Rowan Raunchbitch: The UK's hottest sex columnist

It's that time of year again when my partner gets a wicked twinkle in his eye and can been seen emerging from the shower bearing his Yule log before him like a pike staff. Like many working women with better things to do than spread my legs in front of the Xmas tree like a trussed turkey while Santa fills my stocking, I normally deal with this unwelcome intrusion with a quick bit of "executive relief", administered while wearing previously-boiled rubber gloves.

Yes, when they say that Father Christmas comes but once a year, it is literally true in the Raunchbitch household.

So, readers can imagine my horror when the other half, refusing my annual offer to empty the contents of his engorged scrotum into a ball of man-sized tissues, announced that we were driving forthwith to a seaside resort for three days to enjoy what is apparently described as "a dirty weekend".

It transpired that he had been advised in this matter by Erotic Digest office girl Gemma, who was concerned that I had been under increasing stress of late, a state of affairs which could seemingly be rectified by a "right good seeing-to".

For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of such a carnal short break holiday, I will describe the programme as it was outlined to me by a breathless Gemma: "Well..." she stammered, fingering herself absent-mindedly between the legs. "I always like to get things in the mood by giving him a quick BJ in the car on the way down. When you get to the hotel, order the finest French cuisine — oysters are good — and the most expensive wine in the house. You must have candles, and leave your knickers in your bag so you can give him a quick flash of the seafood dessert between courses. Ask the orchestra to play your favourite song, and dance cheek-to-cheek under the stars. After a final liqueur and coffee, proceed directly to the bedroom and shag for two days. If that doesn't leave you bow-legged for a week, nothing will."

Speechless does not adequately convey the state of mute paralysis to which I was reduced by this lurid catalogue of debauchery. And, while I am prepared to admit that the young-at-heart might gain some primordial animalistic satisfaction from 72 hours of rutting in an alien environment, their sense of wild abandon has obviously immunised them from the uncomfortable truth about such adventures.

Can they not imagine, I asked myself, that the very bed on which they are lying might only hours before have played host to a corpulent company rep exciting himself to an explosive solo climax while watching Danish Teen Frot Party on the cable TV?

Apparently not and, despite my vociferous and at times desperate protestations, last Friday afternoon found me en route to Brighton clutching a hastily-written list of emergency gynaecologists.

I would not wish for readers to think that I did not enjoy a slight tingling in my reproductive organs as I imagined what was to follow. I too can appreciate the sexually liberating ambience of a strange environment, and the spirit of erotic experimentation such an environment might engender.

In the event, I need not have worried. When, at dinner, my partner suggested that I might want to "nip to the ladies' and whip off those knickers", I immediately decided on radical and drastic action. Slipping a Rohypnol into his brandy while he was otherwise engaged in selecting the most provocative asparagus the kitchen had to offer, I was able to stop this filthy charade in its tracks.

When he awoke ten hours later, and suffering righteously for his excesses, I was able to confirm that his amnesia was due entirely to "having screwed me senseless for six hours while swigging Russian vodka from the bottle dressed as a Cossack". To add credence to the story, I had previously dipped his hideous member in a cup of boiling water so that it might have the authentic rawness which I am informed would normally result from such an orgiastic marathon.

For his part, he lay on the bed with a look of satisfaction normally reserved for a man who has successfully assembled a flat-pack wardrobe.

Back at the office on Monday morning, I affected a slight happy weariness and bow-legged gait which at once convinced Gemma that I had, for once, outperformed even her in the three-day event. I will now be able to enjoy a traditional family Xmas safe in the knowledge that the only stuffing would come with the turkey. I wish all of my readers a similarly fulfilling festive season.

Rowan Raunchbitch is Editor of The Erotic Digest