Women across the world have one thing in common. I’m not referring to our inequality, lower pay, or oppression, though obviously these permeate most of our lives, regardless of our geographic location, social class or cultural background. No, what I am talking about is this: if a woman has had erotic photographs taken of her by a sexual partner, these will, at some point appear on the internet – usually without her knowledge.

Like many women, I have, over the years, participated in various forms of online communication with men. Nothing out of the ordinary: just your typical emails, live chatting and heated mutual masturbation via the keyboard. A normal day at the office for some (or so I am led to believe). Anyway, during these ‘encounters’, there is invariably a point where one person or another requests some pictures. Depending on the circumstance – respectable online dating site; sordid casual-sex chat room – the exchanged pictures will usually consist of a facial shot (read, head and shoulders), (minus any body fluids - bar perspiration), or something below the neck. And it is the latter that I am concerned with.

Let’s clear a few things up. If someone feels compelled to send me a picture of their cock (and I am not hinting for any more to fill my inbox, thank you), I expect to see a picture of their cock. Preferably hard. Definitely in focus. Hopefully surrounded by the owner of said cock’s hand, gripping it sexily, to give it some context. Or in other words, to give me a hot image to wank to: I do after all, like to fantasise, and a cock in and of itself isn’t that interesting (once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all). So whilst I enjoy looking at pictures of erections, I’m not overly impressed – there’s more to a man than his penis.

So what I don’t appreciate is being sent pictures of a guy’s cock with a woman also attached to it. You know the type: she’s on her knees, sucking him; she’s bent over and he’s fucking her from behind; she’s on her back and he’s tugging himself off over her belly. All the women in these pictures are identifiable; not only their bodies are on display – their faces are too.

Now I have two issues with this. The first concerns my own selfishness: if I want to wank over a bloke and I’m using pictures of him to do it, I want to imagine myself in the scene with him – not be faced with another woman in my place. The presence of another woman distracts me; I don’t want to think of the sex they had together – I want to be thinking of the sex I could have with him. Personal pictures are different to porn; the context is more intimate, thus it’s more difficult to imagine being part of someone else’s interaction. I want to see a picture of him on his own and imagine he is thinking of me when he's stroking away - and likewise.

The second issue is of far more concern to me and it is this: when questioned by me, as to who the women in the pictures are, every single man has said to me ‘oh, that’s just my ex’; when I have pressed them further, and asked about her consent to his using the pictures, they then reply, ‘don’t worry, she doesn’t know’. And she doesn’t. Time and time again, I have received pictures of men having sex with their ex-girlfriends, in some shape or form; my hard drive is filled with images of anonymous women I will never meet; women whose readily identifiable images are freely available to all on the internet.

I bet none of these women gave their consent for their pictures to be used in this way. I very much doubt that in the heat of passion, when their boyfriend suggested they ‘capture the moment’, that these women thought their partner would at some point, be using those same images to chat to/masturbate with/fuck other women off the internet. I expect that many – if not all – of those women would shudder in horror if they knew that their image was being used in this way.

Being so disposable, having their image being a mechanism for a man to exploit, well, I guess in this day and age - where women’s bodies are sexualised commodities for capitalism - it’s no surprise that their consent isn’t asked; why should men think of getting permission when it’s so acceptable to profit off these images in mainstream society? What would make a man think differently, when he is surrounded by images of women in various states of undress, selling everything from magazines to cars? I’m not saying I have a problem with erotic images of women per se; aside from sexist capitalist profiteering, it’s the lack of consent and violation of women’s privacy that I am challenging here: these women aren’t aware of their exploitation – and even if they were, there is nothing they could do about it: once a picture exists, it can be put into the public domain – for anyone to see.

So what’s the answer? I’m afraid there’s only one: if you don’t want to run the risk of your erotic pictures being shared on the internet, then you can’t EVER let any be taken. Seriously. I’m talking to women here: I know it’s hard when he’s got his cock in you, you’re fucking turned on, and you’re in love and everything is hunky-dory, and when he says ‘oh god, it’d turn me on so much to have photographs of this, let me get the camera’, you think, ‘well, we love each other, no-one else will see them, what’s the harm?’ I know you wouldn’t be thinking ‘but what if we ever break up? What’ll happen to the pictures?’ – that would be the last thing on my mind when I’m close to climaxing, too. But that’s what you need to remember: if you do ever break up, then at some point, those pictures will find their way onto the internet, in some shape, manner or form, I guarantee it.

This is why I have never, ever, let a partner or lover take erotic pictures of me (bar one picture of my arse, in which I cannot be identified); I do not wish to be displayed, in all my glory, online. I know this might sound contradictory, given the fact I openly, and explicitly, blog about my sex life here on the internet, but there is a marked difference between being anonymous and in complete control of what I choose to present to the world, (my words are unedited by another; the self-portrait pictures in my sidebar have no identifying features) and having naked pictures that were taken at a moment of complete intimacy, being used without my permission or knowledge. It’s not like I haven’t had requests (men: begging is never a good approach, trust me), but every time I have declined.

Of course there’ll be some women who couldn’t care less that personal images of them in various states of sexual arousal are freely available to view online, but I expect that many would be uncomfortable with this knowledge – I know I would, and I’m not exactly what you could call a prude. For those women like me, who don't wish their private lives to be viewed by others, I’m afraid it’s too late now: those photos of you shagging your ex are out there, sorry.

Take some consolation in the following though: as everybody knows, the biggest anti-aphrodisiac one can bring to bed is the ex-partner; no-one wants to hear – or see – a lover’s history in the heat of the moment. So when these men produce pictures of them and their ex having sex, it almost instantly ruins their chances of them then getting lucky - I’ve turned down loads of men, based on this very concept.

To all the women out there who’ve had their image exploited in this way, let it be known that I refused to fuck that arsehole who used to be your ex – it may not be a huge step for womankind in terms of empowerment and equality, but if it means one less prick gets laid as a result, then that’s a step in the right direction, in my opinion.

Regular readers may have noticed my writing being somewhat sporadic on the blog over the last few months; that I have been posting infrequently and then, only briefly. This is because, for the last eight months I have been extremely busy working - four months of which, were consecutive 7-day, 100-hour weeks. Let's just say I barely even had time to fiddle - which for me, says a lot.

What is it that has been taking up so much of my time? Well, aside from my usual job on a film set, I have also been very busy writing; I have spent every free moment in the day/night with my hands occupied on my laptop - and not downloading porn, I can assure you.

These last few months have been exhausting, but I am very happy with the outcome of my hard work; proud even. So it gives me great pleasure to finally announce the impending arrival of the fruits of all my labour: my first book, all 320 pages and 85,000 words of it, due for delivery in the world in 40 days time - 3rd August 2006.

In it, you'll find some of the regular (tragic, embarrassing, funny, and of course graphic) depictions of my sex life that will be familiar from my writing on the blog; there's also a lot of new material, including more detail about me and my life over the last year or so. As on here, it's all true, bar a few details to maintain my privacy, but it's a much more in-depth account of how I came to be the woman I am today. Basically, what makes me a sex fiend - which is all you really want to know, right?

Anyway, here it is, hopefully it'll be a good read, or at least make a few people laugh. And before anyone undoubtably asks, my arse is bigger than hers.

Being in hospital recently, made me recall an episode some time ago when I almost had an orgasm as a doctor examined me.

It was seven or eight years ago and I was going through a period of abstinence from sex. I know, Girl with a one-track mind, trying to be celibate: ironic to say the least. But at the time, I was really fed up with men. I was disappointed with my single status and annoyed by the lack of romance in my life. Every man I met, never seemed to be interested in developing things beyond the physical with me; I was saddened by the emotional gap that I felt needed attention.

So I made a decision to not have sex for a while; to only sleep with a man, if we were involved more deeply than on a casual basis. Doing this, I figured, would help me meet a better class of man; one that wanted me for my mind and soul, as well as my body. And given my bad choices of men at that point in my life, I thought taking sex off my agenda might help me think more clearly too; that I wouldn’t rush into situations with men that were clearly wrong for me, just because I wanted to fuck them.

I managed 18 whole months of no sex. Amazing, I know. For me, anyway, given my healthy appetite; but with my quitting cigarettes and drugs in previous years, I figured ‘how hard can it be to quit fucking for a while?’

Very hard, as it turned out: I was horny ALL the time. The thing about it being on men’s minds every eight seconds? That’s nothing: it was on my mind for each of those other seven seconds too. The thought of sex preoccupied me from wake to sleep; there wasn’t one moment where I didn’t think about it. Let’s just say my hands got to know my nether regions very well.

As I reached the 18 month mark, I had an appointment for a gynaecological exam; a sexual health MOT to check all my bits were in working order and to update my cervical smear test.

I don’t like internal exams. I can think of far nicer ways to spend my time than having

1. some stranger prodding my insides
2. a freezing cold metal contraption being inserted into me and then uncomfortably holding my vagina open
   
3. swabs and sticks scraped against my cervix
   

So I wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting a check-up. But, you know, it must be done – making sure my sexual and reproductive health is OK, is important to me – so along I went to my local clinic.

For some reason – and I’m sure this isn’t standard practice – the male doctor that examined me, did so when there was no female nurse in the room. Nowadays (given my assertiveness) I would complain about this, but back then, I just wanted to get the episode over and done with. So I lay back, put my feet in the stirrups, and let him get on with it.

[I should repeat here, that I hadn’t been touched by a man for 18 months. It is an important point.]

The doctor pushed gently on my belly, told me to relax and then, inserted a finger into me. I looked at his hand pressed up against my vulva and desperately tried not to think of a cock against me instead. As he swivelled his finger, finding my cervix and tracing the outline of my womb, I realised how wet I was. Admittedly he had lubricant on his finger, but with the gentle pressure inside me and his firm hand still placed on my belly, I felt myself fully aroused; as he slipped another finger inside, I felt my body convulse and tremble and I knew that I wouldn’t be far off from an orgasm.

‘Are you OK?’ he said and I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I realised he could surely feel how engorged my private parts had become.

I nodded back at him and tried to focus on something other than the sensation between my legs, in the hope that I could turn myself off. I was terrified that I might climax in front of this man; disgusted with myself that I had become stimulated by the merest touch of another person.

Thankfully he then removed his fingers, telling me that everything was in order, and then swiftly inserted the speculum, scraped my cervix, took some swabs, and then left me to get dressed, red-faced, aroused and all.

I was so embarrassed about the incident, I didn’t go back to the clinic for some time – and when I did, I insisted that only female doctors examined me. Even with my mild Sapphic tendencies, I figured at least I wouldn’t be thinking of cock when they had their hands in my insides, thus limiting the possibility of my becoming so aroused again. (Of course, I took other precautions too, like never again having an examination when I was sexually frustrated or horny).

And that night, after having my insides explored by a doctor, I also finally had them explored by a rather delicious cock: I dragged my friend out to a bar and then bedded some eager young bloke who was only too happy to fulfill my needs.

This episode in my life made me realise that abstaining from sex is all well and good for some, but for me, it left me unhappy: instead of meeting a decent bloke, I spent 18 months horny and desperately missing sex, only to then get into an embarrassing situation as a result.

Years have passed since then and thankfully I am in a different place mentally and emotionally now. I may still like to meet a ‘good man’, but there is no way on earth that I am giving up sex in the meantime: if someone special is out there, our paths will cross, regardless of the amount of my current sexual activity.

Of course there’d be another bonus to meeting someone whilst I’m also busy getting action elsewhere: I’d be less likely to leave scratch marks on his back when we did end up in bed, which is a good thing: I wouldn’t want my rampant appetite to scare him.

At least not at first: I’d wait till we’d been together a month before demanding his cock three times a day - hopefully by that point, he'd be only too happy to accomodate me.

Men:

1. Wash your armpits and wear anti-perspirant deodorant. Stinking out a tube carriage in summer does not make you a man; it makes you a selfish arsehole.
   
2. Wear a t-shirt. As much as I may like your bare chest to fondle whilst in bed, showing your nipples on the underground is too much even for me.
3. Don’t wear socks with sandals. Just don’t. Unless you plan on being celibate for ever, that is.
   
4. Trim your toenails, file the dead skin off your feet and use talc between your toes. Visible fungus on your feet is not attractive: if you want your toes sucked, you'd better make 'em more appealing.
   
5. Go commando under your trousers/shorts. As well as keeping you (and your potential baby-making sperm) cooler, you’ll also attract interested looks from women like me, eager to see the outline of your cock beneath. You may even get chatted up as a result.
   

Women:

1. Limit the amount of perfume you wear. Stinking out a tube carriage in summer is selfish. A clean body smells much nicer than one doused in artificial chemicals.
2. Wear a properly sized and fitted bra. Flesh bulging out over the sides and top or nipples pointed down to the floor, is not a good look, believe me.
   
3. Don’t wear socks with sandals, like some sad fashion victim from the 1980s. That decade is over – and for a good reason too: Thatcherism, day-glo, yuppies – I rest my case.
4. Chipped toenail polish looks foul. Either touch it up, or wear none. And don’t be shy of using the pumice stone: it is your friend.
5. Lose the thong poking out of your hipster trousers: a builder’s bum is always unattractive – even if your pants are lacy. And if you’re going to wear a skin-tight skirt, ditch the knickers altogether: better to go commando and show off your arse, than have thick seams digging into your curves. Plus, it makes for easier access, should you decide (with any luck) to sit on some nice boy’s hand.
   

I was really looking forward to getting fucked last night.

Granted, I would not have been able to get pummelled as hard as I might like (and need, given my current horniness) due to my recent hospital stay, but with some decent sex on the cards, I was pretty excited about finally getting a good shag – even if it was going to have to be slow and gentle.

So I left the house yesterday fully prepared: legs and muff shaved; tiny see-thru thong in place; a flirty low-cut dress to show off my curves. And with a selection of condoms and lube in my purse: the thought of slowly stroking his slick, delectable cock soaking my pants as soon as I had slipped them on.

Almost a year since we last saw each other, I was rather pleased to find that the chemistry was still there; as we sat drinking cocktails our body language matched, just as it did in bed when we had sex. I fondly recalled how well we fitted together back then: we fucked with gusto; he somehow knowing just how I like it from behind; how I enjoy my ankles above my head; how I will come and come from three fingers inside me. I could barely wait till we got back to his hotel and I would get to feel his cock inside me once more.

That was, until the following conversation:

Me: ‘How’s the dating? Seeing any nice women at the moment?’

Him: (blushing) ‘Yeah, kind of.’

Me: ‘Ooh, someone special?’

Him: ‘I guess so.’

Me: ‘Tell me more! Is it serious?’

Him: ‘You could say that.’

Me: ‘Long-term then?’

Him: ‘Yeah, a couple of years now.’

Me: (hesitating) ‘So you were with her when we were fucking last year?’

Him: (slowly) ‘…Yes.’

Me: (stunned): ‘Why didn’t you tell me that then?’

Him: ‘I thought you knew.’

Me: (incredulous) ‘No. I didn’t know. If I had known, I wouldn’t have fucked you.’

Him: ‘Oh. Sorry.’

Me: ‘I can’t believe it. That’s really low, you know that?’

Him: (nodding) ‘Sorry. I really thought you knew; I figured you were OK with it.’

Me: (shaking my head in disbelief) ‘No, I am not OK with it. I’m not that sort of woman.’

And I’m not. Some years ago, I was party to another woman being cheated on: I had an affair with her boyfriend. I swore I would never – to the best of my knowledge – do it again. Not only because it caused me heartbreak, but because I don’t want to be the sort of woman that shits on other women. Call me an old-fashioned feminist (do, please: it’d be a compliment), but I actually feel some solidarity with other women: I want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my sisters, not fuck their men behind their backs.

I may have been sitting there with wet pants, absolutely dying to shag him, but faced with (yet another) man who was interested in having secret sex outside of his relationship, there was no choice for me to make: I wasn’t going to fuck him and that was that. I have some principles after all, and whilst horniness has led me to some bad decision-making in the past, it’s not like I can’t later on, just wank to think clearly again: knowingly fucking an attached man (even just in a casual sex situation) is not something I want to do, drunk, horny or whatever.

So we sat there, sipping our cocktails, and I tactlessly told him what I thought of him; how selfish I felt he was, how upset his partner would be, were she to find out about his dalliances. To his credit, he agreed with me; we discussed ways of him approaching her to talk about the situation. Whether he’ll do it or not, I don’t know, but what I do know, is that when I rested my head on my pillow last night (after having a frig, it must be said), I felt at least my conscience was clear. I seem to have moved on from being a sex fiend that can’t control her horniness - alongside my morals, I have some willpower after all – and that, to me, is progress.

But I need to ask myself: why do I seem to have such bad luck with men?

Pros and cons of being admitted to hospital:

Pros:

1. Being looked after, cared for, and felt up all over by the extraordinarily handsome, kind and hardworking Accident & Emergency nurses and doctors.

Cons:

1. Being in excruciating agony and passing out from the pain
2. Having to wait over three hours in a busy A & E department before eventually seeing a doctor and given painkillers
3. Getting painfully poked, prodded and internally examined by complete strangers
4. Being unable to sleep due to my discomfort and the noise on the ward
   
5. Getting visited by a succession of surgeons who casually - and somewhat gleefully - talked about cutting me open to sort out my insides
6. Being stuck indoors in a stifling hospital ward during the hottest week this year
7. Missing two dates with sexy men that I was due to have
8. Not having my laptop with me to write
9. Being too drugged up on painkillers to feel creative
10. Being unable to have a fiddle due to
    

• the pain
• the proximity of other patients
• having my blood pressure taken by a nurse every thirty minutes
  

Thankfully I am over the worst now, though I’m a little shaken by the experience. I’m still in quite a bit of pain, but am pleased to report it is lessening.

Hopefully, I’ll be back to my old ways shortly. Though perhaps I shouldn’t rush into any rampant shags in the near future – I wouldn’t want to split anything.

‘There are two types of the men in the world’ I said assuredly, as I picked up my martini glass.

‘And which might those be?’ K replied, sipping her mojito.

I took a long gulp. ‘Those who haven’t found the clitoris; and those who have’.

K laughed and placed her glass back on the table. ‘Very true’.

‘Thankfully’, I continued, somewhat drunkenly, ‘the former is in the minority – it’s been quite rare in recent years, for me to meet a guy who just heads straight for penetration and then in-out rabbit-pumps me without even attempting some clitoral stimulation: as much as I enjoy a rampant quickie, there is something to be said for a little foreplay now and then.’

‘Thank god most men seem to know it takes more than that to get a woman going’, K agreed.

I nodded. ‘But I’m not sure whether those men that know about the clitoris are much better.’

K looked at me curiously. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

I leaned in to her conspiratorially and said, in a low voice, ‘just because they know where it is, doesn’t mean they know what to do with it.’

K laughed loudly and slapped me on my arm playfully.

I continued. ‘Too many men seem to want a medal just because they know of the clitoris: “look darling, I’ve found it!” Well, no, I don’t think congratulations are in order – especially if they aggressively attack it as if they were trying to rub out a stain on an ornament.’

K roared and spat out her drink from laughing. ‘God, that’s so fucking true! What is it with them? Don’t they know about delicacy?’

‘Evidently not’ I replied. ‘They tug themselves so bloody hard, they probably think the same works for us.’

K shook her head. ‘No. Fuck no.’

‘It’s like once they’ve found the “magic button” all they can think to do, is press it, pull it, tap it and rub it – they don’t seem to realise that it is very sensitive.’

K nodded in agreement again and whispered to me. ‘Mine can’t be even be touched: it’s just too much for me’.

‘Me too’, I replied, whispering back. ‘Too much pounding and it goes numb: then there’s no hope in me coming.’

We both sighed and took swigs of our drinks. Then I perked up again. ‘It’s not all bad’ I said, ‘I think there’s a third type of bloke – even if he is few and far between.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’ve been with a few men who not only know where the clitoris is, but know just how sensitive it is too: they never ever touched it, but still made me come all the time.’

K raised her eyebrow, quizzically. ‘What did they do?’

‘They teased me for ages; you know, touching or licking near it and around it, but never actually on it. It drove me fucking crazy – made me want to stick their cock in me pronto.’

K laughed. ‘That’s definitely the way, god yes. I wish more men did that. Hey, maybe we should set up an information group – a way to educate men about getting a woman properly aroused?’

I sniggered. ‘What a good idea! We could teach them all about the benefits of indirect clitoral stimulation, and as a result, they’d have women soaking wet, begging to fuck them. Then men would get shagged rampantly and women would get lots of orgasms prior to penetration. Win/win: fantastic.’

K grinned and we both finished off the dregs of alcohol in our glasses.

I then thought about it some more. ‘This group sounds like a great idea: we should do it. I would suggest calling it The Third Way, but it makes me think of New Labour, and surely the whole point would be to get women more horny, rather than turning them off sex altogether?!’

We both laughed and I got up to buy us some more drinks. On the way, I eyed up a handsome man in a suit who was standing by the bar, and wondered how I might get him into a conversation about equality in bed without sounding like I wanted to shag him.

Even though, truth be told, given the opportunity, I would have gladly fucked his brains out. As long as he let me gently grind my crotch against him to get me all hot and bothered first, that is.

He pulled me up over him and lifting my dress, discovered I wasn’t wearing any underwear. This made him beam at me and pulling me closer, he pressed his erection firmly against my groin.

Pleased at the result, I reminded myself to forget to wear knickers more frequently – I rather do like to feel a breeze in between my legs. Plus, of course, I would save a fortune in lingerie costs.

We ground our hips together and kissed, and I wondered if he would think me rude/greedy/demanding if I asked to grab a condom now, and immediately sit on his cock without any foreplay. As I pondered this – hoping that it would be soon, because I was fucking soaked and probably dripping onto him - he kissed my neck gently and ran his fingers through my hair.

‘I missed you’ he said and smiled at me.

Like a rabbit in the headlights, I was in shock, too stunned to speak.

He missed me.

He has met me on only two occasions, and fucked me just the once.

He missed me.

He doesn’t know me, we’re not friends, and we don’t even have an intellectual connection.

He missed me.

I sat with my pussy pressed up against his cock and felt my slickness dry up almost instantly. There I was, ready to fuck, and he went and dropped that on me: great.

We were both there to have sex: nothing more, nothing less. He was fully aware of the situation: we had discussed – endlessly – that our meeting was about shagging each other senseless; I had after all answered his ad looking for a no-strings casual encounter. So why drop something like that into the situation?

Sure, he hasn’t seen me for a few weeks, but missing me? Please: he doesn’t know me. If he was a mate or a long-term lover, I would feel touched by such a comment; but coming from a fuck-buddy who has shagged me once, it just wasn’t on.

He carried on kissing me and I felt annoyed; violated somehow. He had broken the rules, he had crossed the boundary: how could I relax and enjoy the sex now that he had brought feelings into the equation?

The answer to that of course, is that a few minutes later, a little bit of selfishness, combined with a good dose of concentration and a very dirty mind, resulted in my climaxing all over his hand – which seemed to please him as much as it did me.

Of course we continued to have more sex after that too: I got spanked, fucked hard from behind and had my pussy licked for half an hour. And I gave him a combined blow-job/hand-job/bum-tickle that’ll give him something to wank over for some time, given how hard he shot all over the place. But all the while, I kept thinking about how he wasn’t being truthful about what he wanted, and I thought about earlier conversations we had; I suspected then that if I agreed to see him exclusively he would want me as a girlfriend, and now I knew that this would definitely have to be the last time that I fucked him.

Shallow though it might be, casual sex can be fantastic, laid-back and lots of fun, but when one party needs more from the other person and it’s not reciprocated, someone’s feelings inevitably get hurt. I’ve been on both sides of this equation and falling for someone who doesn’t want more, can be a painful experience. This is why I am so completely honest and upfront with the men I sleep with: I don’t want them or me to feel shitty about any aspect of our relationship at any point.

But it seems that even with honesty, pretence continues: I can’t count the amount of times a bloke has told me that he really has no interest in more than just an occasional shag, but who then demands to see me four times a week and who calls me five times a day ‘just to talk’. It’s ironic that the common view in society seems to be that women are the ones that go along with casual sex in the hope of it developing into something longer and that men are the ones that just want sex; in my experience, the opposite is most definitely true – and, to be frank, it has become rather tedious.

I’m not being harsh here for the hell of it; it’s a compliment if a guy is that into me, that he wants more from me, but if the situation is purely casual and there isn’t any connection that makes me want to explore more with them, having them try to push the intimacy is not only annoying, but it makes the sex crap too: a one-sided emotional shag is never fulfilling – for either party.

This makes me sound brutal; that I don’t wish a man to fall for me: not true, of course I do. I’d love to meet a special man who finds me intelligent and funny and sexy, and who would be willing to put up with all my neuroses and bossiness and late-night demands for penetration. It would be wonderful to meet a man who sparked my mind, nurtured my soul, and set my heart racing and pussy pounding: I’m sure he’s out there. And when we do meet, I’ll probably be on my period, looking my worst, tripping up on my big feet and spilling wine down my top – but he’ll still think I’m the bees knees. Fantastic – when it happens, I am ready for it.

But this bloke? No. There’s no mental connection between us; our conversations don’t stimulate me; I don’t feel so attracted to him that I want to rip his clothes off in public and drop to my knees to suck his cock. It’s just a shag: casual sex. Nothing meaningful, nothing more.

With him expressing an emotional want – small though it was – it was enough for me to accept that I won’t be fucking him again: I don’t want to get involved with him and I have no wish to hurt him either. So as I received yet another text from him as I travelled home late last night, I decided that that would be the last time I would see him. A shame, because he’s a sweet man and eats pussy with gusto, but I’m not such a bitch as to want to fuck with someone’s emotions: I have some integrity after all.

I will admit that I did – for a brief moment, with all his keenness of me – wonder if he and I could, or should, ever be more than fuck-buddies, but I realised I could never date a man who omitted the use of capitals and punctuation in his emails and texts, and who always used smiley-face emoticons at the end of his sentences.

Call me an intellectual snob, but I have some standards, and if a man can’t even communicate intelligently, there’s a large risk I’ll find him boring in bed: never a good thing. With my sexual appetite, anyway.

Want to know about threesomes, sex parties and open relationships? Then read what my mate Lex has to say - I couldn't agree with him more:

'It’s a queer reversal of our culture’s conventional wisdom: sex with your partner is supposed to get boring, to the point where you go into therapy or else buy marital aids to spice up your sex play, to the point where you have to train yourself to avert your eyes from the forbidden fruit.

What the morons who dispense relationship advice don’t realize is that freedom has a funny way of making a man content with what he has, that sometimes he tastes the erstwhile forbidden fruit and finds it’s gone rotten.'

Brilliant stuff. Read the rest of his superb analysis here.

I've got loads to do tomorrow and should be in bed now, but have just spent the last 45 minutes eagerly glued to the comedian Rob Newman.

Sadly not in the flesh, just on my computer - which, like me, is all hot and bothered now. This is less to do with Rob being devilishly handsome, fantastically intelligent and extremely hilarious, and more to do with the fact that this is just fucking brilliant (via Linkmachinego).

If there's one thing that gets my heart (and pussy) pulsating, it's a man that knows his politics - and Rob is like a fountain of world knowledge. He's passionate about his beliefs and also very funny too - he is superb live. Watch him in action here.

And to those who undoubtably will ask, yes, I would.