drivers stopping and making catcalls.

The first thing the Shrink asked me was about my parents. Did I hate them?

"No, of course not. My mother was a Swedish au pair girl. She came to the US to perfect her English and get away from her brother. She never would speak of Eric. He must have been abusive. Her family were farmers in the old country. Her Mom died early, and her father's sister raised her. Her father was very strict and an alcoholic. I'm sure he introduced her to sex at an early age. Mom would never talk about it. I've heard some pretty kinky stories about Swedish farmers. Although incest is illegal in Sweden, my Mom lost her virginity at an early age during the cold winters when she was told to sleep in her father's bed to keep him warm.

"My mutter should not have let that happen." Mom then stopped talking.

"How did your parents meet?" my Psychiatrist asked.

My Mom met my Dad at a party. She was asked by her employer to act as a server. Dad was struck by her beauty and shyness and offered to drive her home. Dad said it was common knowledge that Swedish au pair girls were blond nymphomaniacs. That was why he approached my Mom. The sex was so good he stayed for the rest of his life.

I found the door to their bedroom locked when I was a youngster with a nightmare. There was no one to comfort me, just a gruff shout from behind locked doors.

"Go back to bed."

When Dad asked to give Mom a ride home, she responded,

"No need," she said, "I love here.".

Her English wasn't perfect yet. She snuck him into her tiny bedroom, and that was the start.

After they knew each other for only two months, they eloped. They seemed to have a good relationship. I came early, after only six months of marriage. Dad was called to Iraq for that boondoggle and came back, missing his left hand. I guess that's why he couldn't hold me down and spank me? It didn't seem to stop him otherwise. He was successful in the family business and a good provider.

"What did Dad do for a living?" asked the Doc.

I told him to read "The Merchants of Death." The family was in munitions since the 1850s. Do I feel guilt? No, it wasn't me shipping arms into Banana Republics, and I've accommodated enough bananas to say we're even.

I guess I had it easy, growing up in the Connecticut suburbs. My problems seemed to start after puberty. I don't remember too much about growing up, but what I do recall seemed familiar. It was as if my menstrual cycle blotted out my early recollections. I recall bike riding, friendships with girls, tending the garden with Mom. I was your typical sweet kid, respectful and well-mannered, but my details of my childhood are blurred.

That all changed. I did some pretty freaky things after high school—sex things with lots of guys and girls. I understand why my parents took the drastic step of having me committed, and they don't know the half of it. I guess the only one who knows more is my Shrink. I don't resent my parent's actions, but I am not happy about being deprived of my freedom and the chance to find new sex partners. But that's why I'm here. They are all hoping I'll learn to control myself. Ha Ha, fat chance.

I intend to write down the contents of all the sessions I've had with my Shrink, his name is Thomas, Dr. Thomas Frankenstone, but in my mind, I think of him as "Tom's Ass." I remember Tom's Ass. He was a skinny boy I met in college. How disappointed he was. I never bled. I kept telling him he had to fuck me harder, and Tom tried until he was exhausted and his pubic bone sore from thrusting. I'd told him I was a virgin. I wasn't. Tom wasn't the first I had sex with, and certainly not the last. Oh yes, Tom's ass was a skinny boney pillow where I laid my head and licked his sallow ass. I miss him, and that smell that was his.

Oh, yes, I get distracted easily. Thomas often says that, but my stories link to one another, like the sections of a spider's web. Somewhere the spider is lurking.

I was an "inmate" in Saint Ursula's School for Young ladies until I graduated. No, not an inmate. It just felt that way with all the nuns telling me what to do and how to do it, sending me back to the dorm because my sweater was too tight or my skirt too short. I would have broken free at any time, but every time I tried to get away, a nun would grab me by my dress and chase away the admirer who was intent on dicking me. I was glad to be out of that prison. Having started private Catholic school at 6 1/2 years. I was 18 ½ when I finished.

After graduation, my Uncle Sheldon Spinelli, a name he used in show business, arranged for me to have a summer job working for a film company in Hollywood. He invited me to stay at his bachelor pad on Sunset. He had kept the small apartment from the days he was single, but I soon found out he was still using it. The bar was well stocked with booze and the bed table with condoms. Sometimes when I got home, there would be an empty bottle on the table and a piece of a condom foil alongside the couch. I didn't see him too often as I worked days. My Uncle and his family, a wife and five kids, lived in a large home up in the Hollywood Hills, north of the famed Hollywood sign. In Rome, they have the Colosseum, in Greece the Acropolis, in Hollywood, an old wooden sign. Tell's you something?

Of course, the studios never are in Hollywood. That crummy city is a worn-out strip mall of crappy stores, hustlers and taco stands. There are guys on every corner selling drugs and joints that are just herbs and phony oxycodone aspirins, with the brand shaved off. That is not to say that real drugs are not available. You just have to know where to get them.

Sad to say, but the only movies made in Hollywood are documentaries about how the city has become a trashy slum. As if that wasn't bad enough, they've built a subway so the criminal bums from skid row can come uptown to bash your head in and steal your wallet. I admit that some of the homeless can be quite satisfying, probably because they are so horny.

There is almost no serious film work in Hollywood studios, except for Paramount Studios, most large studios are outside the city limits. Some tiny private studios located above dive bars or 7-11's specialize in small productions such as porno, not for prim young ladies. Just because there is a babe line outside the walk-up staircase, it doesn't mean the studio is legit. Guys rent these places to get casting couch sex, and ugh, is that couch stained.

I have some salient recollections of Uncle Sheldon. When my Dad was in Iraq, I surprised Sheldon and my Mom in the shower together. I was relatively young at the time. Mom tried to hide her occasional affairs. I didn't understand it at the time, but there were several lovers. My elementary school third-grade teacher held long conferences with Mom. I waited outside the locked classroom on those uncomfortable oak wooden chairs. Even in the winter, she always looked perspired afterward. Maybe Swedish women are nymphomaniacs?

I went to work for Frobisher Studio in just outside Culver City. The studio was specializing in TV shows, where all the action is inside a fake house. The walls are open so the camera can roll in. Yeah, you guessed it, the employees call Frobisher's the "Four Bitches" studio and with good reason. Three of the CEO's are bitches. Californians are not good at math.

This story is an answer to questions Dr. Frankenstone asked me.

"I don't mean to pry, but I think some of your neurosis is rooted in sexual trauma, and that is why we must discuss all of your sexual experiences."

Sure he didn't mean to pry, that's why his cock swelled up like a clown's balloon when I told him a story.

STORY ONE---MY FIRST PORNO

I'd been working for three weeks, enjoying my job, thinking I was becoming a bigshot. Max Britten, the stage chief, called me aside and told me the afternoon shoot would be cut short for a special closed-set shooting, after 7 pm.

"If you want to be paid double time and see something new, get a bite to eat and be back at 6:45 pm. But eat light. We lock the set at 7:00 pm. "

"Ok," I was as naive as a Catholic school girl. I just did as he asked. I got a Bacon and Lettuce sandwich and a small bag of chips at the commissary. I was back at the front door at 6:40 pm.

What was the secret project? I knew closed sets usually meant some starlet would do a love scene and flash her tits at the camera? The director of the stage set was someone I'd never seen before. His shirt badge said Dugan, so I called him Mr. D. He didn't correct me.

I soon realized they were shooting a porno. A few of the guys were putting together an off the record shoot for some Mafia bookie they owed big time. Sylvester Stronk, known as Mighty Mo, for his 12-inch dick, was staring with Sylvia Hasco, whose tits were as big as bowling balls. The shoot started right on time with Agnis Rainier in the first scene. You might have seen her in Death Passage. She was the unidentified corpse. Yeah, a big part! Or you might say a small fart!

Just about ten minutes into the threesome, where Sylvia was eating Agnis' ass, and Mighty Mo was jamming his rocket into Agnis' snatch. The proverbial shit hit the fan. Agnis let out a terrible scream, I figured from pain, but no, she rolled away and started non-stop vomiting.

Dugan called "cut." Those images ended up consigned to the cutting room floor. It was HD tape, they made the cuts on the computer. They don't use film acetate glue, but you get the idea.

The bundled Agnis up in a sheet and called an Uber to take her home.

"Why didn't you call an ambulance?" I asked Dugan.

"Cause the ambulance could charge the bitch $1500 for a ten-minute ride. Don't worry. She'll be all right in the morning. Probably swallowed too much cum last night."

Live and learn. As I was the only female on the set, Dugan then asked,

"Kid, could you stand in for Agnis?"

"What?"

"You're a cute little piece of ass hon. Try a little porno. You might like it."

"If you think I'm going to let that giant dick anywhere near me, you are delirious," I shouted. "Do I look like Guilfoyle? (one of the office staff groupies)

"No, if she were here with her big mouth, we'd start with a cock sucking scene. Look, we can fake the penetration, Mo can shove his cock between your legs, not inside your snatch, and we'll pay you $700, Agnis' fee. What say?"

I did some calculations. I needed a bunch of sundries for my room in the little apartment I rented with Rosy O'Day. I hadn't yet responded.

"Ok, babe," said Dugan, pouring on the pressure. It is either yes or no. We can send out for a hooker, I know. She'll cost us less."

"Make it $800 cash, Mr. Dugan, and no penetration."

"You're on! Jesus, you're a real trooper, go break a leg or whatever,"

and Dugan handed me a cold plastic bottle of water.

"Don't drink too much! We don't want a fat belly in close-ups."

It took at least 20 minutes to get the Agnis' vomit off the set. Agnis It turned out, had a virus, the one that causes machinegun vomiting.

I was sent over to Sam, the gay makeup man, who put enough cheap hooker makeup on me that even my mother wouldn't have recognized me. Sam made me take off my bra to underline my breasts so they'd look bigger.

"What up, fagot, my tits are double D's."

My first cousin Jimmy, who is into whores, probably would have asked me for a date,

"Well, said Sam, compared to Hasco, you're a double AA."

Sam was a funny guy. He made me pull off my slacks and panties and gave me vaseline to rub between my legs. By now, I was feeling a little dizzy and was afraid I caught Agnis' flu.

"Here, drink up, you'll feel better."

I drank what remained in the bottle and looked down at my belly, which was a little swollen.

Sam saw that and said,

"Go take a pee and a shit if you can. You'll look fine."

I made it to the toilet and sat there, peeing my heart out and, at the same time, a gassy bowel movement. Those potato chips always do that to me. Then the red light went on. Dugan was on the bullhorn shouting,

"All actors, get your dicks and cunts out here. We are all set to go."

I figured out later that Dugan put a "roofie"* in my water. It started to kick in just before I got to the can, but not so much that I couldn't walk out to the set.

I somehow got out there onto the sound stage. The bright lights were blinding. Dugan maneuvered me into position. As my eyes adjusted, I could see Mighty Mo was towering over me. At least his dick was, and Agnis was rubbing my ass and waving what I thought was a candle, but it turned out to be a green Dildo. By now, I was in a state of confusion.