“Tell me a sexy story,” I asked him, and he thought for a full three seconds before saying:

“OK. Picture the scene: you’re wandering past a bar, and inside there’s a raucous group of guys out on the town for a stag do…”

Although the reality of the British Stag Do is often cunt-witheringly unsexy, there’s potential there that he recognises as something I may well enjoy. It’s not just the fact that there’s a large number of men, although naturally I am a fan of any situation in which I am the sole sexual outlet for a gang of eager guys. There’s something about the stag do specifically that flicks that switch.

It’s often taken as a given that straight blokes will be keen on cheerleading squads, women’s hockey teams, and all the rest of it. They want to see the cotton-panty-clad pillow fights and soapy shower scenes that definitely happen when women get together (and they do, I promise. Like, that is literally all me and my mates ever do when we get together. Pyjama-clad romping, excessive giggling and showing each other our fannies). Yet when I have, on occasion, mentioned my desire to be wined and dined and slapped and tickled by an entire university rugby team, men I am with have expressed some degree of surprise.

I am thinking about this a lot recently, because I have got very solidly into a brand new trashy reality-TV show called ‘SAS: Who Dares Wins’ and apparently my overtly sexual running commentary on the programme is somewhere between ‘dogged’ and ‘aggressive.’ Long story short: I want to fuck all the men who are in it, over and over, until their dicks are raw and they can barely muster a single drop of wrung-out spunk.

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Two words that will have me elevate your hotel from a four to a five-star review on Trip Advisor: wet room. But seeing as I like wet rooms because I sometimes enjoy watersports, you might not actually want me to stay in your hotel, to be honest. But we clean up thoroughly after ourselves, and I guess what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

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“If we could have a threesome with any of your ex-boyfriends, who would it be?”

Ah, this question. This question sounds like a trap, but it isn’t. It’s the start of an exploratory conversation, at the end of which he’ll tell me a story that will make my cunt slick – he just wants to tailor it correctly.

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Confession: I secretly want you to fail in your wanking endeavours. OK, perhaps not fail exactly, but struggle. I have a vested interest in you rubbing frantically at your dick with a kind of angry determination – balanced seemingly forever at that tipping point just before you come. I like to watch your face while you’re struggling during an anger wank. I like to see the look in your eyes: rage and frustration and desperation all rolled into one. I like to see your hand gripping harder, feel the bed or the sofa shake as you speed up to try and push yourself over the brink.

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