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  Monday 17th May 2004  Sex   Powered by Yeast Logic
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Rowan Raunchbitch's torrid sex tips for red-hot lovers

This month: The joys of text
by Rowan Raunchbitch

For some time I have been mulling over the apparent sexual gratification to be gained from so-called "text sex" — a topic shockingly thrown into sharp focus by the recent goings-on between David Beckham and Rebecca Loos.

While I cannot in all conscience reject the erotic possibility of the written word — after all, I have made a handsome living writing sexually-charged prose for the discerning British middle-class market — I fail utterly to understand how the electronic exchange of lewdities could be considered a proper substitute for good, old-fashioned intercourse through a small hole in a freshly-laundered sheet.

I am, however, missing the point. Or that at least is the prognosis of thoroughly metropolitan Erotic Digest office girl Gemma; a young lady who believes that inhibitions are a chain of nightclubs in the Balearics.

When I asked Gemma her stance on the matter, she enthusiastically rummaged for her "mobe" in her Louis Vuitton handbag before taking me through the latest "textastic" exchange between herself and squeeze-of-the-month Rodolfo, her macrobiotic Pilates guru:

"FEELIN HOT", it began, unpromisingly.
"TAKE PANTY OFF", suggested Rodolfo.
"DONE FEELIN PUSSY", replied Gemma.
"W8 WANT COCK", urged the priapic Pilates correspondent.
"GONNA CUM BIG", came Gemma's riposte.
"L8R GONNA FILL BOX BUcKET CUM BITCH", concluded the sweet-talking Rodolfo.

I admit to spending a few minutes marvelling at this new grammatical paradigm before dismissing Gemma's exhortations that we could, and should, run a four-page feature on long-distance, telephonic "rumpy-pumpy".

That was not, sadly, the end of the matter. Later that same afternoon, I was distracted by the distant and muffled warbling of a mobile phone — I believe playing the theme tune to Friends. After several minutes of polyphonic artificial jollity, I rather crossly asked Gemma if it was indeed her phone as I suspected and whether she intended to answer it.

"It is my phone," replied Gemma. "It's Rodolfo."

"Well answer the bloody thing," I insisted.

"Just hold on a minute," gasped a flushed Gemma while clutching the edge of her desk.

Now, I may not have a young person's street savvies but I am "hip" enough to know when something is not all it seems. Dragging the bow-legged minx from her chair and towards the lavatory, accompanied by a distant "I'll be there for yoo-ooo...", I was able to elicit that Gemma had indeed switched her phone to "vibrate", inserted it into her reproductive canal and called Rodolfo asking him to phone her and let it ring for ten minutes.

My anger at Gemma's stupidity was tempered somewhat by the fact that she had at least wrapped the offending device — a tri-band, WAP-enabled 3G cameraphone with picture messaging, as I later discovered — in a condom, even if it was merely to "stop the keypad getting gunked up by my love juices".

The health implications of this kind of behaviour do not bear thinking about. I myself suffer from "hot ear" brought on by spending in excess of 200 hours a month on the phone to the Erotic Digest lawyers. What the long-term effect on one's ovaries might be is terrifying. When pressed, Gemma admitted that she was "a bit worried about ending up with roast beef curtains", but that "I reckon my labial piercings must absorb most of the radiation, mustn't they?" I fear not.

Worse still, Erotic Digest Sapphic editor Dierdre Bellbottom later berated my "Luddite tendencies" before whipping out (from her shoulder bag, mercifully) a mobile phone accessories catalogue containing no less than 74 latex mouldings designed to turn your portable telephonic device into a "clitorating dildo" or "buzzing Spanish fly".

Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but let me state for the record that no amount of dyslexic, long-distance foreplay or microwave-fuelled maturbatory activity will ever truly surpass the good, honest, face-to-face erotic verbal exchange. Just last night my thoughtful partner greeted my return to chez Raunchbitch with a candlelit dinner, relaxing foam spa bath experience, and a deliciously chilled bottle of rather palatable white.

Curling up after midnight in front of the blazing log-effect fire, we stared for an age into each others eyes before my Sir Galahad gently circled my nipples with his fingertip and asked softly if I was feeling a slight moistness "down below"?

To which the answer was a swift and firm "no", followed by immediate disengagement and ascent of the stairs to bed dressed in three pairs of pyjamas. But at least I was there to reject his advances in person — I'm sure he would be most offended if I were to decline the offer to accomodate his hideously empurpled member via SMS. I think you get my point.

Rowan Raunchbitch is editor of The Erotic Digest

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