I suppose you could put me in the same special sub-category as Debbie: erotic pleasure. My creator is Ms. Hannah Mosely, née Jones, a divorcée. I came into being one lonely night when she was unable to sleep and had only her vibrator for company. At the time she was ovulating and she conceived me as an incredibly handsome stud: six foot something, broad shoulders, rippling muscles, auburn hair and sapphire blue eyes. For good measure she gave me a dimple in my left cheek.

My main characteristic of course is that I am madly in love with her, dedicated to her pleasure and, unlike her ex-husband, completely faithful. In return I have complete insight into her mind and know just what her wants and needs are at all times. Sometimes the cruel streak in my personality comes through. I slap her down, treat her like dirt and call her a slut. All I can say is don’t blame me. What Hannah wants is what Hannah gets.

Sometimes she just wants a hug and reassurance, and for me to listen to her account of her day. She’s a fashion writer for a woman’s magazine and it’s a world where the bitchy putdown is high art. Mind you, Hannah is well able to give as good as she gets but the strain tells. Being able to unload it all on to me is good therapy for her.

At other times she wants to be kissed and caressed. Her lips and her breasts are sensitive areas and a good starting point. She likes me to tease her when I stroke her thighs, slowly getting closer to the key points but drawing it out for minutes after she wants me there. And yes, I am able to bring her to orgasm. How? You know that the brain is the centre of sexual arousal and that is where I work.

There are some secret areas of her brain to which she denies herself access. I’ve peeped in there and didn’t like what I saw. That’s a part of her that is not for me.

I confess that I’m not always her handsome fearless stud. Sometimes, especially in the week before her periods, Hannah likes me to morph into what it pleases her to call her gentle lover and I would call androgynous wimp. My body becomes slender and softer, my eyes turn to a soulful brown and my normally short hair becomes long and flowing. At such times she puts upon me all the shortcomings of all the men in her life, past and present, and gives me hell. I suffer until her period starts. Then she likes me to be all tender and reassuring toward her. It’s a relief when she has her end-of-period bath and puts the tampon box away in her bathroom cabinet.

How come I am so real for her? She’s slightly bi-polar. Not enough to stop her from being a functional citizen but enough to be able to see and hear and sometimes even feel me. As a consequence of her bi-polarity I’m a mixture of her conscious and her sub-conscious minds so she can’t always control me.

The bi-polarity comes from sniffing that famous derivative of the coca plant. If she’d lay off the stuff I would be less real and she’d be healthier. Then again her job would probably give her a nervous breakdown. Having to take the ephemeral puffery of fashion seriously is enough to drive anyone round the bend.

Oddly, fashion is a field where feminist theory has had so little influence. Femtheory has changed our laws, our language and corporate salary scales but all it has achieved in fashion is to assert the right of women to parade around as rape bait. Guys like it so that’s why women do it but it undermines most of the theory.

My apologies for the digression there. It comes from having been conceived in a woman’s mind and not her womb. I admit to certain female traits – like rambling on, following a chain of thought where one idea links to another. Heck! I’ve had to listen to enough of it from Hannah. I suppose a mild taste for gossip comes from the same cause.

Lately I’ve achieved a new level of reality. Hannah has been writing stories about me. It isn’t proper fiction for publishing. She’s discovered that writing down her fantasies turns her on and is a pleasant way to spend an otherwise lonely evening. Putting me on to paper, or at least a hard disk, has concretised me to something more than a thought in her mind.

Not that there is anything less real about being a thought in a mind. George Bush had a thought in his mind about invading Iraq and look at the consequences of that. Likewise every person who has ever planted physical feet upon this Earth started off as a randy thought in some chap’s mind. Sometimes pure thought can be a very real thing, even a dangerous thing. Not that I’m dangerous of course. I’m custom made to be a lover and that’s more than any physical man can say.

Now I’m in trouble. Hannah let a friend of hers read a story that she had written about me. Beryl liked the story and did with it exactly what it was written for. She confided that to Hannah and now Hannah is jealous. I had no business making love to Beryl. I’m just a typical unfaithful bastard, like all other men, etc. I know that Hannah does enjoy a good blazing row from time to time. I had to slap her face and actually induced a red welt on her cheek. I must be getting more real as time goes by. Hannah just burst into tears at my act of violence.

I suspect, even though I don’t quite understand, that at some level, and only at certain times, women actually want their man treat them rough. It reinforces his sexual power to them. And if he can pull another woman so easily, like I did Beryl, then he’s got to be attractive. It’s like sometimes they like their man to be a real bastard. I don’t know why and having explored her mind I know that she doesn’t understand it herself.

Hannah has finished her bath and armed her 38 year old self against the second law of thermodynamics. Not that she’s ever heard of that, she calls it ‘the ravages of time’ but it amounts to the same thing. Now she’s on her bed, nude, and is changing the batteries on her vibrator.

Duty calls. Gotta go.

Hannah, her needs met, is deep in contented sleep. For a few hours I cease to exist.

It’s been a bad day for Hannah. The pmt is severe this month. She’s quarrelled with everyone at work. She’s come home in a foul mood. It’s taken four strips of coke and a couple of stiff G & Ts to help her settle down.

When she’s in this state she can actually see me. Her brain Photoshops me into the images that her eyes send it. “You bastard. Where have you been?”

she asks me.

No reply is required.

“You’ve been with Beryl again, haven’t you?”

I say nothing.

“You smug, complacent bastard.” Her nostrils flare, her eyes narrow. God but she’s ugly when she’s like this. Her whole face is twisted with anger.

She knows my thoughts of course. They are merely her own.

“You think I’m ugly do you?”

She is imagining me in my wimp androgynous mode. I can only stand helpless as she staggers to her feet. She stumbles, I save her from a fall.

She grabs me. Her strength in this state is greater than mine. “I’ll show you ugly.”

In the bedroom the bed is still unmade and covers thrown back. She pushes me onto the bed. She strips me naked. None of it is the least bit sexy and I do not have an erection. She has the sharp scissors from her bedside table. in her hand

Her weight across my chest keeps me pinned to the bed. She holds my prick and balls in her left hand, pulling them away from my body. “I’ll show you ugly, you cheating asshole. ”

The scissors in her right hand sever my balls and prick in one quick, smooth movement, with astonishing ease.

My scream penetrates her anger but not her madness. She stares in horror at what she has done. My detached genitals are in her hand. Her muddled brain realises the horror of her deed. She sees the blood spurting out from my groin.

“Oh God!” She dials 911 and gives the details. She tries to stem the flow of blood with a towel. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Don’t leave me now, Flash, my darling. Stay alive, they’ll be here soon. I am so sorry.”

The paramedics arrive. “Thank God you’re here. Save him for me. Please.” She waves a hand at my now unconscious body on the blood soaked sheets of her bed.

The paramedics look at the clean white sheets. They look at each other. “What exactly is the problem ma’am?”

“Can’t you see? He’s bleeding to death. Do something.” Her voice is shrill.

The paramedics look at each other again. There is mutual understanding. One of them fills a syringe. Hannah looks reassured now that the paramedics are doing something.

The other paramedic leans over the bed. “Ma’am, just take a look here, please.”

Hannah takes a look, seeing my unconscious form on the bed. She subsides as the injection takes effect. The other paramedic puts her down on the bed. They get her on to the stretcher they brought with them. Together they carry her off.

For a moment I am puzzled. I only exist in a person’s mind so how come I am still self-aware?

Of course. Please excuse me but duty calls. Beryl needs me.

It’s handsome stud mode for Beryl but I’ll stay in wimp eunuch mode for Hannah. She’ll enjoy the guilt trip.

End