Recently I received a text message that contained this gem:

“you’re waiting, bent over the desk, chemise immodesty parted…”

Now, sexy though that may be (for the record, it is), it is not something that I want to have bleeped to my pocket. Texts have a disturbing immediacy that emails don’t. An email says ‘I have something to tell you, and I have taken the trouble of sitting down and composing it.’ An email elevates you to a status of importance. It usually contains more information, some gossip and, if you’re lucky, a link to something that you might like. An email respects you, it lets you know that you can take your time in replying, mull over your response, and consider carefully before you commit to anything in writing. I love email.

A text, on the other hand, is a conversation killer. You could be halfway through a gripping novel, a relationship crisis or a cheese soufflé and your mobile leaps up; blaring, buzzing and all but hitting you in the face screaming ‘pay me attention! I’m important! Feed me words, you fucker!’

I don’t like texts. My friends complain that most of their texts go unanswered, but that’s because most of their texts come when I’m in the middle of something that I think is more important. I frequently experience irrational bursts of hatred towards my nearest and dearest because they text me inanities while I’m at work, inanities to which I feel duty-bound to reply.

And if you (get ready to shudder) “sext” me at work, chances are it will enrage me even further. Lovely though it is to imagine you bending me over something solid then humping me frantically like a bonobo with an audience, it won’t help me get this strategy document written.

Here’s where I backtrack so you don’t think I’m a giant bitch

I’m not always a terrifying harridan – I think some texts are great. There is nothing I love more than a good old romantic text, particularly one that doesn’t invite an immediate response. A well timed:

“It might be the whiskey talking, but the whiskey says I miss you every day.”

can be the best thing that’s happened to me all week. A romantic text is always welcome. And on the few occasions when I am in the mood for conversation or sexy chat I’ll leap to my phone like an excited teenager, cradling it in my arms and soaking up the misspelled words and predictive-text fuck-ups contained therein.

But these moments are few and far between. The fact remains that, on the rare occasions when people do text me with sexy content, there is an 80% chance it will make me want to punch them.

Sexy emails? Great. I’m sitting at my computer so would probably have been planning a wank anyway. Sexy texts? It’s like a double glazing salesman ringing your doorbell during dinner and then slapping you in the face with a semi-flaccid dick.

Don’t even get me started on phone calls.

What’s the best way to get what you want? Anybody?

Well, there are tips and strategies to persuade and entice someone into doing something hot, but I’m surprised at how many people miss the crucial first stage in the process – asking for it.

I love a guy who takes control, but so many of the guys I’ve met are reluctant to take control verbally. They prefer hinting, or gentle persuasion, or gradual escalation from a gentle slap on the arse to a full-blown, knickers down, bent over the knee beating.

So tonight I want to persuade you to ditch the shyness, scrap the uncertainty, open your mouth and tell me exactly what you’d like.

Giving instructions is desperately sexy

Oh God please tell me what to do. When you’re horny and hopeful and desperate for something specific. Tell me what to do.

Kneel down.

Suck it.

Touch me here.

Hold this.

Sit on me, pull your shirt up, look at me, swallow it, roll over and pull down your fucking knickers.

What’s hot isn’t just what we’re doing – it’s that you so dearly want to do it. And what’s even hotter is that you like it – it makes you make little moaning noises and suck your breath in through your teeth and grip the bed and tense up and push your cock out further so I can keep doing what I’m doing.

So don’t just tell me what, tell me how. You want me to suck your cock? How? Do you want me to take the full length to the back of my throat until I make strangled choking sounds? Do you want me to suck gently on the tip until your head’s swimming and you can’t wait to force it more roughly inside me? Do you want long, slow strokes with my hand while I tongue the head, hoping for a gushing release that sprays into my semi-parted mouth?

Tell me.

There’s something stunningly good about someone who tells you to do things.

Help me help you

It doesn’t even have to be dominant – you can say ‘please’, and you can do it even if your partner has no submissive tendencies – the point is that I want to know that what I’m doing is getting you off. I can give you a semi-decent handjob that’ll give you a pretty buzz, but if you tell me what you like I can bring you off almost as well as you can do yourself.

A guy recently asked my advice in how he should tell his girlfriend she gave shit head. “Should I just be rude and come out with it?”

No – Christ no – don’t tell her what she’s doing wrong – tell her how to do it right. With words, with noises. Say “Oh fuck that’s amazing” if she does something good – nudge her towards the decent bits and away from the bad. Tell her you want a sloppy one, a hard one, a nice long slow one. Tell her.

Because the alternative is to have a partner who is constantly guessing, constantly unsure, constantly giving you the moves that her ex used to like in the hope that you have the same tastes.

And putting your pleasure to one side for a moment, if you don’t pipe up and fucking say this stuff, you’re also depriving your partner of the absolute, unending, shivering joy that comes from doing something she knows you’ll like.

“How about you sit in the bath and let me soap you all over?”

“Please will you hit me with this belt while I bury my face in your cunt?”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, just please God let me fuck you.”

You see? Getting one’s own way can be as easy as opening your mouth.

Now pull down my knickers and fuck me like I’ve been bad. Please.