Veena/Wednesday, 19th April

Phil is a pig.

I wrote that first thing this morning. I’ve calmed down now.

I phoned Fiona this afternoon, just for some reassurance. Seems I’ve been playing this totally wrong. I shouldn’t be encouraging Phil, I should be playing the ice-maiden. We’re supposed to revert to our teenage years, yes, but I’m supposed to be guarding my precious virginity and fighting him off, not defying him to get more finger in. What Fiona doesn’t know is that it never happened in reality.

From the moment I decided Phil was the one, I have offered him no resistance at all. Yes, I’ve snogged a few guys over the years, and played a bit of touchy feely, but Phil’s the only one I’ve done the full dirty deed with.

I probably stand out like a mutant in this day and age, but that’s the way it is.

So, if Phil does get the horn through denial, and I then start fending him off, the poor bugger’s going to be even more confused than before, and the chances of him achieving a solid erection, like he used to, fall to zero.

I didn’t tell Fiona this, which I suppose was wrong of me. I didn’t want to be stigmatised as a woman who’d never slept around.

So, what do I do tonight? There are several options-

(a) We both turn away from each other and fall asleep, like any ordinary night.

(b) Phil’s horny and comes on to me and I play along. (Throwing Fiona’s therapy out of the window.) (c) Phil’s horny and comes on to me and I knock him back, denting his confidence totally.

(d) I am horny and come on to Phil and he knocks me back. (Is he just obeying Fiona’s instructions or does he no longer love me, as I have suspected for some time?) This doesn’t bear thinking about.

Just thinking it is terrible, but I hope Roddy’s got a sore tummy tonight.

Phil/Tuesday, 18th April

Well, young Roddy threw a spaniel in the works by deciding to have a sore gut and wanting to sleep with his mammy, so I was demoted to his room.

Considered indulging myself in some manual petting on a solo basis (permitted by Frau Fuhrer Buchan as far as I know) but decided it wouldn’t really be right in the kid’s bed.

Had a very strange dream, and I want to get it down on paper before it flees from memory.

There was a girl I fancied at primary school, Sheena Gray. She had orangey brown hair, a hint of freckles on her cheeks and an upturned nose. We were 10 years old and it was first love time, frantically trying to be with each other, but denying it to all our mates to avoid a slagging. I desperately wanted to do something to her, but I wasn’t quite sure what. I haven’t thought about her or seen her in over 25 years, since my dad moved us away from Knightswood.

I don’t know what brought her to mind, maybe it was sleeping in Roddy’s bed, we’d have been about his age.

Anyway, she wasn’t a kid anymore, but a full-blown woman, walking down the street. I was driving past, saw her, and slammed on the anchors. I jumped out of the car and walked up to her. She cocked her head to one side a little and lifted an eyebrow, just like she used to when I tried to get her into the garden shed.

“Sheena?” I asked, and she nodded slowly.

“It’s me, Phil.” I was practically jumping up and down.

“Phil?”

“Phil Wilson. I was at school with you. Primary school. Knightswood. Didn’t have a moustache then”

She nodded slowly again, I could see her eyes racing back to the time. She’d grown into a stunner with long legs and a lazy smile. In reality she was just that slice above pretty, but a woman who knows she’s got it, and

all the more horn-provoking because of it.

Now her face broke into the lazy smile. “I remember you, you used to try and kiss me all the time.”

I grabbed her hand. “Yeah, and sometimes you used to let me.”

She laughed and pulled me towards her. “You’ll be wanting a shag then?”

That’s it. That’s all there was to it. Nothing happened. I woke up. But it was something sexual and I’ve dutifully noted it down.

I had an erection that was harder than the Chinese alphabet.

Veena/Tuesday, 18th April

Fiona’s celibacy dictum seems to have the blessing of the fates. Roddy wanted to come into our bed as he had a sore tummy, so Phil went through to Roddy’s room. Phil didn’t have my trim, sensuous body to tempt him, much to his relief, no doubt, and I got a full night of Roddy’s elbows and knees. But he felt fine this morning and went off to school.

Half day at work, so had long lunch with Kate. Wanted to talk to her before complaining to Fiona. Kate says this ‘Beyond The Beast’ therapy is frightfully effective. The ‘forbidden fruit’ bit is so obvious to us, but men just don’t understand it because they’re such babies. It doesn’t take much to get them to revert to their teenage years of groping, fumbling, and desperation.

“Expect a permanent stiffy and premature ejaculation!” Kate announced proudly, which was a bit awkward as

we were just being served our soup at that very moment. It was only a pub lunch but I could swear the barman reddened.

Kate then went on to reel off some anti-man one-liners she’s obviously been saving up.

Here are the ones I remember -

Men are like lava lamps - fun to look at, but not all that bright!

Men are like snowstorms - you never know when they’re coming, how many inches you’ll get, or how long they’ll last!

Men are like cement - after getting laid, they take a long time to get hard!

I laughed like a drain. Kate is in charge of herself, no doubt about it, and it’s all down to Fiona, so I’ve got to give her some trust.

Kate has found her G-Spot.

Phil/Monday, 17th April

Well, that was a turn up for the books. At our meeting this evening Old Fifi told us to stop doing it altogether.

I knew it would come to this, what does an old boot like Fifi know about sex? Let’s face it, with a coupon and a body like hers the last time she got laid was when the bow and arrow was a secret weapon.

Anyway, she’s given us a sheet of paper with a list of do’s and don’ts. We are allowed to kiss, including tongues, I may add; and we are allowed to sleep in the same bed. Manual petting is permitted, but there is to be no oral/genital or genital to genital contact. ‘Genital to genital contact’? That’s called shagging, you daft bugger, even kids know that, so why not just say it. ‘Cause then you wouldn’t be able to charge exorbitant fees, isn’t that right, Ms Mind-Fucker?

Anyway, Veena’s usually quite happy with just a kiss and a cuddle, so there’ll be no problems there. But what if there’s a mad rush of blood to Willie-Boy’s head? It’s going to take more than a piece of paper to stop him enjoying his conjugal rights, and I’m sure every court in the land would support me on that one. Especially if the judge’s a man.

This could be an interesting night.

Veena/Monday, 17th April

Is the woman mad?

I argued for weeks with Phil. I finally took us both to the doctor’s for a general check-up. We’re fine for our age. Then I argued for more weeks before he’d agree to go and see Fiona with me. And now she tells us she wants us to stop making love? Listen, idiot, we’re not screwing anyway, that’s why we consulted you.

I’m not daft. I know this could be some kind of ‘forbidden fruit’ theory, hoping that Phil will jump my bones once he knows he’s not supposed to, but she doesn’t know Phil. This just gives him an excuse to fall asleep.

And snore. And fart.

What happens to a man’s intestinal tract once he’s married? During even a long and protracted courtship it is the very pinnacle of decency and gentility. The minute the keys of the marital home are turned, his guts turn putrid.

I’m digressing. The fact of the matter is that Phil, being an obstreperous bastard, will not perform according to Fiona’s dictate, and I will remain unshagged. With regard to manual stimulation being sanctioned, I have no interest in having Phil rubbing my fanny for half the night searching for an elusive orgasm. I’m better at it myself, and he knows it, which is why he doesn’t bother.

I will repair to the bath before bed tonight and give myself a damn good soapy seeing-to, and then I can turn over and fall asleep exhausted. Tomorrow I will phone Fiona and speak to her privately.

Veena/Sunday 16th April

No time for a diary entry yesterday, I’m afraid, because Roddy was in one of his states. Still complaining about a sore tummy, and didn’t even want to go to football. I think I’ll need to take him to the doctor for a check-up.

I just hope this isn’t some kind of symptom he’s displaying as a result of watching his parents row. Dr Adams

is a fine man and a good quack, but he’s known all my family far too long for me to admit any troubles to him.

On the sexual front we have had no advances from Mr Wilson, and any I have made have been rebuffed. On Friday, I admit, he was tired and so was I, it’d been a long week at school. So we went to bed early - to sleep.

Yesterday was difficult, of course, with Roddy being in all day, but Phil started drinking at lunchtime and collapsed into bed shortly after he’d had his dinner around 8.30. He spent the day watching TV till his pals,Willie and Al, turned up, and then proceeded to listen to David Bowie albums at a ferocious volume while playing poker. It is hard to feel romantically inclined towards a man who plays along to Panic In Detroit on air guitar in front of people I regard as relative strangers.

Why does he mix with these people?

Veena and Phil are a nice, intelligent, couple, in their late 30s, married for sixteen years, who are experiencing some relatively minor problems. Veena believes Phil has lost interest in her sexually and their frequency of intercourse has certainly decreased in the past year. Veena also believes that Phil has difficulty gaining and maintaining an erection, though Phil denies this.

They have begun keeping diaries logging libidinous activity, on my recommendation, and hopefully this will make them more aware of where their problems stem from.

However I am moving to intervention at an early stage because I believe their problems can be quickly solved with a confrontational approach. As they were childhood sweethearts I am therefore imposing enforced celibacy for a very limited period. This is a variation on Hoerdigger’s ‘Beyond The Beast’ Therapy, and I fully believe that within a few days they will be, in the vernacular, ‘gagging for it’.

Phil/Friday, 14th April

Ha bloody ha! A sex diary? As if I haven’t got enough to do all day. It’s all right for Veena, she can ponce about at the school and scribble at her desk when she’s told the kids to get their heads down. But I’m in a job where the bosses don’t appreciate you finding your inner-self on their time. Plus which, if any of the guys saw me punching my laptop at lunchtime they’d think I was sucking in with the company, and if I told them what I was really doing I’d be a laughing stock, which is something you can make at home with an Oxo cube and a joke book.

But, just to please Veena and prove that I do care about our relationship I’ll go along with this nonsense.

The bold Fiona Buchan says, “It doesn’t matter who reads the diary, what matters is that you write it.” But writing stuff that nobody’s going to read smacks to me of masturbation, and I haven’t had a wank since ... oh

.... 9.30 this morning.

Anyway, I’m making a broad declaration right now, if only to myself, I do NOT have a problem in the trouser department!

Phil/Saturday, 15th April

Veena brought a book back from school - Hints & Tips on Keeping a Diary or Journal.

Is she trying to tell me something?


Seems I’m to write stuff as if somebody will read it, including my thought processes and reasoning etc., as this helps clarify things. If Fiona Buchan thinks she’s going to turn my personal musings into a research paper or thesis she’s got another think coming. Once this farce is over every file is getting deleted. Hold on, I’m sure I read that the FBI can recover deleted files. Okay, once this is over I’m throwing this laptop in the bin. Then I’ll burn it. Then I’ll bury the ashes. Then I’ll tell the company it was stolen.

Okay, here goes.

What this therapy lark is all about is me being tired. Nothing more complicated than that. Veena doesn’t seem to realise that I’m not a teenager anymore. Or that I have a very physically demanding job, which she doesn’t.

I’m up and down ladders and scaffolding all day, frequently lifting heavy bits of kit. When I get home I’m wasted. All I want to do is kick off my shoes and put my feet up. And, yes, sometimes when it gets to the bedroom stakes I’m too tired for nooky now and again, and anybody with any sense of justice would understand that.

Apart from the tiredness I’m perfectly fine and healthy. All my parts are in perfect working order. I still behave like all the other guys and ogle passing girls. I whistle and make lewd comments, fulfilling my role as a sexual predator.

There is no connection or comparison between that and Veena’s complaints.

Whistling requires little physical exertion, whereas what she expects of me requires a great deal, especially if you’re doing it right with all the bells and whistles, special effects and in 3D. I don’t love the girls I leer at. I don’t want to marry them. I don’t even want to have sex with them. But I do love Veena, I did marry her, and I do want to have sex with her.

I’ve tried to explain this to her, but she usually responds by saying I shouldn’t be tired at weekends then, and why don’t we have a little orgy to ourselves. Because I take a drink to relax at the weekends, I say, and of course that’s the start of another barney about my excess drinking. Do you deal with alcohol abuse, Ms Buchan, or are your interests exclusively in the nether regions?

So, bottom line. I work hard to give my wife and son a decent life. I don’t like grief. What’s so wrong with that?