Ah, now I know what’s wrong. It’s sex addiction

I have just been reading an article in The Independent which explains something that has been dogging me (if you’ll excuse the pun) all my life.

I am suffering from sex addiction. You can read about my sad state in http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-wellbeing/features/sex-addiction-the-facts-from-the-fruity-fiction-817896.html.

This discovery has come as a huge relief to me (if you’ll excuse another pun) after over 50 years of pain. It all started at my prep school, doctor, when I discovered the joys of mutual masturbation, pretty much by accident.

The first time I came I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Some terrible urge I couldn’t resist made me want to repeat the sickening experience – not just once, but many times. I found that pictures of ladies who had forgotten to get dressed made it even more fun.

It seems, according to researchers who want to study something sexy, that 3 to 6% of the population suffer from this appalling condition, most are male, and it’s not doing their marriages much good. It also seems that by coincidence many, probably most addicts are very rich, famous and have just been found out by their wives.

Michael Douglas was one famous case I recall. What could possibly have led him to fall for Catherine Zeta Jones? Sex addiction. Tony Curtis, who once tried to pinch my beautiful second wife’s pert little derriere had problems too, I think. And although the researchers say it seems to afflict males mainly, I wonder whether the Danish film actress who, one night years ago when I was still attractive, grabbed my crotch, was just a helpless addict, poor thing. I also know two girls whose hobby used to be seeing how many blow jobs they could give to helpless males.

This dire problem has been around for a long, long time. There is the case of King David and Bathsheba in the Bible, for instance. Solomon in his wisdom even wrote a song about it. Come to think about it, what about Potiphar’s wife?

Every time I go to my dentist in Harley Street I look at a picture of the Victorian Prime Minister, Gladstone, who used to live in the house, and recall that he had a compulsion to go and spend time helping prostitutes, the saintly fellow. I am glad I have been too cheap to bother except once years ago when drunk in the Rue St. Denis.

This made me reflect on another politician suffering from an addiction. The former Deputy Prime Minister of this country Mr. John Prescott has revealed just before his biography comes out that he was suffering from bulimia when he was so signally failing to do an even halfway good job.

That explains everything. He was not, as we all thought, a flabby, lazy, greedy , utterly useless, overpaid bully who never achieved anything useful; and he surely wasn’t hoping to arouse a flicker of interest in his wretched apology for a life story, was he? No, the fat bastard was suffering.

The symptoms of sex addiction are painful, but easily spotted – a constant desire to get into bed with attractive women, often more than one at a time if possible; looking at girls constantly; thinking about sex every few seconds; a keen interest in pornography – which again, seems to have been around since ancient times – and so on.

If you are male and suffer from these symptoms, make your way quietly and without fuss to a therapist. Most large cities have them. If you are a woman and even vaguely attractive, don’t worry, most males will oblige after three drinks. That’s the way they are – helpful.

Maybe these poor addicts are just bored with what they get at home. Maybe it is because of the phenomenon other researchers have discovered, that women tend to go off sex when it isn’t linked to reproduction. Who knows?

Actually, come to think of it, I am surprised this problem only afflicts such a small percentage of males, as practically every man I know seems to be battling with it one way or another. Maybe I just have the wrong kind of friends.

I am obviously a curious case – the other day after I’d been making a speech in Earl’s Court a striking young lady came up to me and told me she enjoyed my helpful marketing idea which she found sexy. I must have misheard or the subject has depths I was unaware of.

I am just grateful that I am not addicted to heroin, train-spotting, golf, football, poker, politics or buying shoes – though I do love a pair of high heels.

Anyhow, I have learned to live with my addiction, and I don’t moan about it because I am not rich and famous and am extremely happy with my present domestic arrangements, thank you. And actually, I rather enjoy thinking about sex all the time.

As my late father in law, Lee V. Richardson used to say to his wife, “Girl, you start worrying when I stop looking.”