Addicted to Sin
Monica James
Contents
Dedication
Act I
1. Addictions
2. Beauty Within
3. Angel of Sin
4. Twisted
5. Good vs Evil
6. Like an Animal
7. Just a Man
8. Like a Hurricane
9. Dessert
10. Stranger
11. Famous Last Words
Act II
12. Apple Pie
13. Cherry Pie
14. Man, I Feel Like a Woman
15. Expiration Date
16. Love is Merely a Madness
17. Something Sweet
18. Food for Thought
19. Just Friends
20. First Time
21. Left Unsaid
22. One Direction
23. It’s Not You, it’s Me
Act III
24. Back to the Beginning
25. Kicking the Habit
26. A Stranger in his Clothing
27. Payback
28. Maybe in Another Lifetime
29. My Girl
30. Dancing in the Rain
31. Skeletons in the Closet
32. You’re Perfect to Me
Act IV
33. Welcome to the Family
34. Sleeping with the Enemy
Act V
35. Choose Wisely
Epigraph
A letter from Monica
Also By Monica James
Acknowledgments
Copyright
To my wonderful husband, Daniel. I spy with my little eye something beginning with I...LOVE...YOU. Thank you for assuring me I’m possible, even when I said it was impossible.
Act I
1
Addictions
DIXON
“I just…can’t…stop…eating,” says Shamu the Whale, inhaling her third Twinkie in one ghastly bite.
I really should be more horrified that this grossly obese girl is making out with her sugary treat in front of me, but funnily enough, I’m not. And that’s because all I can focus on is the way her plump, supple mouth gobbles down on that golden sponge, and I can’t help but envision it’s my dick she’s devouring like it’s her last meal, not the damn Twinkie.
Shifting subtly in my leather seat, I tell my cock now is not the time to rear its sinful head as I’m here to help Shamu, or rather Sharon, with her addiction.
Addiction, according to the ever-resourceful Wikipedia, is: “the continued repetition of a behavior despite adverse consequences, or a neurological impairment leading to such behaviors.”
So, what triggers an addiction? What makes people like Sharon here so completely and utterly addicted to something they can no longer function without it? I mean, it sounds utterly ridiculous that we can’t stop certain behaviors because we are the ones in control of our actions—no one else but ourselves.
So maybe it’s habit. But habit is done by choice; therefore, we could stop if we wanted to. So, in that case, maybe it’s a repressed memory biting at our heels, and we’re just using that as an excuse to get high, drunk, STD-ridden, or—in Sharon’s case—fat.
We all have addictions, whether big or small, in one form or another, and we human beings are complex characters that either deal with it, or sweep it under the rug and just don’t talk about it. But the people who do want to talk about it, whatever their addiction, come and see me.
My name is Dr. Dixon Mathews, and for $500 an hour, one can unload their deepest, darkest secrets and leave my office feeling healed and reborn. Most people just want the confirmation that there is nothing wrong with them, and their abnormal tendencies aren’t that abnormal after all. And my patients get that from me, they get the verification from one of New York’s top psychiatrists that their need to eat cat hair, or their need to masturbate in public, is completely normal.
In just a few sessions, I pledge that my treatment will cure them of their neurotic behavior, and they can blend back into society where citizens are none the wiser that they are walking amongst some batshit-crazy loony tunes.
The reason I can guarantee this is because the majority of people who walk through my doors just want to whine and complain, and once they get whatever the hell off their chests, most see the light and stop with the crazy. The small minority who do have earnest issues, I prescribe the ever-reliable benzodiazepines to treat their insanity, and the world thanks me for creating another pill-popping, asocial zombie.
So call me a bastard, but at thirty-two years of age, I think I’m allowed to be a little jaded and apathetic toward the dregs of society. You would be too if you had to listen to the same old sob story day in, day out, from the spoiled, rich folk who never had to work a hard day in their life. Yet they come to me with pathetic stories of injustice and wrongdoings, totally oblivious to how lucky they really are.
As Sharon is droning on about the woes of her life, I think back to my original question. What triggers addiction? Many trained professionals have stated that the causes of addiction vary considerably, but they are generally caused by a combination of physical, mental, circumstantial and emotional factors. But me, I know addiction comes down to one simple, primitive concept.
Desire.
Whether we desire success, beauty, food, alcohol, drugs, nicotine, porn or sex, the end result is the same, we all want to experience the euphoria that comes with these factors, and that’s what we become addicted to. The actual trigger differs from person to person, but in the end, we all just want to be…happy. And in most circumstances, desire leads to pleasure.
People with addictive personalities blow their addiction out to creepy levels, but the majority of us, we just dabble in our addictions to achieve that happiness, that euphoria, because we’re human, and we crave the proverbial “happily ever after.”
I told you I’m good.
“Dr. Mathews,” Sharon says in a small voice. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
Nodding my head, I refocus my distant eyes on her. “How about you tell me a little more about your father?” I suggest softly, giving her a gentle smile.
And 5, 4, 3, 2…and 1.
Right on cue, I witness Sharon’s full bottom lip tremble, and her eyes well with tears.
“There’s nothing to say,” she states, crossing her arms across her bountiful chest as she bites her lip to stop the tears.
“How would you describe your relationship with him?” I press, casually crossing my legs while attempting to hide my imminent erection as I try not to stare at her tits.
“It’s fine.” She sniffs, curling in on herself, her bright red hair shrouding her tears.
We all have a trigger, and I’ve come to learn that the trigger for overweight women is their non-existent fathers. I’ll never understand why they use food as a comforting tool, but maybe the binge eating fills a hole, and I do mean that in the literal sense.
So like I said, call me a bastard, because a shitload of daddy issues also means one thing: trying to find the perfect father figure to fill that vacant, loveless void. These women unconsciously seek out their future mate, using their asshole daddies as the blueprint for what they’re looking for in a companion. Or in some circumstances…a fuck.