On The Couch

No way did I ever imagine I'd be stretched out on a couch like this. And I've got to go on telling you all my secrets haven't I? And you sit there taking notes. Like I said, I don't see I've got a problem. But when your sister and your family start getting all uptight and start saying you're not normal, well. But nymphomaniac? I'm sure, doctor, you'll say that is simply ridiculous.

Oh, so you want me tell you more about - what was it you called it? - my hyphephilia. I suppose you shrinks think up these words just to frighten us? Hmm! How it began? That's an easy one. Some of my early lovers were into coitus interruptus. I laid out a plastic sheet and the ejaculation was there in tiny pools. Fascinated me. So, like I explained, I just collected it in empty perfume bottles, kept them, watching as, over time, the contents turned a sunset yellow.

Why? Oh, that's another easy one! The sight and feel of semen on my fingers and the unique salty taste as I bring it to my lips gives me a terrific buzz. Bet other women have said the same to you.

Condoms? Yes, they used those too and, with a little slight of hand pulling it off a flaccid penis, I had their semen to squeeze into an empty Dior bottle using a little medicine funnel while they were bathrooming. It kept its pungent odour for several weeks.

During what I like to think of as the Roger 'Love-in', I liked to masturbate him slowly to ejaculation. I had my breasts pressed to his face, and he never seemed to mind my hand placing the empty spice jar when I urged him to come. For a man of forty, Roge was amazingly copious with the contents of his seminal vesicles and – when I showed him – I think he got quite buzz of pride. But then he did have four or five weeks to save it all up. If what he said was true and his wife was not interested in sex and they indulged -his word – only very rarely. In my view she was missing out as Roge, although an old guy, was very sexy and could produce as much as four or five centiliters in a single ejaculation. More when he had taken one of those magic potion tablets they sell on the Net.

During the Peter 'Love-in' I wore a pair of latex pants, which collected specimens of his semen while the cold smooth feel of the garment itself seemed to have a dramatic effect in terms of hardening him. His gift went into an ornamental glass tube given to me with a sample of a new eye-liner. That still had enough of the original contents to combine to give me a memorable scent.

How do I see myself now? Same as I have always seen myself. I see myself as Grishkin - the Grishkin of that poem by T.S.Eliot we read at college. Do you know it? You being a medical and not a literary man, you might not. Here's a sample:

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye

Is underlined for emphasis;

Uncorseted, her friendly bust

Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The sleek Brazilian jaguar

Does not in its arboreal gloom

Distil so rank a feline smell

As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

I like to think I distil a feline smell as I adore the smell of sex. I keep the windows closed and the curtains drawn to create an arboreal gloom and to trap the olfactory scent. I can return to the apartment, open the bedroom door, and breathe in. There is no other long lingering smell so inspiring, nothing comparable to match it.

My sister never guessed at first. Would not have known now if I hadn't got so pissed at Christmas and blurted it out. Before that she used to arrive at my place, always without warning, and wander around sniffing. "Honestly Pam, you ought to get someone round to look at the drains."

Semen scent: I often wonder what would happen if I chose to use it as a pungent perfume and if it would stir the male pheremones? I would call it LofL - Liquid of Love. Gosh, that's the first time I've seen you smile.

I often think of this when I unscrew the lids and have a sniff from one of the collection of bottles before I listen to the tapes.

Didn't I mention those? Yes, I like to have an audio record of my males. The microphone is disguised in the bed-head. You wouldn't notice it was there but it picks up the creak of the bed springs marking each thrust, each gasp, every vocal response.

There is so much you miss at the time. There are so many levels of emotion and pleasure involved in intercourse that can only be picked up in an audio replay. I have quite a collection of the cassettes now all catalogued and labeled with the dates and a code system I have devised. I like to sit, legs up on the sofa, in a loose gown, a glass of wine near at hand, and press the remote control. There are parts that stand repetition and encourage me to play with myself. Often the recording is almost better than the original fuck, as I can analyze and review in order to improve my own future performance, and think of new expressions to use.

It goes almost without saying that I can get some extra inspiration from my collection of 'perfumes'.

There was a drastic reduction in the number of those when I was burgled. Fortunately they ignored my tapes but several reused scent bottles went and I wonder if the thieves were disappointed in the contents. It would have been something of a surprise when a customer opened one for a test at some car boot sale.

I have considered video, but I do like arboreal gloom - very low lighting for my penis parties and not just because I can more easily conceal any receptacles. Odd as it may appear, I don't actually like to see the erect male penis. Anyway, sound and voice leaves room for the imagination to work and I always like to imagine being assaulted by a penis far fatter and longer than it actually is. I mentally measure ten inches and a circumference of four inches.

I am accomplished at description which always sounds good on the tape: 'Lovely to feel your monster going in', 'Ready for the big thrusts', 'Oh, I can feel you're right up'.

I have some very melodious shrieks but you would be amazed at some of the sounds the performing male makes as he builds to his climax. If the ejaculation itself had a sound then I would like it to be a hiss like the steam from the boiled jug.

Speaking of sounds, creaming the vulva or the condom beforehand can create some extraordinary noises you rarely notice at the time. I would describe it not as sucking sounds - although you do sometimes get what seems like a fart - but like a long wet lips to lips kiss. Air trapped in the bulb on the condom can sometimes produce barely audible squeaks which, on playback, tend to make me giggle.

Orgasms have their own music, and there are never two alike. I can though - without looking at the label on the cassette or listening to the voices, distinguish which of my lovers is bringing me a climax.

Douglas is among the best of my lovers. The tape we made last month should be particularly good. Cleaning up after in the bathroom I was able to rescue enough from the post-coital fallout – his and mine - to add as a flavouring to the post-coital gin and tonic.

Hey, does that mean I'm some kind of vampire, drinking male semen instead of blood? Ok, Ok, so maybe I'm not that normal. But then who is? Some of my lovers deserve a place on your couch more than me. It's like weird what some of them ask you do. No, I tell them, my arse is off limits. And then there is this bondage stuff. Nobody is tying me up. Ok, so I did tie Roger's wrists to the bedhead, but then he liked me to go down on him.

Fucking is so ephemeral that I think there should be a record. A 'Dear Diary' is so naff, so out of date, not so easy to conceal from prying eyes. As for the Blog, they are for those on an ego trip. This is the age of the I-pod and next week I am going to start transferring the best of my collection so I can listen when I am engaged in all those boring chores or typing up those boring marketing reports.

Now I suppose you'd know better than me, but I'd say a sexual hedonist needs the same kind of dedication as any specialist. As a performance analyst - in all active meanings of the phrase - Douglas might be the one to understand. He is never satisfied until he hears me admit that I feel totally emotionally wrecked.

Yes, I am 27 now, so you are right this should be the time, the age, to give up what you call 'adolescent erotic games'. Ten years and eight lovers, seven of them males, that should be enough for any woman to explore sex and satisfy herself. But I am not sure it is.

Douglas is building himself up to 'pop the question'. I can sense it. And there was this mention of Sunday lunch with his parents. And he got all dreamy about this cottage in the country that he saw in a magazine and was up for sale. And he saw himself there playing in the garden with his children - in the plural. Clear signs wouldn't you say?

So what I want to know is, what do I say? Yes, of course I am crazy about him. He is so caring. He is so hunky. He makes me laugh; not at him but with him. But - and it is a big but - do I love him enough to give up my collection of tapes and bottles; all my other weird ideas about investigating sex with all its delightful perversions? And maybe inventing some new ones. Would I, with me being- let's not choose fancy words - crazy; would I be able to make him happy?

I can see by your expression that maybe you don't think so. My sister told you I am a nymphomaniac. I looked it up - ' Nymphomania is often manifested by a perpetual appetite for sexual activity with almost anybody at any time. The cause of nymphomania is not known, but it may be related to the hypothalamus.' Excuse me, I said, but I don't have a perpetual appetite for anybody or anything, and I thought hypothalamus was a kind of animal you see in African wild life programmes. 'You know what I mean,' was all she said.

What was that word you used? Paraphilia. Not nymphomania. Is that somehow better?

'Dependent on a socially unacceptable sexual stimulus' - was that what you said it meant? Doesn't sound too bad. Anyway I expect I shall change and become just another frowsy housewife and a mum. But, you must agree I will have a lot to look back on. I think I will save the best of the tapes on an Ipod to listen to on the dull winter evenings when there is nothing I want to watch on the tele.

What? You want me to let you hear one? Kinky! I bet behind that medical certificate on the wall you are really just a voyeur with a fancy name. Freud – he sounded like he was a very weird guy. Did he invent paraphilia? No?

But forget all that, right now though, right this minute I want Douglas lying on top of me, thrusting in and out of me, getting ready to deliver his gift of lovely sweet smelling, sticky semen. I want a good fuck. It is all I can think about these days. So I must be in love mustn't I?

What? Our time up? Does that mean I have to wait until the next session to get that psychological profile you keep promising me? And what will it mean when I do get it? A course of Prozac tablets? A brain transplant? Look doctor, I like myself the way I am and if there are kinks in my personality – and I'm not admitting there are – I bet Douglas will fuck them out of me.