The indigo characters of the text read “2140 Jackson”. They threw off a crystalline charge that snaked up my arm and lit my chest from inside, as if I’d been sent the combination to a bank vault or plucked the enemy’s secret code off the wires. There was an electricity that couldn’t be denied, as if a powerful current was running through me that couldn’t be stopped.Much as I loved my husband, Scott, my sacred feminine hunger for Paul was overwhelming. I texted Paul straight back: “I will be right with you once I’ve finished my orgasmic meditation with Noah.”
I’d resisted Scott for many years before we got married. It was as if I had sensed that he was a deep well I could fall into, and I was scared of losing myself in those very depths. There came a time, though, when we surrendered to each other’s vulnerable inner child who still struggled to cope with the emotional scars of a dysfunctional upbringing , and for many years we were good with one another. But when he told me he couldn’t remember if he had had a vasectomy before or after I had lost our baby, not even my pagan therapist Delphyne could help.
“I feel as if I need to go and explore my sexuality,” I told Scott. “So how about I stay in San Francisco shagging anyone I fancy during the week and then come back to you at weekends and get bored out of my mind?”
“Fair enough.”
I drove off into the heart of the city and rented a studio in OneTaste, a charitable organisation dedicated to the clitoris. An Asian woman with a feline radiance called Nicole let me in. “Have you come for the advanced masturbation class?” she said. I nodded and she showed me through to the play area, where several women were lying naked with their legs wide apart, while random men fondled them. “Don’t forget, gents,” said Guru Noah. “Five upstrokes to every downstroke. And not a second more than 15 minutes. On your marks, get set, go.”
Having explored the mysteries of my vaginal areas with a collection of strangers, I felt emboldened to go on a date with Paul, whom I had met on Nofrillsshags.com. The moment I first set eyes on Paul, I knew I had to have him. “I’ve got to have you,” I said dominantly, feeling the joy of owning my darkest desires course sensuously through my veins. I knelt down before him to devour his rock-hard cock. Etc.
“I promised my husband Scott that I would always use a condom,” I said, as he prepared to take me roughly.
“I haven’t got one.”
“Oh well, never mind. Get on with it.”
It had felt so wrong, yet strangely so right. “I have been reclaimed,” my vagina shouted in ecstasy. I felt like my journey had really started in earnest. I then met Alden, an incredibly deep and sensitive man who, like me, was very much into the philosophy of David Deida, a teacher who specialises in helping people find god through their sexuality. Alden had a strong physique sheathed in a black polo-neck sweater that he knew how to use. I wanted him to use me as his plaything and make my pussy sing with pleasure.
“Have you found God yet?” he groaned after several hours of tantra that had taken me to the very edges of sanity.
“No,” I gasped.
“Well I have, and I could do with a break.”
Sadly, I could only see Alden three times, as I didn’t want him to fall in love with me, but luckily Roman and Angelique were on hand to take over.
“I don’t think I’m quite ready to end my year of shagging yet,” I told Scott one Sunday.
“Fair enough. Thing is babe, I’ve met someone else. I want a divorce.”
I was shocked by his betrayal and threw myself wholeheartedly back into orgasmic meditation, threesomes and a creative writing correspondence course from the University of Hard Thrusts. The deep emotional wounds only began to heal when Alden turned up unexpectedly. “Hooray,” my pussy yelled excitedly. “It looks like I’ve also got a book deal.”
Digested read, digested: Over-Reliant Robin.
