Pillow Talk: How to Talk Dirty

Having gained newfound respect and enthusiasm for sex, I decided to fine-tune the things I felt were holding me back. Like pillow talk. No, none of your Doris Day, nightdress up to your eyebrows, 50s shit...I'm talking filth.

Like so many things it was something I'd considered becoming a champion at, but the crippling fear of making a complete tit out of myself usually made me hold back and just moan a bit louder to compensate. I'd maybe throw in a couple of “oh yeah”s for good measure but I generally kept my mouth shut.

Being sexy in bed is something I'd never really thought about too much. I was usually too busy having fun and it was always with lights off. However, as soon as I tried to analyse it I found myself dissecting everything I did or said, and it made me cringe. I don't have long flowing locks of gorgeous hair to flick over my shoulder or hold up while I'm on top like some Playboy idiot; I have thick, choppy, layered hair which tends to fall in front of my face making me look like something from a Japanese horror that's about to crawl out of your television. I even tried to do my 'sex face' in front of a mirror, and resembled someone who looked like they'd just been given a really hard long division maths exam to do in their head. Shit. Combine that with my inability to comfortably express my desires and demand to have my ass slapped, I felt quite deflated and knew I had a long road ahead of me. Still, nothing that can't be practised, mastered and given a 'highly commended' certificate and medal for, I thought.

I've never been big on dirty talk. It always seemed a bit false, like some bad porn film with slap bass ready to kick in when a zipper gets pulled down; even with Jeremy I'm crap at filthy talk and find myself hurling abuse at him in the throes of passion like porn Tourette’s. Not sexy. He's very good at it, although I think his American accent definitely helps. I can't imagine getting turned on by some Scouse bloke telling me to spread my legs, but with Jeremy's deep drawl I'm like putty in his hands.

I needed to get more comfortable with this - and what better way to practice than on complete strangers, with a false name and a 36DD imaginary chest. Did I mention I look like a cross between Angelina Jolie and Bettie Page? No? Well, I do now...

Cybersex is huge. Roleplaying with someone you'll never have to actually meet or get involved with is a very attractive prospect, but I suspected it would a crashing disappointment. I imagined that this dongle-charged world was full of backward, socially retarded, lonely losers all looking for other equally lonely and sad losers to masturbate with, or husbands crying out that their wives didn't understand them and they needed some sort of escapism. Normal, happy people didn't do this, and I had a reason for doing it so I convinced myself that I wouldn't be tarred with the same brush. This was research for me, an experiment, not something I had to do because I couldn't get laid. The easiest part was finding my more than willing victims - I mean participants. I changed my online status from 'single' to 'whatever I can get' and put a suitably sexy, fake photograph on my profile (something with your mouth slightly open and looking a bit brain dead seems to work, as they came running like fat kids towards a Cadbury's discount factory clearance).

I did try to be discerning in my choices, and believe me it was tricky. The majority of messages I got were from people who obviously didn't win the spelling bee at their high school. Some tried the whole 'get to know you' nonsense and some just got straight to the point and began a conversation with “How big are your tits?”

I tried to ignore my initial reservations of “what the hell am I doing?” and my urge to send back an array of jokey, sarcastic comments. I had to remember why I was doing this. I knew I'd have to practise this on Jeremy at some point and it had to at least be smirk-free and believable, even if I didn't quite mean it.

The first guy to rock my instant messenger was Stuart. Stuart was a writer with long black hair, very skinny and strangely attractive in a completely unconventional kind of way. He initially approached me with a quirky “let’s discuss philosophy and Henry Miller over imaginary tea and biscuits”, which was funny; but pretty quickly his urge to appear 'interesting' was taken over by his even bigger urge to discuss his fantasy of watching me get it on with another woman. Testosterone will always kick intellect’s arse when it comes down to it.

All I had to do with this guy was describe how my faux lesbian action was turning me on and what I'd do to this imaginary woman, and he was a happy, horny bunny. It was funny how quickly I became this verbose, filthy typist when put in that situation; I described in detail something I'd never done, purely to get some stranger's rocks off, and did it convincingly well. I have to say it did nothing for me. I dunno if I expected to be completely turned on or even slightly turned on; but I wasn't. At first it was slightly exciting but without anything visual to go along with the text I quickly realised that he could have been a great big fat phoney. Like me.

I was happy just typing and not getting involved with webcams or microphones; the thought of revealing anything about myself made me want to throw up. I couldn't tell these guys that I was only blowing smoke up their ass and wasn't actually getting turned on by anything, but I realised how unconvincing it must have been pretending to be playing with all kinds of toys in all kinds of positions while doing a Mexican wave. What was I typing with? My feet? So I made it clear that I wanted to be the storyteller and let them play.

In between my cyber boys I also delved into the murky waters of phone sex. No, I didn't quite muster up the courage to apply for a sex line operator job, but my friend Lucy had told me about various chat-lines where women call free and the blokes are charged stupid amounts of money to chat to the ladies. It was an absolute farce and totally hilarious. Firstly you call up and leave a little message for the male callers, who will then send you a little message if they're interested. All going well you can connect and chat about the weather, football, crisis in Iraq or, more likely, engage in some dirty phone sex.

The first time, I connected with some random guy from London, who was just back from the gym (at 1.30am – get a grip), all hot and sweaty and looking for a dirty chat. He did most of the chatting while I just made a few “mmm” noises and pretended to get off. I'm pretty sure he wasn't pretending by the noises coming down the phone but he obviously just needed to know that there was someone with a vagina at the other end of the line, as I pretty much said nothing. My second attempt was much braver and I attempted to take control of the conversation. I picked the guy with the softest voice, obviously a bit scared or nervous and less likely to interrupt me, tell me to shut up, or laugh uncontrollably. He listened with heavy breath as I described my body and undressing and using my vibrator in a way that's probably illegal in many countries. When it was over, I hung up and did a little victory wiggle like I'd just gotten through to the next round on X Factor. Happy with myself, I turned my attentions to my online buddies again. If I'm honest the phone stuff was actually quite nerve-wracking and I needed some respite if I was even going to consider doing it again.

Finally there was Justin. Now Justin was a strange one. Handsome in a kind of boy band, trendy way but obviously very needy - and he had a slightly squinty eye which made him look a tad shifty in his photographs. He was not the smartest man I've ever had a conversation with, but he was funny and told me how gorgeous I was at every opportunity (why this pleased me when it wasn’t even my picture he was complimenting, I don’t know). Recently divorced and “just doing this for a laugh”, we indulged in lots of dirty talk as well as general chitchat but the whole thing began to feel weird when I refused to use my webcam, send him pictures of my genitalia or give him my address and phone number, despite repeatedly being asked. It was then I realised that though to me this was just a game, some people took this very seriously. It felt wrong in some way, as if I didn't want my online and offline worlds to meet, have a coffee, realise they actually had a lot in common and become best friends.

So I decided to call it a day, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be recognised in the pub and happy that I’d completed challenge number 2. The resuIt? I am completely comfortable being obscene and can tell Jeremy exactly what I intend to do to him, even with something in my mouth. That's a skill, I tell you.