I often hear women complain that men don't think enough. Me? I've always had the opposite problem. I think too much. This causes no trouble much of the time. Now, as I write these words, it's an asset, of course. But in the bedroom? It's a major liability. I'll give you an example. I remember once finding myself in bed with a scrumptious babe who was quite up-front about her needs. "Ooh, Matty!" she gushed. "Fuck me six ways to Sunday!" I turned the offer down. See, I could only think of three: doggie, missionary and the one where the woman is on top. Besides, it was Monday. I couldn't afford to take a whole week off work. "You're too much in your head," she complained. "Too intellectual." "Me, an intellectual?" I scoffed. "Not at all. I like to think of myself as a bacchanalian, gormandising sybarite, actually." I had another thought: "And I think the word you were looking for is 'pedantic'. Er, but I'm not sure... Let me just get my thesaurus." By the time I returned she was getting dressed. "Don't go!" I pleaded. "I don't want to blow it." Her eyes lit up. She licked her lips. "But I do..." Devastated, I replied, "Well if that's how you feel about me, let's call the whole thing off!" Many such sexual disasters followed. But finally I met a woman who really understood me. Her name was Valerie. She was from England, doing post-grad studies on an exchange program here in Australia. She was an organic chemist. Extremely organic, as I was to find out... We met at a public seminar on nuclear fission. The chemistry between us was ferocious -- even stronger than that described by the lecturer! We ended up back at her unit. Sidling up to me on her couch she said, "You're quite brainy. That's sexy." Chuffed, but still a bit baffled, I asked why. "Well, the brain is the sexiest organ of the body." I recoiled in disgust. "You think so? But it's all squishy, grey and wrinkly. Yuck!" A little tetchily she replied, "I meant the imagination." "Phew! For a minute there I thought you were a real weirdo." "Your problem is that you take things literally. Me? I take them clitorally." This made me nervous. And when I get nervous I talk --usually about the "big stuff". "Er, do you think life has meaning?" I asked. "Yes," she said, taking off her blouse and bra. "And sex certainly does." "Really? I always thought the opposite; that it was just a primal drive." She whispered in my ear, "Exactly. That is its meaning: that it's completely meaningless." The significance of this paradox impressed me. "Wow, you're deep!" I gushed. She nodded. "I am. And if you throw me that extra-long dildo on the shelf behind you I'll show you just how deep..." And show me she did. I finally managed to cast off my inhibitions -- and my clothes. But as we writhed naked on the couch anxiety struck yet again. "So, do you think existence precedes essence?" I blurted. "I don't care. But I do like it when cunnilingus precedes coitus!" I became even more talkative. Valerie took it in her stride: she shoved my head between her legs. "Keep that tongue flapping! I'm listening." Though my speech was muffled somewhat, I had my say and she had her orgasm. It was a win-win situation. Yep, Valerie and I really did have a meeting of minds -- and other bits (mostly the other bits). After six weeks she had to return to England. But she had affected me permanently. Thanks to Valerie I still think too much. But now I think too much about sex. And that's a different kind of problem, of course