OK, so today was another weird day. I was doing another TV pundit thing, this time for the world sexual records (another Sky One thing, for broadcast in October). Orignally I was supposed to just be talking about the record for most sexual positions achieved in a minute but they decided that they wanted me to be the sexpert for the whole series. I'd like to feel flattered but I'm pretty sure it's 'cos I cost way less than proper TV types.

Now I thought that advertising the Jessica Rabbit was as low as I could stoop (not 'cos it's a bad toy but 'cos the ads are very cheesy.)

I was wrong.

One of the things I had to comment on was the most dangerous sex act. I was given research notes as follows:

Outlawed at the turn of the century, but regularly practiced up until around 10 years ago, working down at the Hong Kong harbor the girls would offer the ‘ultimate’ pleasure to a man. Sadly such ‘pleasure’ often resulted in the loss of life of the woman doing it.

The Sampan girl, working in a boat, leans over the side and ducks her head into the water. The customer enters her from behind, experiencing exquisite vaginal spasms around his penis as the woman reacts to her near drowning. In theory, she pulls herself out of the water just before she loses consciousness, usually after the client had experienced an intense orgasm. Needless to say, however, you shouldn't try this at home.

OK, all well and good. This act is clearly not a good thing. With 'sexpert' hat on, I was quite happy to say that.

What I wasn't expecting was to be asked to re-enact the scenario with Barbie dolls. Or rather, one Ken Doll (complete with tux and moulded on Y-fronts) and one Barbie Doll (with moulded on white knickers.)

So today, as a highlight of my career, I was making two dolls simulate bad sex. And then drowning the Barbie to show how dangerous this act could be. In my bathroom sink.

It was a real 'if my career advisor could see me now.' moment.

In my defence, the producer was bloody gorgeous.And when you've been talking about shagging (albeit for work) to someone really rather foxy for 5 hours, looking them straight in the eye (for camera angles. Apparently. Whatever, I wasn't complaining) then it's damned hard to do a diva 'No, that would be bad for my credibilty' thing.

And it's fun getting paid to play with dolls.

::AVN Online:: Cliterati: The Write Stuff

Take The Paris Review and smash it over the head with a copy of Tropic of Cancer. Boom! You have Cliterati, a British text-based porn Website for women.

Saw this referenced on Eros and thought it was fab. Proof that women should stop being hung up about smell

And so, another weekend is over. And I've had the wild and partying experiences of:

- Writing summaries of 96 sex education cards
- Writing an article for More
- Writing a piece for iVillage
- Writing a piece for Revolution

On the plus side, when my wrists have been aching from too much typing (yes, that's typing) I've been reading Man or Mouse by Matt Whyman, which he posted to me after I met him. Luckily, it's fab because he's becoming a mate and I'd hate to have to make polite noises about a book I hated.

In other news, did more TV this week. It was a a pundit thing for a Sky One show on weird fantasies. One of the fetishes I had to talk about was balloon play. We had to stop the tape rolling cos I was in hysterics when they told me the case study about 'Brian' who had a collection of over 10,000 balloons. He'd semi-inflate them, shape them into a vagina and fuck the balloons. The bit that set me off is that apparently he had his favourite balloons (leading me to ask if he let the other balloons down gently)

Apparently, when he was younger, his parents kept finding semen covered bits of burst balloons in his room.

And he gave the researcher balloons when she left.

One of the questions I was asked is "Why is a balloon sexy?"

Like *I* know. Personally, have never got off on a balloon. Even a really big phallic shaped one. Not that I have anything against balloon fetishists - each to their own - but I don't really get it.

My favourite question was

"Is it important to share your fetish with friends and family?"

I was so tempted to say "Yes." I mean, could you imagine the conversation.

"Mum, dad, just thought I'd mention that I love fucking balloons."
"That's nice dear. Another cup of tea?"

Was also commenting on people who like watching women stamping on snails, people who fantasise about cannibalism, watersports and all manner of fun things. My life is odd.

This week, I've got another TV thing - the World Sexual Records. They've decided that they want me to judge almost all the records now, so I'm going to be commenting on the loudest orgasm, most resistance to naked women (eg, seeing how long a bloke can not get an erection when being gyrated in front of) and various other lewd things.

Think I may be turning into the definition of a media whore. Such is life.

Map of deviant desires (thanks to Stuart for the link).

Today, I was art directing an adult shoot. I arrived at the studios (having got up in the morning - as in, pre-9am -something I intensely disapprove of and avoid as much as possible) to discover that I knew one of the models. Who I promptly had a go at because last week, I bought a porn vid (hey, I'm a single girl, needs must...) and then it turned out that he was in it. So I couldn't wank over it. Because I knew him.

Much as I don't think porn objectifies people (well, not much) it's damn near impossible to wank over someone when you've spent numerous hours art-directing them and have seen their cock in every state from flaccid to full on - and know that their hard-on comes from them tugging themselves in the corner of the studio then moving to shag whoever it is they're booked to shag.

He laughed that I couldn't get off on his porn vid and had thus wasted £20.

And rightly so.

I then spent the day getting him and his foxy bird into various compromising (yet non-graphic) poses and being distinctly unaroused cos it was work.

I then went out for a beer with an agony uncle (first male sexpert - by job-title - who I've met) It turns out that he knows every trashy novelist I love, damned near, cos he's an author and authors seem to hang out together. I want to be in their gang. Or at least finish one of my sodding novels and have a chance to say 'Oh, we've got the same agent.' and have them sniff at me for only selling ten copies to their 100,000.

Guess I should write one so I stand a chance of getting there. And on the plus side, I finished the script, articles and gazillion other things I needed to do, so I may even have a chance to do some writing for fun.

I realised on Friday that I'd agreed to do rather a lot of work. Namely, by Monday, I had 800 words to write for More! magazine about how to turn a guy from a crap shag into a good one. I had to rewrite three of the sex advice cards I'd already done because the 'direction had changed' (clients, don't you just just love them) and write another twelve sex advice cards from scratch. I had to put all the camera directions into the Lovers' Guide script. I had an article to do for the Daily Star and over 40 pieces on the Cliterati spike to clear along with the Cliterati and Sex Insider newsletters (well overdue) to write.

So obviously, when I went out for a meeting on Friday lunchtime, the thing to do was then spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around Portobello market. I was supposed to be going for a drinks tasting for a vodka based thing which is supposed to taste 'like an orgasm on the tongue' (they didn't specify whether it was male or female orgasm-flavoured.) somewhere in Portobello but having no grasp of geography, I utterly failed to find the shop where the tasting was happening.

Instead, I spent my time wandering round the market and made the incredibly useful purchases of several cheesy CDs from a charity shop, a huge lace curtain (cos the muslin in my front window is frankly skanky looking and I need something to stop people being able to see into my bedroom) and a 5ft square piece of purple suede (it was £10 and seemed like it could be useful for something, though I'm not entirely sure what having found out that it would take an industrial sewing machine to be able to actually get a needle through it. Then again, I am the world's worst person at sewing so have no idea what I was thinking anyway.

To illustrate quite how crap I am at sewing, I spent hours at school making the cross-stitch 'peg bag' that everyone had to make only to stand up at the end of the lesson to find I'd attached it to my skirt and had to unpick it all. I was six. By the time I got to 13 and had to do home economics I was no better. Everyone else had made their complicated darted shirts faster than I made the 'two hems required' tube skirt because I am utterly unable to thread a sewing machine in less than an hour - which is particularly embarrassing given my mum is a dress designer creating gorgeous things like this.)

But I digress. So, I ended up wasting Friday afternoon then heading home. And when a friend insisted on dragging me out to the pub, did I say 'No, I have work to do.' Did I bollocks.

So, Saturday, I woke up hungover and my computer glared at me in a 'stop ignoring me, you bitch' kind of way. I would have glared back but it hurt, so instead, I went for the 'drink caffeine until I have guts to brazen out computer.'

The computer carried on glaring. So obviously, I decided that now was the time to change the interior design on the flat - which is just a vaguely wanky way of saying 'move everything from one room into another, look at it, realise it will take about five hours to get the flat looking remotely as tidy as it did before I started moving things, realise I will be living in a shit-hole if I don't so spend an age deciding exactly where I should put the blue rug, before bunging everything in the middle of the room into a cupboard and hoping the door will stay closed.'

The computer still glared. It intimidated me. So I decided now would be the time to clean the windows. Because obviously, having not cleaned them for five years, they couldn't wait a second longer.

And then, of course, I realised that the oven was looking in need of a clean...

And once the kitchen was shining and the windows were gleaming, I clearly couldn't let them get shown up by the bathroom.

Eventually, the caffeine kicked in, along with my guilt at doing absolutely no work. So I wrote some stuff. And realised that writing the 'turn a crap bloke into a top shag' article was really quite hard cos I haven't really met anyone who's crap enough to justify an article's worth of guidance. Or even much more than a few sentences, at best. And even that would seem unfair to them. Cue phoning round all my mates saying 'So, men who are crap in bed. How are they crap?'

Some of my friends have been luckier than others. In the end, all we could come up with was:

a) Blokes who are keen on oral but a bit clueless
b) Blokes who stop the foreplay the second a woman is remotely wet enough for sex (if not before)
c) Blokes who are ace at foreplay but just thrust away as if that's all there is to it when they get to shagging.

Even coming up with that took a lot of 'Hmm, well, so and so was great at blah but he could have done xyz better.' So generally, men are doing pretty well when it comes to shagging skills. Which is nice.

Of course, men being generally pretty good in the sack meant that it took me way longer to write the article than it should have done so I woke up this morning to a full working day. And I finally finished everything (well, near enough) at 2.30am. I'm thus feeling rather pleased with myself but utterly shattered. But it rocks to be able to finally make a living from writing. I feel very lucky.

Brilliant Pornblography post about the reality of being a male porn star.

When I say the worst conditions, I am talking about fucking on ice. I am talking about fucking while lying in snow. I am talking about maintaining an erection while having sex in the blazing hot sun for four hours in scratchy hay with flies getting trapped in the lube on your balls and mosquitoes bite your ass. I am talking about standing in a rock pit, lying on a bed of nails, fucking on a block of wet concrete, lying in an empty refrigerator, having sex in a dumpster full of rotten garbage, beating off while wearing a clown suit in a pile of decaying fish guts, and being able to come a large quantity of milky white semen on command with a smile.

Who exactly *buys* clown suit/decaying fish gut porn?

It's been the usual kind of sex-filled week. Landed a commission to write an 'ultimate sex guide' (no, I have no idea what makes it ultimate) on a tight deadline, which meant that I ended up having to write 10,000 words on Friday. It was fun - been a while since I've had that much to write in a day - and they were happy with it, which was good.

Got more of the same to do this week, along with the new Lovers' Guide script (all about foreplay - or rather, sex play, because foreplay suggests that it's something you do as a 'starter' when it can be a 'main course' all on its own.) several features for various clients and a gazillion features for the Lovers' Guide website. Got another piece syndicated too, which is always nice.

Met up with a mate who runs striptease courses today and wants a hand with marketing, so I'm helping her out in exchange for pole-dancing lessons. Seemed like a good trade cos I'm always intrigued/impressed by pole-dancers and would love to know how to do it. Fully expect I'll be crap as I'm not exactly the most co-ordinated person in the world, but it'll be a giggle.

On a vague tangent, netball is going well. Am now up to my third game and today I actually scored a goal. OK, only one, but it's a start... Even better, the aching after each game seems to have stopped.

Other than that, am dead chuffed that a sexpert mate from the US is coming over in October. We've already been planning much carnage. Turns out we have a mutual friend who I worked with for a while, which was very odd, given I know very few people in the US and the mutual friend has nothing to do with the sex industry. The internet is shrinking the world.