Catherine Townsend: Sleeping Around

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The Independent Online

In hindsight, it probably wasn't such a great idea to pop Viagra at a house full of fit men mere days after my break-up. My adventure started when I attended a friend's party that I knew Paul would be attending. I was a nervous wreck. All the other guests were in couples, and the only thing I had my arm wrapped around was a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Then our host, who is in his fifties, started chatting to me about how Viagra can now be bought over the counter. He said that he takes it for "recreational purposes", because it makes him hard for hours.

"Just because a man has an erection doesn't mean that he knows what to do with it," I teased.

"My girlfriend takes it as well," he whispered, "she says that it makes her multi-orgasmic."

I've always been sceptical about chemical sex aids - no pill can show someone the location of my G-spot. But I admit that I found the idea intriguing.

So far, researchers have had limited success testing the so-called wonder drug on women. They found that Viagra does pump a woman's genitals full of blood (as with men), but it doesn't necessarily get her frisky. It seems that women's brains have to be stimulated to reach orgasm, while men can rely solely on an organ that's further south.

Then Paul showed up, and, after 15 minutes of chatting to him, I was starting to sweat. I fled to the loo in search of deodorant, and found two bottles of Viara in the host's cabinet. In my drunken state, I decided that I could justify one last shag with Paul in the name of scientific research. Deciding to sleep with him after our split felt like ordering tiramisu after a four-course meal: I knew I was going to be naughty, and wanted to savour it. So, I took two pills and returned to the sofa.

For the next half-hour, nothing happened. I was starting to feel disappointed when Paul's hand accidentally brushed against my thigh. That's when I felt the tingling sensation in my nether regions, and could hear my heart hammering in my ears. Incapable of rational conversation, I felt light-headed as the blood deserted my brain and rushed elsewhere.

"Cat, do you have a fever or something?" he asked, concerned. "You look a bit flushed."

"I think I need to get my coat," I told him, sweating. "Can you help me find it?"

As soon as we got to the bedroom, I jumped on him. The sex was wild. In addition to the intense sensations, the drug also made me act like a man. Normally, when I'm focused on the other person, I neglect my own pleasure. But, entangled in the pile of parkas, I had multiple orgasms, and was completely selfish. Paul loved it. We kept at it until the pounding of blood in my ears was replaced by the pounding of an irate woman looking for her fox-fur coat.

The only side effect was a light headache the next morning. That, and a voicemail from Paul telling me that he loves me, but isn't sure if "we're in the same place in our lives". Our encounter proved that we don't suffer from sexual dysfunction. Emotional dysfunction, however, is another story.