I participated fully in the sexual revolution: a time when making love was like shaking hands and a one night stand was called “hanging out”. My sex life began under the stage at a youth club; by art college, I’d had my first threesome (with two sisters). I had also started to realise that I had a bit of a problem.
I suffered from severe premature ejaculation, which meant that most of my relationships were as short as the sex. My doubts about my ability to satisfy affected how I approached romance and I struggled to find ways to cope. The worst way was to be dismissive. After one brief incident, I remember getting up laughing – and being called a bastard. It was the only way I could think to avoid the usual “I’m really sorry” speech that accompanied my encounters.
After a while, I was unable even to flirt without imagining the looks of disappointment and occasional anger that were to come.
“I’ve got a problem” isn’t the best chat-up line, so I ended up where you didn’t need one – Mykonos in the 70s. Years of holiday romances, two lovely children and one divorce followed before I met a doctor who prescribed prostaglandin – a painful injection that gives anything from a two- to five-hour erection. Finally, I could relax and take the time needed to satisfy my partners (while attempting to camouflage my quick succession of orgasms). I was free at last – free to discover that sex isn’t everything. Released from the cycle of hope, disappointment and guilt, I was able to stop fixating on sex and experience real love. We have now been married for 14 years.
•Each week, a reader tells us about their sex life. Want to share yours? Email sex@theguardian.com
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