Embrace the Taboo: Cheering up Stepmom (Indian sex stories), Nymphomania. Sex-addiction. Genetic Sexual Attraction. I’ve found a lot of words over the years in my journey to find the source of my urges. For a long time I thought something was wrong with me. They say that everyone is born equal. Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe there’s some sort of chemical imbalance in my brain that makes me lust after everything and everyone. Perhaps my parents’ divorce and their subsequent remarriages had an adverse effect on my upbringing. Or, fuck, maybe I’m just a naturally horny dude. Either way, my early years weren’t pretty. As a teenager, I struggled with a sexual mentality that was a great deal more liberal and overcharged than even the most stereotypical of my cohorts. The twilight years of my adolescence was worse. I tried to suppress my urges, completely repressing my sexual nature in an effort to see women as more than physical beings. There was a hole in my life that I thought would be filled by the love of a good woman. Suffice it to say that that did not work. Several months of depression, anxiety, self-harm, substance abuse, and hundreds of dollars spent in strip-clubs and brothels later, I finally decided to accept myself for who I was. That decision turned out to be the single best choice I had ever made in my life.
It all started, obviously, with my parents. My mother and father were both intelligent people who made incredibly dumb decisions. They both were at the top of their classes, but they fucked up and had me when they were nineteen. They were responsible enough to try and raise me together, to give me a good home and upbringing, but they couldn’t stop the inevitable divorce. In the end, I spent my years hopping between two houses. My life changed when I was staying with my father. Dad got remarried when I was seven years old because he knew that having a partner would help him to better raise his son. However, my stepmother ended up being a bit of a detached harpy.
Both of my parents were thoroughly mixed, a salad of racial genes. My paternal grandfather was a white man who married a black woman. On the other side of the family tree was a Korean grandfather and an Indian grandmother. My stepmother, on the other hand, was purely Indian. Her parents were first generation immigrants to the United States. She had black hair, dark brown skin, and stood at five and a half feet tall on a good day. Unlike my grandmother—my mother’s mother—who was quite liberal, Leanne was strict, traditional, and fond of arguing. She didn’t treat me bad. Quite the opposite, actually. There were times when she had to reign dad in and remind him that he was a father. She did this with the composure of an overseer who desired law and order, not because she cared about me in any way, shape, or form.
It was a bad decision made by my father that ended up being a turning point in my life, and the lives of dozens of others throughout the years. Dad and Leanne were initially happy. She was an adequate wife. Like I said, she loved an argument, but he couldn’t take it. Old man Lucas ended up taking a lover. And then another. And another. And then three more. And then he got another woman pregnant. Divorce would have been the intelligent option, but, like I love to say, my parents loved to make stupid decisions. Maybe to keep the world on its toes. Whatever the reason, it broke Leanne in a way I did not think possible. We were never close. She made no attempt to be my mother, but this was the first time in my life that I ever felt sorry for her.