Dear Rudy. I am exhausted and bemused. If things don't change soon, I will have to leave the country. Any advice that you can give your old mate would be much appreciated. Do you remember those college days when we both yearned for a hot woman with loose morals, and pined for the slap of flesh on flesh? If you recall you very nearly sent off for one of those blow-up dolls, but chickened out at the last minute. These days, using the Net, we probably would have ordered five or six in various shapes, sizes and (in your case) species. Today, it's all out there, even if some of it is a bit nasty.
Well, Nirvana, as we used to think of it, has descended upon me - and I'm not sure I like it. The number of times I've clutched my beerglass and quipped that Oho, I wouldn't mind being a sex object. Reality is quite a different matter. For nine days and nights now I have been struggling to perform wonders with a woman who now deliberately calls me "Dildo" as a term of affection. Any sign of flagging is greeted with great hilarity and even greater determination. I keep willing my tired body not to respond to her suggestions and advances - at which point maybe she'd realise that I'd had enough. But no, a hand under the covers, a bit of insincere physical flattery, almost anything in fact, and I rise reluctantly to the occasion.
And you can stick variety, too. To use an analogy, when I go into a pub it's nice to know that I could have a Tequila Sunrise or a Harvey Wallbanger if I wanted, but nine times out of 10 I'll settle for a pint. But with Hera any repetition is a sin. So we order all the cocktails in the place (so to speak), including the ones that you know you won't like. And drink and drink and drink until we can drink no more. Last night, when I thought I couldn't go on, I asked Hera if she didn't think that our relationship was a bit exploitative. "You are just making up for 20,000 years of male suppression of female sexuality," she snapped. "Besides," she wheedled, "Mr Winkle doesn't seem to object, does he?"
As if that wasn't bad enough I have wearily come to the conclusion that I am not going to be able to write a novel of the wild. I just don't have the imagination, I guess. So now I'm thinking about a Hornby-esque book of nerdy life in Crouch End, laying bare in humorous terms the desires and failures of a modern man. I mentioned this to Hera, who said that I qualified on grounds of failure, but wouldn't pass on desires or humour. "Just joking, dearest Dildo," she said. "What about a massage? I've got a book that shows you what to do."
But what, dear Rudy, am I to do?
Sig your fatigued friend, Dig
Friday 31 May: 19.00.28
Dear Rudy, thanks for your suggestions. I particularly liked all the Net addresses for sex addiction counsellors. Pity that all of them were in America, but I suppose that's where the problem is greatest. But the good news is that I am free (for the moment) due to the slyest, most cunning, most underhand trick I have ever played in my life. I'd feel ashamed if I weren't so relieved.
It all started when Hera complained about how unfit we both were. "The last few days have really emphasised the importance of physical well-being," she said. "How about joining a gym? We could do aerobics together." An image of both of us high-kicking to banal dance music in His-and-Hers tangerine leotards passed across my brain. And then, all of a sudden, I remembered that - mouldering away in the big wardrobe - was that accursed Ski-thing which nearly crippled me three months ago. "I have just the solution," I said, explaining the great advantages of cross-country skiing in the privacy and warmth of your own living-room. "But you do have to be careful with it - there's a knack."
Hera was having none of my "expertise mystification". We set the machine up, she gave the instructions a cursory once-over, said that there was nothing to it, mounted up, set the time and resistance, pushed one foot forward and - sure enough - had the other shoot backwards out of its restraint, leaving her spread-eagled across the skis moaning in pain. The diagnosis is a bad sprain, a pulled hamstring and COMPLETE REST. She is up there now, in bed, alone and undemanding. All I have to provide is tea and sympathy. Isn't it wonderful not having sex? But what happens when she gets better? I need a longer-term strategy.
Sig happy DigReuse content