Beads of sweat appear moist to the touch on your forehead as chills crawl through your skin and glide down your back. No, it is not flu season, nor have you eaten a raw Habanero pepper, although that may impress hot pants as well as hot mouths. The act of enjoying the consumption of something spicy simply begs for the analogy of enjoying another flaming act. This latter incident is the agent of the urgent perspiration, and will infect any poor creature that weakens at the subtlest shadow of a suggestion of sex. Its capital power imprisons many with merciless straps and bonds.

Sex is never more serious a matter than for your average nymph-maniacal college student at the climax of sexual experimentation when very few holds are barred. The general public may ridicule sex addiction with a grin bordering on hidden envy, and some may even try to fit the profile by attending Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings in order to snag and shag a true sex addict. These imposters think they are genuine Kama Sutra scholars, but to what mounts would they summit in order to consummate the will of their pens and think tanks? A nymph, loyal to the bone, does not even see the obstacles, but only considers the prize door as soon to be unlocked. For the infected, the world is not black and white with haves and have-nots, nor shades of gray with degrees of satisfaction. It is red for effective Dutch lighting and red alerts warning the nymph that the world is in a state of emergency without sex. The nymph is his or her own terrorist, doing anything or anyone to get what it wants: one hip-spastic orgasm after another, after another, comparable to Elvis Presley on “American Bandstand”.

These men and women are not from Mars or Venus but a red planet in which ordinary things become extraordinarily sexual. As if they wear sex goggles, any place or person may become appealing for unleashing the gargantuan girth of their appetite. Not to mention inanimate objects. For one thing, Lolita would be impossible to read since even the title curls off the tongue, and though the pedophiliac context is unappealing to the majority, Nabokov’s seductive pen pulsates pure sexual desire for nymphs and sex addicts. Objects like fruit, writing implements, any electronic with an “on” or vibrate button, “Curves Ahead” signs, milkshakes, football, flowers, matches, laptops, shampoo and buttons are just examples of items with the potential for phallic connotation. The slightest physical contact with another human being may set addicts’ hearts pounding faster than rabbits in-heat, and all impulses thereafter are justified by sex. Even without physical contact, images of intercourse may pop up during discourse. Sex addicts might be ineffective in aiding an individual with an asthma attack, because all of that heavy breathing could send them into a hormonal attack, worse than those reptiles in Snakes on a Plane.