My name is Holly Valentine. I am a reporter for INX, the independent news website. I’m in my mid-thirties and I have never been married. I have cracked open dozens of major scandals although I will never win a Pulitzer because of the powerful people I have pissed off. The reason I am writing to you today in this issue of Journal of Psychological Disorders is to share my experiences about my own particular sexual fetish.
I am a diagnosed conspirasexual. That means I get aroused when I encounter a mystery that someone is actively trying to hide. To be more specific, I get aroused and stimulated as I try to uncover those secrets that others try to hide.
My earliest sexual memory is watching Scooby-Doo. Watching that dog and those kids solve mysteries used to excite me like nothing else. I was too young to understand what my body was feeling but I knew that I liked it. My heart would beat faster, my legs would tingle and I could barely sit still on the couch. When the Scooby gang would yank the mask off the monster to show the real villain, I would feel this weird bliss fill my body.
Unless you grew up during that sweet spot of the 70’s and 80’s, you wouldn’t understand how important mystery was to Saturday cartoons. The success of Scooby-Doo meant that cartoons of other crime solving kids and their pets, talking cars and friendly ghosts filled the major channels. Every Saturday was filled with more mysteries than I could possibly keep up. From show to show, I would watch with terrible excitement. It was like my young personality was being trained to solve crimes and expose dishonest park owners and monster fakers.
Childhood turned into puberty and puberty became a quest to uncover all the things parents don’t want you to know. I was a particularly deviant teenage girl not because of some irresistable desire for sex and alcohol, but because parents and society worked so hard to keep it away from me. I had to find out about handjobs, oral sex, vodka, kissing girls and ‘9 ½ Weeks’ because everyone was trying to so hard to keep it away from my prying eyes.
I finally settled down in High School when I joined the school paper. I loved our adviser teacher, Mr. Gort, but I was horrified by how little we were encouraged to actually investigate. We were told to write articles about football games and cover school politics. We were encouraged to become publicity people for our school. When you look at the state of modern journalism, it is not too surprising but as a young horny teenager eager to bust some mysteries, it was unacceptable.
I investigated an affair that was going on between the Girl’s Tennis coach and his two top players. Watching the three of them have sex was exciting, but it was the pictures I took that really got me wet and excited. I masturbated for the first time as my camera recorded their sinful deeds.
To this day, Polaroids of people having sex that they are trying to hide from others is an instant orgasm for me.
When I filed my report for the paper, Mr. Gort was very understanding. He forbade me from publishing it in the school paper but he helped me submit my findings to the town newspaper and as well as the police. He encouraged me to get the fuck out of school journalism and hit the real newspapers. I like to think he understood me; especially since he helped me break up three more sex scandals at the school.
I went to college and continued my work. I also continued my sexual enjoyment of exposing conspiracies. It was in college that I really came to understand myself. For example, a night in watching Law and Order is kind of stimulating, but only as much as watching silly softcore porn movies is for kinky people. I need to be involved.
If I am sweet-talking a guard into letting me snoop somewhere I don’t belong, that gets my panties soaking. If I am watching a hacker break into corporate secrets, that sends a tingle from my nipples to my clit. If I have documentation of a crime that is going to topple a politician, I might have to masturbate six or seven times that night just to calm down.
My boss at INX understands my compulsion and has suggested I get therapy for it. Some of my fellow reporters think it is unprofessional to get so horny that you fuck an informant after you have already bribed him and gotten your information. A few network executives have told me that they would gladly hire me for a plush prime time job if it wasn’t for the fact that I unconsciously moan while talking about secrets. It is safe to say that my conspirasexuality has impacted my career opportunities.
I am not shedding any tears. I am too busy stroking off to another scandal fueled orgasm. It is really difficult to want to change your life when there are so many secrets out there. It is really difficult to want to change your sexual identity when you are screaming an orgasm in a parking lot because you just captured footage of a bribe between crooks and religious figures. It is fucking difficult to want to change when you soak as many panties as I do on a daily basis.
So here is what I want to say to you doctors, therapists and scholars reading this journal article. Stop trying to cure Conspirasexuallia. Figure out a way to spread it instead.
Imagine how much better the world would be.