Disclaimer: I do not own the Clique.

Have you ever been so drawn to something it literally hurt you, both physically and emotionally? I was and honestly still am an addict, but not to the "usual" vices like alcohol, narcotics, or even gambling. No, my name is Claire Lyons, and I am a Nymphomaniac.

Yes, you laugh at this affliction when you first hear about it out of nerves, discomfort, or even sheer disbelief that it is a legitimate medical condition. I definitely used to belong to the latter category. Between watching "Blades of Glory" with Will Ferrell and reading the headlines about Dave Ducovney and Christie Brinkley's most recent ex-husband, I thought it was all a facade. Terribly blown out of proportion. Sure, sex was enjoyable, but there was no way you could become ADDICTED to it, right? Only a true pervert would stoop so low as to call their vices a true disease. But too bad for me, I became one of those perverts.

My first sexual encounter was with Derrick Harrington when I was nineteen. I had known him as a friend since I was a kid, and we had always joked that we'd have perfect Nazi-app roved blonde children. When we began "hanging out" the summer of freshman year of college, it seemed like it was right. Soon, we weren't satiated with just a simple kiss and things progressed rather quickly. So when he showed me that he kept a condom in his wallet "just in case" I kind of knew where everything was headed. So I shaved my legs, spritzed on some perfume, and let nature take its course. We were both young so it was pretty innocent, we pretty much giggled through the whole thing, but it was nice. Hardly anything to become obsessed with. Or so I thought.

That fall Derrick was switching colleges to start a new major, taking him all the way across the country. We talked about it and decided we could handle a long-distance relationship; we were mature enough. We called, we wrote, it was young love. I missed him terribly, but I knew he'd be back in time for Christmas so I promised myself that I'd wait patiently until I saw him again. Little did I know that temptation was waiting for me right around the corner.

His name was Josh Hotz, and his name described him absolutely perfectly. He had wavy black hair, so thick and full, just waiting for a pair of hands to run through it. He had huge dark eyes that shone whenever he looked even remotely in your direction, and his heart-shaped lips were a natural muted raspberry that added the perfect feminine asset to his masculine chiseled cheekbones. He had just moved to New York from Boston and we had many lively debates of Yankees versus Sox. I told him about Derrick, he wasn't a secret. But for some reason my body was just BEGGING me to break my vows as one half of the Blonde Brigade and just go for it. And one month before Derrick was scheduled to arrive home, I did.

My body felt satisfied as my mind raced. I knew that I had done something so horrible, but my thoughts just kept evolving into memories of Josh's toned torso. I knew there was no way I could salvage anything I had with Derrick so I called him and told him we were through, and it was my fault. I decided to spare him the details, why throw salt on the wound? It had absolutely nothing to do with him; it was my own selfish acts that led to this. So I figured I'd try and build something with Josh.

Unfortunately for me, that didn't work either. I mean we had an active and extremely lively sex life, but I soon grew bored with him. Sure he was physically perfect, but there wasn't anything else there. I missed Derrick; I knew that he and I at least had some connection outside of the bedroom. So after tinkering with my Greek god for a month or so I dropped him too. He just wasn't attracting me the way he used to, and I found myself staring at Calvin Klein ads for any inkling of satiation.

I never told Layne, my best friend, why I had let two guys slip through my fingers in such a short amount of time, especially two guys that were both so perfect in every sense of the=2 0word. They were both perfect for me, and any girl. She assumed I was depressed so she invited me to spend the holidays with her and her family. I figured I had nothing to lose and she was just trying to be helpful, so I thanked her with a smile and boarded a train to the Abeley household.

Of course in my small-mindedness I had totally lapsed on the fact that Layne had an older brother, Chris, and that of course he was going to come home for Christmas as well. When I saw him I thought I was looking at one of those models I had been ogling in my privacy. He had let his buttery blonde locks flop over his gorgeous eyes, and he smiled in a friendly and inviting way. Plus he had gotten an equestrian tattoo on his left arm that acted as a highlighter for his flawless body. I bedded him by the first night.

I figured I could keep the whole Abeley slip-up a secret but of course I had no such luck. Apparently when Mrs. Abeley was in Chris' old room looking for a present she had hidden for Layne, she found a condom wrapper on the bed. For all of the physical beauty of Chris Abeley, he was the dumbest son of a bitch you would ever meet, and I had even known that when I was corrupting him. Well unlike their offspring, the rest of the Abeley clan was not idiotic so by process of freaking elimination they figured out I had gotten it on with their absent-minded Adonis. Layne promptly and rightfully so kicked me out.

I felt terrible; I mean20I had been a best friend to Layne since we were really little, even younger then when I had met Derrick. I didn't want to ever cause her any heartache, or in this case, mental disturbance. I kicked myself for letting my libido get in the way of my better judgment, but I promised myself I wouldn't slip up again.

Then as I wandered the streets, knowing my train wouldn't show up for another hour I decided to get a quick snack at the 7-Eleven. Between the emo guy behind the counter and the way he shook the slushie machine when it wouldn't distribute the correct amount of syrup, I was standing up getting serviced in a filthy stall with urinals flushing in the background. I think that guy's name was Benny. Or Barry. Something with a B. Hell it may have even been Steve; I didn't and couldn't have cared less. But I kind of realized at that moment when my head was knocking against a metal wall reading "Musta bin sumthin I 8" that I had an issue.

Of course I didn't want to admit that my raging libido couldn't be tamed. I figured if I just went home again I could get my life, and my pants, back together. Besides the fact that I was drooling over those damn Calvin Klein ads, and soon some dirtier shit, I assumed that I could easily control any urges I had. So I boarded the train and limited myself to some Ladies Home Journal or some crap like that, anything not sexy. That was when I met Kemp.

Apparently he was going home for Christmas, back20to grand old Westchester. He was majoring in literature or drama or some shit like that. He seemed like a nice enough guy but I had to admit he was the ugliest motherfucker I had ever encountered. I mean it wasn't his fault, he just had really un-kept hair, a true starving artist, but was inexplicably pudgy. He carried a guitar with him and told me about all the places he played and all the songs he had written. Honestly, it was nothing I was even remotely interested in, but there was this certain aura about him that sort of drew me in even though it repulsed me in a way.

We got off at the same stop but had to go in separate directions, but I had already written my number on a napkin with some eyeliner that I stuffed into his guitar case, so I figured this may not be over. I guess his appearance really spoke volumes because he called me the very next day, poor desperate thing. We agreed to meet up two days later at this Atomic Wing. Great, just what I needed, something hot and spicy.

So I practically locked myself in my room as to not get myself into anymore trouble, cursing myself that I had even made a date with Kemp. But, not being out in public only remotely helped. Being trapped in a small dorm doesn't leave you many options but a computer just waiting to be used. So I banged You Tube and a bunch of other sites out, milking them for all they were worth. God, why were those models so SEXY? And why did so many celebrities have to get started in the porn industry?

I kept shooting myself death glares, as I got ready to go to the freakin chicken shack thing. Why was I such an idiot? So I walked over and saw a little lump in skinny jeans and a vintage T- shirt and I turned my lip up in disgust. He even combed his ridiculous hair in a ponytail. He looked even pudgier in broad daylight as opposed to a dingy midnight train terminal. He had this stupid grin on his face and flowers in his hand. Yeah, freaking daisies. Then he gave me this hug that I couldn't help melting into. Plus I couldn't help noticing that this guy smelled amazing.

We ate these absolutely rancid Buffalo wings and celery sticks that I had to keep dunking into this knockoff Ranch dressing to even gag down. The dressing however did little to cool off my flaming loins that kept panging me with that familiar begging sensation. My mind was disgusted but my lower body was extremely aroused. He lifted a single eyebrow at me and I almost jumped across the freaking table at him. God I was pathetic. Instead of the table jump though, we ended up in the backseat of his car. It was this really beat up Chevy with this disgusting brown pleather interior, but of course that didn't stop me from pushing it out on top of numerous discarded Burger King and KFC wrappers. He panted in satisfaction; I just glared up at the furry ceiling.

After that day I decided to try to seek professional assistance. My counselor's name w as Cam, and my God he was absolutely precious. He had these soft black curls that made him look like Clark Kent, especially in this setting. He had the most interesting eyes I had ever seen, one was green and the other was blue. He was my age, just a college kid who was going to major in psychology, and for his internship he dealt with the perverts. Apparently the medical world didn't think sex addiction was a legitimate affliction either.

Nonetheless I was content with Cam trying to help me out. He was extremely nonjudgmental even when I told him about the late nights in front of my television. He asked me why I was seeking so much intimacy, or lack thereof. Of course I had no fucking clue, but he seemed to trace my obsessive tendencies back to being "abandoned" by Derrick, the "unattainable goal". He thought that when I couldn't have him, I started running around trying to fill the void with the same feelings. But of course I didn't love any of the guys I was staining. I knew he made sense, but for some reason his words weren't as interesting to me as his leather jacket, or better yet, what may be lurking underneath it.