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

Much merriment prevailed last week as we at The Erotic Digest were cordially invited to celebrate The Rockall Times' first anniversary at a top-class Dagenham lap-dancing establishment.

I have heard it said that lap dancing is the new foreplay for jaded metropolitan couples. Indeed, as long as the "no physical contact" rule were rigorously applied, and my partner agreed to remain soundly lashed to a heavy chair throughout, it might even find favour chez Raunchbitch. Although I am not in the habit of parading naked in front of the opposite sex, I must admit that flaunting my body like a two-buck hussy dressed in nothing more than woollen tights, jumper and sensible winter overcoat does provoke a slight moistness "down there".

Suffice it to say that Dierdre Bellbottom enjoyed the evening immensely, eventually parting with no less than £500 to a series of pouting Slavic beauties with little more than a fake work permit to cover their modesties. Likewise Thor Hungstallion, who surprisingly warmed quickly to the laddish air of excess which is the hallmark of Rockall Times functions, and even earned himself a lifetime ban from the club for attempting to lift a pint of lager with a length of chain attached to his recently-acquired "Prince Albert".

However, it was to be expected that thoroughly modern office girl Gemma would present the evening's main talking point. Having dispatched seven Bacardi Breezers in less than five minutes and consigned the small amount of clothing she was wearing to a bemused bouncer, Gemma rushed the pole-dancing stage like a footballer's wife at a Louis Vuitton handbag.

Well, she's a versatile girl, that's for certain. Then, as she rubbed her engorged genitalia up and down the greasy pole much to the delight of the howling mob of drink-crazed satirists, I noted that Gemma was even more naked than nature intended. Improbable, I know, but my prancing PA had evidently recently paid an undoubtedly painful visit to the local Brazilian wax centre where, I am told, a woman pays hard cash to have her pubic hair ripped from her body so that she might then flaunt herself on Copacabana beach sporting a length of fluorescent dental floss between her labia. Incredibly, my cries of protest at this barbarity met only with laughter from the club's resident performers, all of whom admitted to lesser or greater degrees of intimate depilation.

Apparently, it's not just the Brazilians who have been at it for years — one Russian dancer explained that, as a trainee gymnast in Leningrad, she spent no less than three hours a day ensuring that not one unplucked follicle be allowed to turn the deadly serious pursuit of Olympic gold on the parallel bars into nothing more than a pre-pubescent leerfest for dirty old men.

Frankly, I was amazed, and began to wonder how many of us there were left as nature intended — snugly dressed against winter chills. Gemma then insisted that I accompany her on her next visit to "The Rio Pube Palace" where, she insisted, I could have the dirty deed done with a razor should the prospect of wax be too terrifying. I politely but firmly refused.

I would like to assure any readers who are already members of the ever-swelling ranks of "smoothies" that I have nothing whatsoever against hairless genitalia. Indeed, I too can see the erotic potential of a "five-day shadow" sandpapering my partner's hideously empurpled member as he attempts to pump me full of man-juice. But, if you think that I'm going to let a South American near my reproductive organs wielding a safety razor or, worse, a slab of hot wax I have just this to say: You've completely lost your marbles.

I'll go further — If God had wanted us to spend our lives with our pussies looking like cold ham wrapped in clingfilm, we'd have been born that way, wouldn't we?

Rowan Raunchbitch is Editor of The Erotic Digest

Next month: The dirty weekend