by Ray Gordon
"Come and see me tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "I'll give you a thorough check up, blood test, the works."
"And if you find nothing physically wrong?"
"Well, I... let's wait and see."
"What if you find nothing physically wrong?" I persisted, fear gripping me - fear of going crazy.
"We'll take it from there. Look at the symptoms from a different perspective."
"A psychiatric perspective, you mean?"
He hesitated before forcing a laugh. "No, not necessarily! Remember that you're an artist, Helen. Artists, writers, musicians - they're all pretty strange creatures at times."
"Strange?"
"Well, different. They live in a world of their own; they have no concept of time. You told me that you're under pressure to finish a painting. Perhaps it's your artistic temperament coming out, causing you to..."
In my anger, I banged the phone down. Strange? Artistic temperament? My palms were dripping with perspiration, my heart thumping ten to the dozen. All right, I missed Tony, but not that much! Not enough to almost send me over the edge! And it certainly had nothing to do with the pressure of work.
At the surgery the following morning I did my best not to appear neurotic. After giving me a thorough examination, John reiterated that everything appeared to be in perfect working order. But to make sure, he took a blood test. By then, I was convinced that he put my condition down to mental instability. But I didn't argue, keeping my cool when he suggested that a holiday could work wonders for me.
Back home, I sat in the garden beneath the lilac tree, trying to calm myself, to relax, to deny the overwhelming waves of panic crashing over me. I couldn't work - restless, fidgety, nervy, it was all I could do to cling to sanity. When the phone rang, I dashed into the house, hoping to hear Tony's comforting voice.
"The blood test results are through already," John announced proudly.
"I should think so, they cost me enough!" I snapped. I knew he didn't deserve my nastiness.
"Er, yes. Anyway, there appears to be nothing wrong with you..." He broke off, obviously deciding not to add the word physically.
"Oh, then we'll put it down to the pressure of work and my weird mental state, which is perfectly acceptable because I'm a strange artist!" I returned with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"Helen, listen to me," John sighed. "I knew what your reaction would be so I've contacted a good friend of mine, Doctor Harvey. He's the progressive type, somewhat unorthodox in his approach, and I believe it might be worth your while chatting with him."
"He'd better not be a shrink!"
"No, of course he's not. I'll arrange for you to see him."
My heart began palpitating again. "When?" I asked, rather too urgently - neurotically.
"Tomorrow. I'll ring and confirm your appointment after I've spoken to him."
"If he's a shrink, John, I'll..."
"I'll ring you later, Helen."
Deciding to take a look at The Blue Lady, I wandered into my studio. Lifting the cloth, unveiling her face, I froze. What on earth had I done to her? Gone was that menacing, mysterious glint in her eyes. In its place was a new look - a demented one - in smudges of various hues. What kind of state could I have been in the previous evening to destroy my precious work?
Collapsing onto my old Chesterfield, I shielded my eyes from the painting, the tears running down my quivering fingers as I sobbed uncontrollably. I'd eliminated The Blue Lady's disconcerting gaze - and destroyed her in the process! I did need help - psychiatric help!
As the phone rang, I took my hands away from my tear-streaked face and looked at the receiver. Checking my watch, I knew it would be Tony - but I couldn't speak to him. He'd realize instantly that something was wrong. I didn't want to have to explain, to tell him that I'd lost it, blown my mind.
The trill of the phone continued, becoming torturous as the minutes passed. Tony would be wondering where I was, what I was doing, but I couldn't lift the receiver. Finally driving me wild, I leaped up and swung my arm, knocking the phone to the floor with my clenched fist like a woman possessed. I wondered whether I was possessed as I fled my studio and ran out into the garden.
John had been right - Doctor Harvey certainly was unorthodox! Wearing John Lennon glasses, long, brown hair reminiscent of a pot-smoking sixties hippy, and a beard, I'd have expected to see him with an electric guitar hanging from his neck rather than a stethoscope. He questioned me for an age, asking about my work, my tastes in music and literature - my sex life. The intimate details about my sex life were rather too intimate for my liking! It crossed my mind that he was enjoying himself as he leaned forward, focusing on my billowing blouse as he listened eagerly. Male thoughts of sex.
I suppose there was no point in him examining me as John had done that, but I didn't like his Freudian approach. I imagined that he was thinking me mad, insane. He assured me that he wasn't a psychiatrist and, for some inexplicable reason, I believed him.
"Sex!" Mrs Hunter, he finally announced as if in way of a conclusion. "You're addicted to sex."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry! I'd spent the best part of two hours with him, and he says I'm addicted to sex! What could I say? There was no answer to that ridiculous statement, apart from suggesting he lay off the cannabis! I was about to leave him to what I imagined to be his drug-induced dreams when he began opening the desk drawers.
"I had it here somewhere," he mumbled, rummaging through crumpled sheets of paper.
"What?" I asked, raising my eyebrows and counting to ten, wondering where he was coming from.
"The paper I wrote for... oh well, never mind." He slammed the drawers shut and looked up at me. "Try it."
"Try what?"
"My theory, put it to the test. When your husband's home and you've had sex, see how you feel. Trying denying yourself sex when he's home and see what happens."
"See what happens?" I echoed, ready to bonk him on his head with my clenched fist.
That evening I felt terrible, worse than ever. I was short of breath, anxious beyond belief, my head ached, my eyes hurt from hours of frowning... I was a mental disaster! Again, I didn't answer the phone. Tony would have been going out of his mind with worry, but I couldn't bring myself to speak to him. I'd call him later, I decided, when I felt better. Although I knew in my heart of hearts that I wouldn't feel better.
I finally went to bed, convinced that I needed psychiatric help - and wondering how to tell Tony that I'd completely gone off the rails, lost it, fallen out of my tree. As I lay on my pillow with the curtains blowing in the breeze, the moon bathing me in its silvery light, I pondered on Doctor Harvey's words. Addicted to sex. It did fit in with my weird attacks, I reflected - the way I'd felt when Tony was away, the amazing calm after the sex we'd enjoyed.
Addicted to sex. The words wouldn't leave my mind. Words fluttering on the wind, floating, drifting. But the notion was ludicrous! Tony and I had a good sex life, frequent and varied, but I wasn't addicted to sex! What was sex? I began to wonder. What was it about sex that I could possible have become addicted to? Orgasm, I decided. There was nothing else about the sexual act that could be described as addictive. So, I pondered, it would be pretty easy to discover whether orgasm was the answer to my problems.
I'd masturbated regularly in my teens, massaging illicit orgasms from my clitoris while lying in bed at night. That was my secret. We all have secrets locked in little boxes. I'll never forget the church candle I was given for my sixteenth birthday by my grandmother, a devout Catholic. I kept it in a box beneath my bed - when I wasn't using it as a phallus, a dildo.
Sadly, I'd weaned myself off masturbation in my late teens, believing it to be harmful. Perhaps I should never have stopped? The candle lay neglected in its box, along with my secret, never to be used again, never to be revealed. But now I was about to discover masturbation again, rediscover the sensations of massaging my clitoris, the heaven-sent feelings of self-loving. I still had the candle, somewhere. I
'd find it; keep it in its box beneath the bed. My secret.
For some reason, I felt that I was betraying Tony as I slipped my hand between my legs and fondled my outer vaginal lips, rolling the warm fleshy pads between my finger and thumb. His fingers should have been there, caressing, fondling - not mine. But he'd understand, I knew. Not that I had the slightest intention of telling him! Secrets aren't secrets when shared.
My panic rising, I parted my pussy lips and massaged my clitoris with my fingertip. The sensations were heavenly, and I wondered why I'd not before thought of masturbating while Tony was away. Sensing my juices trickling between my inner lips, I ran my finger down my crack to my vaginal entrance. Dragging the slippery fluid up my sex valley, I lubricated my clitoris and resumed my rhythmical caressing.
Raising my left leg, I reached beneath my thigh with my free hand and slipped two fingers into my hot and very wet vagina. Guilt used to overwhelm me when I used the candle and thought of my grandmother, and now I felt guilt as I thought of Tony. But I desperately needed the relief that orgasm brings. If I were to live a normal life, carry on with my art, I needed orgasms daily.
My clitoris pulsating beneath my vibrating fingertip, my vagina tightening around my thrusting fingers, I began to gasp, imagining Tony on top of me, his penis penetrating me. Quivering uncontrollably, massaging my clitoris faster, I came. Waves of pure sexual ecstasy crashing over my naked body, I whimpered my pleasure, fingering myself faster, harder. On and on the incredible sensation rolled, touching every nerve ending, tightening every muscle.
I wanted Tony's penis in my thirsty mouth, sperming - I wanted the candle deep inside my yearning pussy, thrusting. My clitoris throbbing in orgasm, my pussy drenched with my juices, I continued my self-loving, revelling in the waves of ecstasy, gasping in my sexual delirium.
Masturbating alone in my bed, memories flooded back - nights of forbidden pleasure. I needed my candle, my dildo. Never had I thought I'd rediscover that pleasure, never had I thought that masturbation would become a necessity!
The ripples of sex waning, I slowly massaged my receding clitoris, gently fingered my aching pussy as I lay breathing deeply, trembling in my satisfaction. What Tony would say if he knew, I had no idea! But he wouldn't know, this was my secret - the key to fulfilment, to well-being.
Slipping my wet fingers out of my hot pussy, I closed my eyes, wondering whether I'd quelled the panic, the anxiety. Trembling, gasping, it wasn't easy to tell - I'd have to wait. Glancing at the clock, I climbed out of bed. Ten-thirty. Would Tony try ringing again? I'd speak to him the next time; tell him that I was OK.
My juices of orgasm trickled down my inner thighs as I wandered into the kitchen, sticky, warm. Filling the kettle, I gazed down at my naked body, my firm, well-rounded breasts, my long, sensitive nipples. The Blue Lady should have been naked. I should never have veiled her beautiful breasts in blue velvet, concealed her pussy. I'd do a painting of myself for Tony. Yes, a birthday present - me, naked on the canvas. He'd like that.
Taking the milk from the fridge, I began to breathe uneasily. My heart palpitating, my hands trembling, I sat at the table. Orgasm hadn't been the answer. I must have been mad to think that masturbation was the key to my problems. "That bloody hippy doctor!" I sobbed, hanging my head. If anything, I felt worse!
What was wrong with me? I wondered as I climbed the stairs with tears running down my face, foregoing my coffee. What the hell was wrong with me? See what happens? I'd murder Doctor bloody Harvey!
Chapter Two
Doctor Harvey would give it some thought; he'd said when I rang him the following morning in a state of sheer panic. I hadn't told him that I'd masturbated, I'd just said that I'd had sex and, if anything, it had made me feel worse. Give it some thought? I needed action, not thought!
Tony was due back that afternoon, which was a comforting thought. How I'd explain the Blue Lady, and why I'd not answered the phone, I had no idea. The phone had been out of order, and the painting... I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I hate crossing bridges, bridges built on lies.
But it would be nice to have Tony home again. My stomach somersaulted at the thought of his naked body, his arms around me, loving me - his penis deep inside my gripping vagina. Sex - I pondered on the word. Was there something beside orgasm that I might be addicted to? No, of course there wasn't, the idea was crazy!
I spent the morning pacing the studio floor and wandering around the garden, trying to calm myself, trying to relax. But I found no inspiration, no peace, no solace. The longer Tony was away, the worse I felt, and I thanked God that his trips were only for a week at a time.
I was pleased when Doctor Harvey rang me after lunch. Pleased that he was taking an interest, at least - until he told me of another wild theory that his cannabis-blown mind had come up with.
"Sperm, Mrs Hunter," he said in his forthright manner.
"Sperm?" I echoed, wondering what the madman was talking about.
"Going through my notes, I noticed that a very prominent part of your sex life is fellatio. Do you swallow your husband's sperm?"
"I... yes, yes I do," I replied hesitantly. Salty, nice.
"It's possible that you're addicted to sperm, Mrs Hunter."
"Addicted to... I really can't believe that!" I returned. Good God, if anyone needed a psychiatrist, he did!
"Did you have oral sex last night?" he asked unashamedly.
Did you? I wondered. "Er... no, no I didn't," I replied sheepishly. Where was my candle?
"Try it. Sperm contains various substances, vitamins, nutrients... it contains enzymes, proteins acting as catalysts in biochemical reactions. Brain chemistry, Mrs Hunter."
"Yes, but..."
"Testosterone is a steroid androgen formed in the testicles. The sudden deficiency of enzymes or testosterone that you've become so used to might well be having an effect upon your brain chemistry, causing anxiety and panic attacks. I did hear of a similar case some years ago, although I don't know what the outcome was."
"Thank you, I'll try it," I said, just to get rid of the idiot.
Standing before the Blue Lady, I shook my head. "Sperm," I muttered, my hands trembling, my chest tight. "Can you believe it?" Veiling her face with the cloth, I decided not to show Tony the mess I'd made of her eyes. I had to pull myself together, I thought, gazing at my trembling fingers. I'd done nothing while Tony had been away, I had to pull myself together and complete the painting!
Sperm? Enzymes, testosterone... I'd been swallowing Tony's sperm for years, when had I become addicted? Thinking back, not a week had passed without me taking him into my mouth and sucking him to orgasm. The thought of his glans sperming in my thirsty mouth sent a pulse of pleasure through my clitoris. My arousal was soaring.
Climbing the narrow stairs to the attic, I switched the light on, breathing in the scent of time - age, musk. Little boxes, where was my once-treasured little box? Dildo, a strange word, I mused, searching through a tea chest. Dildo. There it was, the long red box. Lifting the lid, I gazed at the white candle, ran my fingertips over its smooth surface, recalling my teens - I'd imagined it to be a penis, as real as any penis. I used to imagine many things when I masturbated.
Standing with my feet parted, I bent my knees and pulled my damp panties to one side, unveiling my vaginal lips, my open sex hole. Taking the candle, I placed the rounded end between my swelling labia, parting my inner sex folds. As I twisted and pushed the shaft, it entered me, stretching my inner flesh, filling me - memories flooding me, drowning me
I needed to come, but my heart was beating wildly, my hands trembling - I needed sex. Pushing the candle fully home, the end pressing gently against my cervix, I pulled my panties over the protruding shaft, holding it there, deep inside my aching vagina.
Descending the stairs, the beautiful sensations emanating from my bloated pussy sending tingles up my spine, my clitoris throbbed expectantly. But I couldn't masturbate. My breathing fast, shallow, I was in no fit state to concentrate
on masturbation, to enjoy orgasm. Later, I decided, when I felt better - if I felt better.
Tony arrived at three that afternoon. My secret was in its secret box beneath my bed, wet, vagina-wet - sex-wet. Fortunately, Tony didn't question me when I told him about the phone; he was more interested in my state of health, my unhealthy state. I'd done my best with my makeup and hair, but I looked haggard, tired. A rag doll, ragged.
I tried to explain my condition away by telling him that I'd not been sleeping properly, which didn't sound particularly convincing, especially as I was obviously having difficulty breathing. He frowned, noticing my trembling hands.
"I think you should go and see John," he said concernedly, his dark eyes catching mine. "You don't look right to me."
"I'm fine!" I lied with a little chuckle. I'd never lied to him before. "I'm just tired, that's all."
"How's the Blue Lady?"
"Er... almost done." Another lie. "I'll show you when it's finished."
Gazing at his bulging trousers as he stood before me in the kitchen, I pondered on Doctor Harvey's ludicrous theory. Sperm? Mad though the notion was, it was worth trying. I was in a terrible state, and it was becoming pretty obvious to Tony that there was something wrong with me other than tiredness. My heart beating wildly, my vision blurring, I was prepared to try anything!
Kneeling before him, I tugged his zip down and hauled his magnificent penis out, his pizzle, his candle. "You're keen!" he chuckled as I pulled his foreskin back and engulfed his purple plum in my hot mouth, fervently sucking and licking. Juices of arousal oozed from my vagina, wetting my panties, as I took his swollen glans to the back of my throat.
"Mmm," I moaned through my nose, savouring his salty glans as I hurriedly unbuckled his belt and tugged his trousers down. His balls hung heavy, full - sperm-laden.
"You're very keen!"
Sucking, mouthing, cupping Tony's fraught balls in my hand, I again pondered on the doctor's theory. If it was true, and I was addicted to something in sperm, what would I do the next time Tony went away? I could always keep a little bottle in the freezer. No, the concept was ridiculous! The proof of the pudding's in the eating, I mused - in the drinking.