A couple of weeks ago I got an e-mail from an old friend at Time Out. She was looking desperately for stories of ‘dirty sex’. Not sexy dirty, you understand, but dirty dirty. I responded rather half-heartedly with a fairly tame story from my past, and chucked her the names of a few people who I thought might be better suited.
Five minutes later and there’s a ping in my inbox – she’s keen on my story, but needs more dirt. So I go into more detail. And then still more detail. Until I finally I’ve described every excruciating facet of the experience – every smear, smudge and slippery sweaty edge has been depicted in full technicolour horror.
Next time you’re meandering through a copy of “London’s Living Guide” and you come across a page full of gross-out sex-horror, pause for a moment. I’ll give a small prize to the first person to guess which one is mine…