Let's Talk About Sex

I was more than a little excited to read that David Duchovny - the hunk of X-Files and Californication fame - has been admitted to 'rehab' for sex addiction (excited because I'm clearly not getting out enough). I've already sent the email reading Dear David, I live at...

Firstly, in my best Peter Kay impersonation, sex addict? Sex? Addict? Is that when a weary wife tells her rampant husband (because lets face it, it's mostly men isn't it), "Get that thing away from me, you're always after it you are, you need to book yourself into therapy for sex addiction"?

Does that not give wives carte blanche to drag their lustful husbands to the nearest rehab clinic, throw him through the doors (if they can manouvre him through the doorway) and go home to a mug of cocoa and a good book for a few days respite?

Or viewed another way, will men the world over throw up their hands in glee and cry, "I can't help it, I'm a sex addict!", absolving themselves of all responsibility for humping the secretary, the cleaner and a rather stunned gardener who just happened to bend over at the wrong time, all before lunch?

People around the country, around the world, are thinking 'Oh I'd better not make a pass tonight, they might have me committed.'

And if everyone who likes sex to whatever extent were 'cured', population numbers would drop and mankind would, presumably, start to look a bit berluddy miserable.

How, exactly, do you treat sex addiction?

Apparently, 'sufferers' receive psychotherapy ("You vill not look at de vomen! You vill not bonk de vomen!") and group meetings ("I like sex." "Yeah, me too." "And me.")

They're also given anti-depressants which apparently decrease libido - so you'd have no sex drive, but you wouldn't feel that bad about it. There's no mention of bromide, which seems a bit remiss.

At what point, exactly, would you be considered to be a sex addict? Is three times a week deemed too much? And who is to say it's too much?

Is the government, at this very moment, drawing up new legislation and preparing to send out inspectors to raid bedrooms at any time of the night or day? ("We understand you've bonked four times this week, that's six points on your licence and an increase in your council tax. Would you mind putting that thing away, sir.")

And if Big Brother is watching, wouldn't he be laughing his socks off most of the time? I mean, face it, we're not all film or porn stars, most of us look like we're playing Twister on our backs, yelling things like "Argh! My arm!" or "I can't feel my leg!"

They say it's a bit like alcohol addiction ("Bonk before dinner, darling?"), but if you had a choice between all the addictions - be it nicotine, alcohol, drugs, Mahjong - wouldn't sex be the one you'd choose? "Hello, my name is Brian and I'm a sex addict," would certainly make for entertaining conversation and give you no end of street cred.

As Mr Duchovny enters the clinic for treatment (wailing They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no! NO!), women everywhere will shake their heads and mutter, "Tsk, men!"

Men will no doubt group-hug in a really manly way and cry, "Go on my son!"

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