Rowan Raunchbitch's torrid sex tips for red-hot lovers

Well, things are looking up here at The Erotic Digest. Office girl Gemma is back from her psychiatric evaluation leave, having been passed fit for duty following last month's funny turn. True, she's walking a bit bow-legged, having been "shagged senseless for six days" by her enthusiastic and willing boyfriend. Well, you're only young once.

Dierdre Bellbottom is still in Holloway, and having the time of her life, by all accounts. Filmmakers have traditionally portrayed women's prison populations as entirely composed of predatory bull-dyke lesbians openly indulging their appetite for Sapphic love, usually in the showers. According to Dierdre, it's absolutely true — she even caught the governor pleasuring herself with an enormous black truncheon while two shoplifting single mothers sucked greedily on her not insubstantial bosoms. I'm sure readers will be eager to read the feature on her experiences — The Birdwoman of Alcatraz — which will be published as soon as we've cleared it with the lawyers.

Speaking of lawyers, we were delighted to win last week's High Court case, an outcome which means that Thor Hungstallion's provocative World Cup Wankfest will appear next month as planned. Readers will be unsurprised to learn that it was Tory MP Toby Rubpubbly who attempted to block the article when he learned that it involved Thor masturbating furiously over pictures of leading World Cup stars and then judging each on how far he ejaculated. Thor has confessed that he is "exhausted but delighted" at the result. I won't spoil the fun by revealing the winner, but suffice it to say that Sir Alex Ferguson got a bargain when he paid £30 million for this particular piece of talent.

Which all leads me rather neatly to this week's topic. It's that time of year — between the World Cup and the start of the football league season — when men have traditionally little better to do than get drunk and then force themselves carnally on their long-suffering partners. I receive hundreds of letters at this time from couples asking me how they might spice up a jaded long-term relationship. Many readers in turn recommend bondage, which, judging by the number of endorsments I receive, appears to be the modern metropolitan equivalent of the camping weekend — plenty of straps and guy-ropes and hours of discomfort at the end of which you are soaking wet and sobbing quietly into a rubber sheet.

So, bondage? No, I rather think not. While I cannot in all conscience deny that swinging housewives from the home counties might thouroughly enjoy being blindfolded, gagged, strapped to a cross and then brutally gang-banged by a mob of howling chartered accountants dressed as Stormtroopers, it's not for me.

Okay, I have a confession. Once a year I lash my own partner to the kitchen table and wrap him in clingfilm. The purpose of this is not, however, sexual, but rather the only way I can stop him attempting to force his hideously empurpled member into my mouth as I perform my annual wifely duty (on his birthday) by bringing him to a shattering climax using a pair of plastic pasta tongs. The clingfilm is to protect the table, since male ejaculate has a disastrous effect on French polish.

My advice to long-suffering wives is this: If he comes home drunk from the pub wielding a length of rope and a blindfold, play for time by getting him a beer from the fridge. He'll fall asleep on the sofa after a few minutes, and you can get on with cleaning the house.

Rowan Raunchbitch is Editor of The Erotic Digest

Next month: Frottage