I was taking her hand down to her stomach to gently caress there. Very slowly, gently I moved under her and asked her if she could feel one of the men...playing with her had moved between her legs. By now my hand had slid under the thin elastic waistband of her night dress bottom and I told her that she was pulling the hand of the man near her pussy and wishing that he touched her there and then suddenly my hand glided over her shaved pubic mound and one of my finger went into her warm and wet. You derive comfort in any medical diagnosis that supports this theory of yours. And shallow optimism from chemicals designed to ‘correct’ this condition of mine. Madness? Perhaps. Powerful, certainly. But it’s no nameless force, no almighty independent power in itself. It is me. Part of me. All of me. By what right can you claim that a part of me that defines who I am is separate, an illness, a sore to be healed? I know what I feel. I know who I am. Can you say the same? Unlike you I can see. More

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