Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
This may sound like an unusual problem – not the sort of thing that most blokes complain about – but my girlfriend is driving me mad, demanding sex. All the time. It's a balls-ache. Constantly, she's got her hands down my pants, and hers.
"Come on, let's fuck: there's an R in the month," she says or, "It's St Priapus' Day" or, "Go down on me – Sheffield Wednesday just won."
"But you don't even support Wednesday," I say.
"I do if they get me off," she replies.
Whenever I try to put her off, or at least postpone it, she says I'm just intimidated by female sexuality and it's because she's behaving like an alpha male that I feel belittled. But that's not it. I just don't find it a turn-on. It's not sexy. It's boring. It's like constantly being told to take out the rubbish or go and fill the car with petrol – it's become a chore. I've just told her I've got a headache. It's so humiliating.
Tim, South Yorkshire
OK, Tim, you limp-dick little shag-dodger. Get back in there and make her beg for mercy. Munch and lunge till you make her eyes roll back in her head. Frot and rock till she's sitting on an ice pack, praying a mantra to the majesty of your testicles. Pound the crack of moan till she screams in tongues known only to charismatic Alabama churches. Cover her with the spume of love till she wants to start a business manufacturing scented candles that waft the beguiling odour of your sweaty taint. Pump her till she's feeling like a shelf of charity shop scatter cushions. Get a grip. Get some dick-bone. Clench your pelvic floor muscles. You're not just letting this bint goalkeeper off the hook or letting yourself down, you're letting every human with a pair down. Sex is a team game: them against us. If you dribble and dive under par, if you can't make the whole 90 minutes, you shouldn't be in the squad.
Remember, sex is a game of two halves: the top half and the bottom half. There are winners and there are losers, and if you don't feel like a winner then you must be the other sort. And if you can't deliver a weeping multiple then get off the minge and let someone who's got the balls to do it have a go.
So, Tim, go and knock one out in the bog, and consider your position as a man.
I don't actually believe any of that but I just wanted to know what it feels like to actually write it down. I wanted to stream my testosterone locker room. It was fun, but disgusting. Like eating a box of Krispy Kremes while watching Saudi Arabian porn: weird at the time but you feel like a seedy shit afterwards. Really seedy. Like budgerigar turds.
Your letter reminds me of another thing that happened a couple of weeks ago. The United States Food and Drug Administration agreed to license Flibanserin, or female Viagra (don't tell your girlfriend).
There's a social and anthropological conundrum here: one of the main reasons for allowing a female sexual performance-enhancer to be prescribed was not for mechanical malfunction. Viagra and Cialis facilitate erections by increasing blood flow, and this new one does the same for women. But they don't need erections. And it's supposed to have a relaxing, uninhibiting mental element. But the real reason is that it's fair. If men can have a pill for sex, then so should women. Not licensing it would have been unfair. Even if it's not comparably necessary, it would have been sexist and discriminatory. You, more than anyone, will appreciate the irony of that.
These questions – of how much, who and the quality differential – are the meat and two veg, the missionary position, of agony columns. Almost every desperate enquiry boils down to: too little, too much, not good enough. And the answers are invariably touchy feely, like Liberal Party manifestos: love one another, talk to one another, sweat the details. And between you and me, it's all bollocks. Sex isn't about being a kind person. It's not a big generous sedative or gently charitable. Getting your rocks off is utterly me-centred. That's what makes it good. If sex were the exercise version of Red Nose Day, there would only be half a dozen people left in the world.
It's not her demands of you that's the problem, it's your low expectations of yourself. It's not having too much sex, it's having too much mediocre sex. Mediocre, grudging sex. You don't like having sex with yourself because you're not very good at it. And you're not very good at it because you don't do enough of it. The way you get good at sex is the way you get good at everything: practice. Doing more, not less. But only doing the stuff that you really, really like. And tell your girlfriend to do the same. Last one to scream an expletive is a sissy.
Another American first last week: they've invented a cock ring with clitoral or rectal stimulator – depending on your tastes – in washable, soft, childishly-coloured rubber. Inside it, it has a small computer that links to your phone or tablet. It measures all your sexual data: erectile strength, number of thrusts, pressure, duration, heart rate, blood pressure and, most importantly, calories consumed. It builds up a databank of your sexual health, all-boasting like those exercise wristbands.
So how long do you reckon it is before you're expected to download your last six months' sex records onto your Tinder account? And how long before women demand to have the same thing? A similar, internal clench monitor. And how soon before Google is collecting the information and selling it to advertisers: "Not getting enough? Then you need a payday loan and a 10-point diet plan."