Introduction
     My name is Belladonna, but friends and lovers call me Bella. I try to be an ordinary
woman, but I’m far from ordinary. I don’t mean that to sound smug or elitist. My
unusualness is as much of a curse as a blessing—I am a sex addict! 
     The product of a marriage between a Greek man and an Italian woman, I sometimes
wonder if I was a daughter of Eros or Cupid. If they were to have a daughter, she would
probably be much like me. 
     People I know, claim that when they were very young, they thought what made a man a
man and a woman a woman was the way they chose to wear their hair and their choice of
clothes. How naïve. I knew better. Maybe I’m precocious, but from the time I suckled
my mother’s breast, I knew. Father would seldom wear a shirt around the apartment and he
didn’t have breasts. He barely had nipples.
     With my curiosity piqued, I spent my pre-adolescent childhood observing and asking
questions. I was eight and a half when I told mom I wanted to be a boy. She said it wasn’t
possible, but I persisted. “But mom, why can’t I be a boy?” 
     “You can dress like a boy, but you can never be a boy.”
     “Why?”
     “Boys and girls are different.”
     I already knew this, but I pressed her. “How?”
     “Well, men and women are built different so they can make babies. I’ll show you.”
     I remember, she rose and went to the bookshelf and took down a volume of World Book,
brought it back to the sofa and thumbed through it until she found what she looked for.
“Men have things between their legs, called penises and women don’t.”
     “Why.”
     She patiently went on and explained intercourse and contraception. This windfall of
information I hadn’t expected and it led to my age of experimentation. When I was nine, I
had my first sexual experience while taking a bath. Mom hadn’t told me about climaxes and
after drying off, I went straight to the World book volume she’d showed me and read
everything. At my young age I didn’t understand all of it, but I understood enough to know
I wanted to know more. It referred to the section on sexual intercourse and I devoured
that. As I read it, I imagined what intercourse might feel like and felt tingly all over.

     I am one of those lucky women, who seem to draw men like a magnet. I say lucky
because I never get tired of the attention. Being Italian and Greek, I matured early and,
if I do say so, in all the right places. My period started when I turned eleven and I
started going steady shortly thereafter. He was the first person beside myself to touch my
breasts or down below and he was the first boy I touched. It wasn’t right away, because
mom, sensing my nature, began harping on me about abstinence. “Promise me you’ll at least
wait until your eighteen to have sex.”
     “I will Mom don’t worry.” And I did—the literal version of sex. Though I longed to
be penetrated, I was able hold off that long because I could have my blessed orgasms
through other means. Even though I still satisfied myself almost daily, I went through a
series of boyfriends, eight I believe, who had their fingers in my pussy giving me the
relief I craved while I returned the favor.” But since mom had set the arbitrary figure to
lose my maidenhood at eighteen, I made it a point to do so, the day of my eighteenth
birthday. 
     From that point on, nothing held me back. Was I wanton? Not really, but when I
wanted something, I let nothing, not traditional mores, or public opinion or marital
status hold me back. I may not have wanted everything I did or what was done to me, but I
enjoyed every minute of it. Oddly, starting with my eighteenth birthday, my most memorable
sexual adventures seemed to coincide with my birthdays—especially major birthdays.