It was time to pay another visit to my invaluable therapist Dr Melissa Flinch. There was a nagging problem I needed to discuss with her."Melissa" I began, as I sank into the luxuriously upholstered armchair amid the jungle of pot plants, "I'm puzzled. Men are supposed to be obsessed with sex and pornography. They're said to be constantly distracted by the thought of beautiful women they could be in bed with. That's why they have so many accidents and screw-ups all the time. They just don't have their mind on the job."
"And does that apply to you, Nick?"
"Absolutely not. I don't think of sex much at all. I think a lot more about food and coffee and books and useless politicians and washing-up. I find porn really boring, I've never bought a porn mag in my life. I don't care when I last got my rocks off. Does that mean I'm not a real man, Melissa?"
"Is there any such thing as a real man, Nick? And why would you want to be one? Does it matter if you're effeminate?"
I plucked an oatmeal and cinnamon cookie from the bowl. "Personally I'm quite happy to be effeminate. But all those hunky, thrusting men out there, all thinking non-stop about sex, they embarrass me. They assume I'm as horny as they are, that I share their fixation with busty blondes. If I said I was more interested in lemon drizzle cake or reducing poverty or Dexter Dalwood's paintings, they'd think I was lacking something. They'd think I was a traitor to my sex, a party-pooper. So I just keep quiet."
"And do you think you're a traitor to your sex?"
"Not at all. I've never identified with other men. I don't understand them and I don't understand masculinity. I feel far more comfortable with women. Their take on life is more like my own. Why should that be?"
"Sorry, Nick, your time is up. Love your lipstick, by the way. Is it L'Oreal?"
I gave her the tube and made off down the windy, deserted street. I'm not sure she helped me very much.
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