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Sex Week: a glaring omission from the global calendar at large if I ever saw one. Nonetheless, we shall continue the slightly sweaty festivities right here, if not by means of an internationally syndicated broadcast of an annual Sex Week parade in New York.

There are two incidents from my past which immediately spring to mind on the subject of sex. The loss of my virginity at age fifteen to a paedophile who, over the course of one month, methodically raped me with his dirty-old-man companions leaving me with acute paranoia and a devoid sense of trust, along with a mental condition which caused me to regress into panic attacks after I came close to anything resembling an orgasm - or, the drunken antics I got up to with my previous boyfriend, the hypnotherapist; who would hypnotise me into believing he had a impossibly collossal fifteen inch donger and then bonking me silly.

Given that there's not much room for lighthearted anecdote milage with the former, I shall proceed with the latter.

As I'm now in my first fully-blown relationship - two year anniversary in less than a week, thank you very much - I can easily observe in retrospect that any of my previous attempts at coupling up with another fella were completely laughable. I met the hynotherapist whilst living at my parent's house, although he lived in Melbourne - a good hour away.

Fortunately, the hypnotherapist's family owned a beach house in a town just ten minutes drive from where I lived. Every second weekend, he would pick me up in his Porsche (this impressed me no end - a man with money, and at only age 24!) and we'd zoom along the Great Ocean Road to the beach house.

Although every visit we made to the beach house seemed to follow a pre-set script, we still enjoyed ourselves immensely. The hypnotherapist was bi and didn't have much experience with guys - the only ones he had previously involved himself with were one night stands. He couldn't find any guys with anything too much in common with him.

Fortunately, we both had incredibly similar tastes in music - as soon as we arrived, we'd both produce the grab-bag of CD's we'd each selected for the weekend. Everything from Built to Spill to Fear Factory would pound out over the chilly deserted beach whilst we snuggled up inside and talked mostly about music all night.

It wasn't long before I asked him to hypnotise me - I was a little curious, and wasn't completely sure that I believed in the process. After some initial difficulty - it took him seven different hypnotising methods until I started drifting away - we managed to do some basic regression stuff, which was fun. I ensured he tape recorded it so I could listen to it afterwards.

As the alcohol flowed into each Saturday night, I soon asked him if he'd attempted to combine hypnotising someone with sexual activity. His eyes lit up, and he excitedly told me that in all his years of studying hypnotherapy, he'd never considered that.

Wouldn't it screw your mind up? I hesitantly asked. He assured me it wouldn't - as long as you didn't do anything violently disturbing (and that was pretty hard to do anyway, apparently), you'd escape with nothing but some crusty stains on your stomach at best.

With this knowledge in hand, I happily settled back on the bed as he drunkenly muttered his hypnotising mutters. I had no idea what he was about to spring on me, but when I came to he wasn't in the room.

Then he was. Naked. With an enormous, gigantic penis running down his inside thigh.

Blinking in amazement, my mouth made an 'O' shape as I was sure he'd damage at least one of my internal organs with that thing... then I quickly realised what was going on - he'd hypnotised me into thinking he had a fifteen inch knob, and I laughed myself silly. The pee-pee became a regular doodle once again.

The whole incident struck me as quite hilarious, and the hypnotherapist smirked as if he'd known all along it probably wouldn't work. 'If something seems just too impossible, it just won't work,' he taught me. 'Same goes for trying to hypnotise someone into doing something they're really against - it just won't happen.'

'So try something cool that'll work,' I prompted on our next trip to the beach house. 'You choose.'

Off I drifted into nothingworld, and when I came to, who was lying on the bed wearing nothing but a grin but Robb Flynn, singer of Machine Head and my personal sex obsession.

So for one night, I mounted Robb Flynn. I fucked a celebrity, in my own little head. After the hypnotherapist and I broke up (he admitted he was far more interested in some girl he'd met, and our weekends were nothing more than his 'man fix'), it struck me just how unusual the relationship could have been.

A relationship with a steady stream of random, hunky celebrities... well, it's not as bad as it sounds.