The Counsellor

I'm not sure how I came to be a sex therapist. It's not a career that's usually talked about at job centres. I studied hospitality as a mature student at university, which is hardly an appropriate grounding for dealing sympathetically with people's emotional problems. Managing a hotel is more like the opposite. You may sound like you care when a guest has a complaint, but for the most part you're mainly interested in getting rid of them with the least impact on other guests and the least harm to the company's bottom line. After five years of clawing my way up to the management of a 'boutique' (translation: 'small') seaside hotel I realised it wasn't what I needed. I wanted something more exciting this time round. The trouble was I didn't know what.

At the time I had a really close friend, Sylvie, who I used to see at least once a week, sometimes more often, for coffee, a meal or a bottle of wine and a chat. Mostly, to be honest, it was her bending my ear about what a shitty world we lived in, what with all the poverty, racism, sexism, wars, etc. I agreed with her, though I'd seen far worse. Then I would go on about what the hell I was going to do with my life. God knows how she stuck it. I was even beginning to bore myself. Anyway, one evening when we both had the following day off, we decided to indulge ourselves at my flat, eating all our favourite snacks and making serious inroads into my fridge full of white wine. We went through the 'life is shit' preamble and quickly reached the giggly stage. This wasn't unusual either, because we both found it hilarious to make jokes at the expense of the various men we'd known. The jokes were rarely more subtle than comparing various bits of their anatomy to small animals but for some reason we found them irresistible.

When we'd gone through that phase we were on the third bottle and well on the way to the next phase, which usually involved tears and us ending up hugging each other and thanking God that at least we had each other and what would we do if we didn't, and so on. This time, however, I didn't feel like crying, mainly because my emotional life was a bit of a desert, as usual. Evidently, Sylvie didn't either. Instead she went strangely quiet and took a large swig of wine, as if she was plucking up courage to tell me something awful.

Eventually, not standing the suspense, I said, 'What is it? You look as if you're about to tell me you've got cancer or something.'

She smiled without looking amused and said, 'Cancer I could deal with. It's worse than that.'

'What, then?' This was beginning to sound ominous. Was she dying? Had she only days to live?

'I'm 32 years old,' she said, not looking at me, 'and I've never had an orgasm.'

'What?' I was relieved that she wasn't going to die. Of course I was. But she was right. This was serious. 'I mean, are you sure? Sometimes they're not...'

'I'm sure,' she said. 'It's never happened. No explosion. No big release. Not once.'

I couldn't get my head round it. This wasn't the 1820s or the 1920s. It was the 2020s. I thought every woman had them these days. I'd never had any trouble. 'Not even with that guy you were with for six months - what was his name?'

'Chas,' she reminded me. 'Not even him. I'd get so far then I'd have to fake it.'

'Oh God, that's awful. You seemed really good together.'

'I suppose that's why I faked it. I didn't want to disappoint him.'

'Fuck disappointing him,' I said. 'What about your disappointment?'

'I figured it would happen eventually. He was really considerate in bed. He always went down on me after I'd given him a blow-job.'

'That sounds more like you being the considerate one,' I said, unimpressed. 'Anyway, he must have been hopeless at licking pussy if that didn't make you come. Cunnilingus always does it for me.' From her expression I could tell I wasn't helping. No one with a problem wants to be told how well you're dealing with the same thing. 'Of course, that's because I'm a slut,' I added quickly.

'No you're not,' said Sylvie, 'so don't pretend you are. You just seem to have good sex. You're always so relaxed about it. Unlike me. This whole non-orgasm thing has made me so anxious I dread going to bed with anyone. Even with Chas it got to the point where I was convinced he didn't really like going down on me, so I faked an orgasm quickly so he could stop.'

'That's terrible, Syl,' I said. 'It sounds to me like you need a lot more than an orgasm.'

'What do you mean?'

Yes, what did I mean? I wasn't sure, but I had a faint idea. 'Right, this is what you're going to do first. As soon as you have a couple of hours to yourself you're going to make yourself a nice hot bath and surround yourself with all your favourite smelly candles and have a really long luxurious soak. A glass of wine is probably called for as well, but don't get drunk. You just want to be completely relaxed, not unconscious.'

She looked doubtful. 'OK, then what? If you're going to suggest I masturbate in the bath, forget it. I've tried and it didn't work.'

'Absolutely not,' I said. 'Don't even think about sex. The idea is to relax, not to get excited. That way you'll only get tense and anxious and probably frustrated into the bargain.'

'OK, so I get relaxed,' she said. 'Then what?'

'When you've had enough of a soak, put on all your favourite smells and your sexiest nightie.'

'I've got a silk one I hardly ever wear.'

'Silk is good.' I was beginning to enjoy giving advice. I'd done the bath thing loads of time myself and knew how good it made me feel. 'Then lie in bed and think about the sexiest thing you can imagine. Doesn't have to be some ideal man or some guy with a big cock. Just think about what you'd like to have done to you, what you'd like to feel. Like being stroked all over or kissed all over, that kind of thing.'

'What, and then masturbate?'

'No,' I said firmly. 'That's what you mustn't do. If you try and masturbate, you'll end up like you always do: frustrated. What I want you to do is the opposite.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean no matter how much you feel the urge you mustn't act on it. You must say to yourself, "I mustn't come. I mustn't have an orgasm."'

She looked doubtful. 'OK,' she said slowly, plainly thinking she was humouring a madwoman. 'Then what?'

'Then nothing,' I said. 'When the urge passes - as it will - just relax and go to sleep, or read a book, or whatever you like.'

'How's that supposed to help? I can not have an orgasm any time I like.'

'The point is for you not to feel anxious about it,' I explained patiently. I was surprised how lucid I felt, considering I'd just shared three bottles of wine. 'Enjoy the bath and the after-effects, the thinking about sex and feeling sexy and all that, but just enjoy them for what they are. Don't think about them as a prelude to orgasm.'

She still looked doubtful.

'Just try it a few times. Then you can tell me about it and we'll talk about what to do next.'

'Oh, so there's more, is there? I thought that was it.'

'God, no. That's just the beginning. You're a really hard case. This is going to take months of therapy.'

'Oh God,' she said, and started to laugh. 'I've become a project.'

'Exactly,' I said and soon we were both laughing like drains.

By some unspoken mutual agreement we kept off the subject of her sex life the next few times we met. But a month later we got together and after a couple of bottles of wine I asked her how she liked her bath times.

'Lovely,' she said, almost purring with pleasure at the memory. 'You were so right. Once I'd got over the urge to masturbate I just relaxed and thought sexy thoughts without any pressure to perform.'

'That's great. To tell you the truth, I didn't know if it would work. But I kind of guessed that what you needed was to feel good without someone expecting you to enjoy yourself.'

'So now what, doctor?' she said, grinning. 'I still feel miles away from having an orgasm.'

I suddenly realised what we were talking about. I mean, Sylvie and I were best friends, but we'd never really gone into our sex lives in so much detail. Usually it was just having laughs at the expense of our various boyfriends. But now it was serious and I had to admit I felt a bit embarrassed, a strange sensation for me. I took a large gulp of wine. Fortunately Sylvie came to my rescue.

'You don't have to be embarrassed, Daff. You're my best friend and I trust you. We can talk about anything. But if you can't help me, no one can.' She looked at me with her serious grey eyes. 'In fact, I don't only trust you. I love you too.'

I suddenly felt stupid for feeling embarrassed. The fact was, I loved her too, even though I knew it was risky. I could feel my eyes going a bit misty. The next thing was we both put down our glasses and hugged each other and tried not to cry. It was a sisterly hug, of course. Nothing more. But it was good to feel her arms round me. I hadn't felt that for longer than I cared to think. My embarrassment disappeared.

'OK, so now you start feeling good about yourself,' I said when we'd eased apart.

'How? I mean, why?'

It struck me that part of her problem lay in the fact that because she couldn't orgasm she'd begun to think less of herself, that she couldn't have sex because she didn't think she was sexy. 'Before you can have orgasms with blokes, you need to feel sexy and attractive to yourself.'

'Oh, you mean give myself a hand-job,' she laughed. 'I was wondering when we'd get to that again.'

'No, definitely not that,' I said, trying not to laugh with her. 'Not yet, anyway. Have your long soak like before, but this time, when you're in bed afterwards and thinking your sexy thoughts, I want you to touch yourself in the ways you want to be touched.' I could feel myself blushing, but I persevered. She was my best friend and I wanted to help her. 'If you like your tits being touched, then touch them in the way you like.'

She closed her eyes briefly, 'I do like my tits being fondled.'

'So do I. And anywhere else that makes you feel good. Just close your eyes and concentrate on what your body feels like. You have a great body, Syl, so enjoy it.'

'Thanks, Daff. It's nice someone appreciates it.'

'The only rule is the same as before: you mustn't masturbate. If you feel the urge, resist it. You'll only get frustrated and then you'll be back to square one.'

'That shouldn't be difficult. Even when I do feel the urge, I don't actually like doing it. I hate touching myself down there. It feels horrible.'

I was stunned. I had no idea Sylvie was so screwed up about her body.

'OK,' I said slowly. 'Did you always feel that way or is it just since you realised you couldn't orgasm?'

'I don't know,' she said miserably. 'Always, I suppose.'

'Oh Syl, that's terrible. No one should feel like that about their own body.'

'Don't tell me you actually like...down there.' She made a face.

'Of course I do,' I insisted. 'It looks lovely and feels lovely and I won't hear you saying any different.'

She wasn't convinced. 'No it isn't. It's ugly and smelly and feels weird. I can hardly bring myself to wash it. I hate it.'

Then all of a sudden she blurts into tears. 'I hate it,' she repeated between sobs.

'Oh Syl.' I took her in my arms and held her.

While she was crying I had time to think about what to do next. She was in a really bad place about her pussy. I'd never come across anyone who thought about it with such dislike. Well, not for a long time, anyway. But I thought mine was lovely, so I assumed every woman felt the same these days. Surely the time when women were ashamed of their parts was well passed.

By the time Sylvia had eventually stopped crying I'd worked out some tactics. What she needed was to see other women's parts. That way she'd see hers were nothing unusual. 'I don't know what made you so ashamed of your pussy,' I started. 'I'm no psychiatrist, so I'm not going to go delving into your childhood or anything like that. Besides, that would take years and you need help right now.'

'I do,' she whimpered. 'I do need help.'

I reached for my mobile, which I always keep handy, and started searching. 'What you need is to see other women. You need to see that pussies are all different.'

'What will that prove?'

'You think yours is ugly and dirty. Seeing other women's should show you that they're all beautiful in their own way.'

I was still amazed at what I could find on the Internet. Within a few seconds of searching I'd found a site full of photos of women flaunting their bits without a care in the world. I started flicking through them. Sylvia wouldn't look at first. 'They're disgusting. How can they show themselves like that?'

I must admit even I was a bit surprised. Not at the women's lack of shame, but at the sheer variety on show. There were plenty completely shaven - or maybe they had pubic alopecia (if there is such a thing) - and others so hairy I couldn't tell if they had a pussy or not. Most were somewhere in between. The pussies themselves were about as different as possible. Some that looked just like small slits, others with full labia hanging like curtain drapes. Most, of course, were neither minute nor enormous. They were all, though, without exception, absolutely fascinating.

After a few outraged comments, Sylvia's curiosity got the better of her, as I knew it would. She was soon gazing at them with as much interest as I was. She made jokey comments about them at first, but then went quiet.

'Well?' I asked, after what seemed like a hundred different pussies.

'I had no idea,' she said, her eyes wide. 'They're all so different.'

'And all beautiful,' I said, 'in their own way.'

She gave a short laugh. 'I'm not sure I'd go that far.'

'But at least now you know yours isn't peculiar or unusual or dirty or any of the horrible things you think it is. Do you think those women would have displayed their pussies to the world if they were ashamed of them?'

She took a lot of persuading, but eventually I got her to concede that pussies, in all their variety, could be beautiful. She just couldn't accept that hers might be. Finally, taking a chance that I knew might end our friendship, I said, 'OK, then. Show me.'

She nearly choked on her wine. 'What?'

'Show me yours and I'll show you mine. Maybe that will convince you.'

She thought about it. 'OK. You first.' I had the thought that maybe that's what she had wanted all along, for me to look at her pussy and tell her there was nothing wrong with it. It wasn't as if we hadn't seen one another's bodies before. We'd been in communal changing rooms together. Admittedly we hadn't seen one another completely naked, but we'd gone topless on a beach, so there wasn't much left to imagine. I stood up, unzipped my skirt and stepped out of it. Fortunately I was wearing one of my favourite knickers and I'd had a shower only a few hours before. I pulled them off and stood in front of her. 'There,' I said, hands on hips.'Maybe not the prettiest, but I like it. Your turn.'

'This is so weird,' she said, blushing. But she unzipped her jeans and, still sitting, pushed them and her knickers down her legs. I tried not to look at her pussy, but couldn't tear my eyes away. It was, after all, the reason we were doing this. After what she'd said about hating herself, I was expecting to see some monster. But her pussy was unremarkable, especially after some of the ones we'd just been looking at.

'I see you don't hate it so much you can't give yourself a trim.' She'd shaved herself and fashioned her pubic hair into a neat triangle.

'If I don't it grows all anyhow,' she said, looking down at herself and making a face. 'That's one of the things I hate about it.'

'Well, it looks very tidy now. A lot tidier than mine.' I realised I'd been unconsciously holding my hands in front of my pussy since she'd revealed her own. The fact is, mine didn't look anywhere near as attractive as hers and I felt a bit jealous.

'It's not the outside that I object to,' she said. 'It's the inside, the look and feel of it. It's disgusting.'

'No, it's not,' I said. I sat down beside her and spread my legs. 'Look at mine.' I used my fingers to part my labia. 'See. It's lovely.' I stroked the inner lips to reveal them more. 'It's like a flower.'

She bent over so she could get a good look. 'This is so weird. I can't believe I'm doing this.'

'I don't mind. You're not the first person to look at it.'

'It does look quite pretty,' she conceded. 'But doesn't it feel dirty touching it like that?'

'Absolutely not,' I said. 'But never mind what I feel. This is supposed to be about you.'

She started blushing. 'I can't touch mine like that. I just can't.'

I gave her a quick hug. 'Come on, Syl. You can do it.' I took her hand in mine. 'Close your eyes.'

'Why? What are you going to do?'

'Just close them.'

She closed her eyes and I took her hand and put it flat on her pussy. 'Doesn't that feel soft?'

'If you say so.'

It suddenly occurred to me that one of her problems might be that she never became properly lubricated. 'Stay there,' I said, getting up. 'Don't move.'

'Where are you going?'

In a few seconds I was back with a lubricant I'd also discovered on the Internet. I squirted some on my fingers and some on hers.

'What's that?'

'Something to make it feel nicer.'

I put her hand back on her pussy and gently pressed her middle finger. Almost immediately it slipped into the tight crack. She let out a little squeak of surprise and tried to take her hand away. But I held it in place. 'Just feel it. Feel how soft and smooth it is.' I moved her finger around and from side to side. It slid easily over her flesh. 'Doesn't that feel OK?'

'If you say so,' she muttered.

'Feel the labia. Don't they feel nice?'

'I suppose.'

Something else suddenly occurred to me. 'Stay there.' I went into the kitchen and came back with a small mirror. 'Have you ever looked at it?'

'Good God, no,' she said.

'Well, it's time you did.' I put the mirror between her legs so she could see her fingers in her pussy. 'Spread your labia,' I told her. 'See. It doesn't look so different from mine, does it?'

'No,' she conceded. Her fingers moved around. 'It certainly feels better with that oil or whatever it is.'

'Lubricant,' I said. 'A girl's best friend.'

'I've never looked at it before,' she admitted, leaning forward and gazing intently at the reflection in the mirror. 'It's amazing.' Almost by accident she found the little protuberance of her clitoris. She gave a start. 'Oh, is that my clit?'

I laughed. 'I think it must be, judging by your reaction.'

She looked at it closely in the mirror. 'I had no idea...'

I began to think she might be getting a little too interested in playing with herself and decided we'd had enough looking at pussies. After all, I was supposed to be encouraging her not to think about masturbating. I pulled my knickers up. 'Maybe that's enough comparing private parts for today.'

She looked a bit disappointed, but said, 'Yes, you're right,' and pulled up her own knickers.

'At least now you've had a proper look and seen it's nothing to be ashamed of.'

'Yes,' she admitted. 'Now I won't feel like throwing up every time I touch it.'

'Oh God, was it that bad?'

'Well, maybe not.' She grinned self-consciously. 'But I always shut my eyes.'

When we were dressed I reminded her of the next stage: the pampering and the touching all over. Definitely no attempts at masturbation.

'I'll try,' she said.

A couple of get-togethers later she told me how she'd progressed. I was excited to know if my therapy was working and anticipated positive news, now she'd got over her bodily disgust. We quickly demolished a couple of bottles of wine, by which time I was practically dying with curiosity.