“I would.”

“What?”

“I would.” She gestured with her elbow to the TV on the wall, and then pointed at the miniature on-screen Robbie Williams miming to his music video. “I definitely would.”

“Really?” I watched the screen and wondered what Robbie might look like naked. Quite fit, I imagine.

She interrupted my train of thought. “But, it’d only be for one night – the guy has far too many issues for more than that.”

“How do you know?”

“He comes across like that in interviews” she replied, assuredly. “He seems like he’s got more than a few emotional problems.”

I decided not to comment on her assumption that interviews reflect ‘truth’ of any sort, and instead wondered to myself if supposed ‘emotional problems’ were what attracts me to certain men in the first place; their dark, insecure side, a fascinating balance to their outer, confident charm.

She broke me out of my momentary self-analysis. “Well he smokes anyway; a terrible chain smoker, so that would stop me wanting to get involved.”

I peered at the screen and screwed up my nose in mock disgust. “Yuck.”

She nodded. “Well, it’d only be for that one night, so I suppose I’d put up with him smelling a bit.”

I laughed. “I guess. But if I was going to fuck him, he’d better spend some serious time licking me, to make up for it.”

She giggled back and then resumed what she was doing.

“Ouch!” I held my breath and tried to control the pain.

“Sorry.” She rubbed my calf where she had ripped off the wax and smiled at me. “Almost finished.”

I focussed back on the TV, hoping it would take my mind off the fact that a complete stranger was tearing away the top layer of skin from my legs.

“So do you like men to be in their twenties like you?” she asked, presumably attempting to distract me from the pain.

I shook my head. “I’m not in my twenties” I replied, blushing slightly. “And younger men bore me. I like a guy to be a bit more experienced and worldly – in his mid-thirties preferably.”

“Oh, I thought you were in your twenties like me?” she said, confused.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

She continued to spread the wax over me. “Oh, well, if you don’t like younger blokes, what do you think of older men then?”

“Not much” I replied. “I prefer men my own age; give me a man in his thirties any day.”

“How about an older man like Rod Stewart? He’s still got it.”

I gritted my teeth, mostly from the pain, but also at the vomit-inducing thought of seeing Rod Stewart naked. “No thanks. Not my cup of tea at all.”

“Really?” she asked. “I think he’s sexy. I would, definitely. I’ve had a crush on him for years.”

I stayed silent. She continued ripping off my skin. “Come on, there must be one older man who you’d shag…”

“Hmm. OK then, if I had to: David Lynch.”

“Who?”

“The film director.”

She shrugged.

“Lost Highway, Blue Velvet, The Elephant Man…”

She looked at me like I was talking nonsense, and in my head I imagined slapping her hard with the palm of my hand to punish her for her ignorance. “The TV series Twin Peaks...”

She stared at me, still confused. I continued. “Well, anyway, I’d do him – but only because he’s so bloody intelligent and I love his work. He’s an amazing guy actually – really interesting to talk to.” I added, “And he gave me a hug once.”

She seemed unimpressed by my bragging and I gave up, attempting to ignore the fact that she was now pulling my vulva to one side and spreading hot wax in my nether regions.

As she tugged away, I tried to focus away from the impending agony soon to be felt between my legs. Then she ripped off the wax, and on the verge of tears, I continued the conversation. “There is one other older guy I’d shag. I know he’s ancient enough to be my father, but get David Bowie in a cat-suit and I’d jump him.”

“He’s quite nice” she agreed. She pulled my vulva to the other side and spread some more wax upon it. I bit my lip waiting for the pain, and flinched hard as she tugged away the wax.

“All done!” she said a moment later, somewhat too eagerly I thought.

I smiled at her, rejoicing that it was all over and I could finally take my poor throbbing pussy home. I was also relieved that I didn’t divulge that one of my wank-fodder-favourites - the thought of Ziggy Stardust being sucked off by Iggy Pop - was currently running through my mind.

Some things you just don’t share, particularly when it’s a fantasy about the glam-rock era and the person you are talking to wasn’t even born then. Plus, I've learned it's best not to let my imagination run away with me when someone happens to have their hands in my privates: it can only lead to embarrassment. Or accidents with hot wax.