Rowan Raunchbitch's torrid sex tips for red-hot lovers (Pub-friendly) [The Rockall Times]

Well, it's a bit of a turn-up for the books, isn't it? My old adversary Toby Rubpubbly took a battering last week during his challenge to become the next leader of the Tory Party after it was revealed he might have partaken of cocaine while at university.

Rubpubbly, as regular readers will know, has regularly taken the sword of indignation to the Erotic Digest — most notably when he issued seventeen simultaneous writs against us for our 1998 Schoolkids' Edition, featuring as it did a pull-out section on the delights of Pitcairn Island and an enlightening interview with Paul Gadd at his Havana bolthole entitled Do you Wanna be in my Gang (in Temporary Exile)?.

Our defence that the legal age of consent in Cuba was at that time just twelve curried little favour with the judge, who ordered 100,000 copies of the magazine to be pulped — a judgement stayed only by the last-minute testimony of an expert in reproductive development who provided genetic evidence that women under Communist regimes reach sexual maturity on average two years earlier than their democratic counterparts because, as he put it "they are not subjected to the stress of fretting over the best way to administer oral relief to their boyfriends as outlined in liberal teen publications". Accordingly, it appears their ovaries are free to mature as Lenin intended, without vital hormones being diverted to taxing contemplations of French kissing and "blowjobs".

One month later, though, and we were once more before the beak after running an illuminating piece by Thor Hungstallion ("Gonna pop a cap in yo' ass, ho!") extolling the many benefits of "poppers" as they are known in street parlance and which Thor claims once caused him to ejaculate "from one end of Swiss Cottage public convenience to the other" — a distance of 22 feet, I am reliably informed.

Obviously, I cannot in all conscience condone the use of drugs for the purpose of heightening the sexual experience, although I'll admit that office girl Gemma's description of a "charlie and champagne-fuelled bender" with her then beau Oliver, a polo-playing former public schoolboy "hung like a Lipizzano and able to pleasure a filly for the full four chukkas" did give me food for thought.

According to Gemma, a "couple of toots of the old Bolivian" soon got the juices running to such an extent that "just the sight of his muscled torso dismounting the steaming steed while the sweat of battle trickled between his shoulderblades" caused the poor girl to go weak at the knees and "as I fell, reaching for some object with which to support myself, I found myself unknowingly taking in hand his handsome 12 inches which began instantly to twitch in preorgasmic delight".

I admit that is not exactly how Gemma put it, but as it appeared in her subsequent (ghost written) bodice-ripper One Foot in the Slave — a highly-charged account of how an amply-bosomed Persian slave girl is brutally kidnapped, drugged and then hideously deflowered by the horse-fancying Sultan of Cali.

Her actual words were, I recall: "I was buzzing off my box on charlie and had put away a couple of bottles of Clicot and as Ollie jumped off his pony I sort of got two hands round his dick and he shot two pints right down my frock."

Suitably towelled down in the stables and refreshed with some more "toot", Gemma then received the "shagging of a lifetime" during which she "orgasmed so much the vet thought some bloody filly's waters had broken" when said medic was later called to examine the by then delirious girl.

Suffice it to say, she made a full recovery after urgent hospital intervention involving a pump and thirteen amazed medical students ("How she ever took in that much ejaculate without exploding is a bloody miracle," admitted the duty doctor later to the local newspaper's social diary correspondent).

Naturally, this unhappy ending did not make the final edit of One Foot in the Slave. Rather, Gemaviva, as the heroine is known, rode off into the sunset astride her Sultan's throbbing organ, "her ripened womanhood pulsating with all the delights of the Orient, her chocolate nipples hardened against the desert sun, her head aspin with the fruits of the poppy..."

I for one am not convinced, although I am prepared to make a startling admission: I once, as a Media Studies student at a well-known and highly-regarded red brick university, share a room with a group of fellow undergraduates while they partook of a "spliff" as it was known in those days. I myself declined the offer of a "toke" but found myself strangely "chilled out" after several hours, so much so that I experienced a slight gusset-moistening which, had I not immediately exited the room and plunged myself into a bath of cold water, might subsequently have resulted in unprotected masturbation.

The effects of the marijuana did me no long-term harm, although I have not since even looked at a "joint", nor do I ever again intend to tempt fate.

As for Mr Rubpubbly, if he wishes to come clean and admit that he too tasted the forbidden fruit, we will gradly publish the full and unexpurgated account of the orgiastic homosexual mass grouping which undoubtedly followed his inhalation of nose candy. We're sure that Middle England will think none the less of him for it.

Rowan Raunchbitch is editor of The Erotic Digest

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

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