Let's talk about sex

I was strolling across O’Connell Bridge and a gaggle of girls pointed at me. Eh? What was going on? Was my skirt caught in my pants? Had I lipstick on my nose? As I reached the other side, I realised why. There, in glorious technicolour above me, was a massive hotpress poster and my face was prominently displayed on the bottom of it. Good Lord!
It’s a disconcerting experience, confronting a massive version of your mug. Terrifying. I squinted at it briefly and scuttled away. For the next fortnight, I avoided that route and generally kept a low profile. It was nice to know it was there, but I couldn’t actually look at it. What had I let myself in for?
Three months earlier, I’d decided to enter a competition. It had started out as a regular Thursday evening. I went to the shop after work to flirt with the cute cashier and pick up the necessities – a litre of milk and a copy of Hot Press. Paddy Casey was on the cover. He may have been looking soulful but something towards the bottom of the front page caught my attention – hotpress was looking for a sex columnist.
Some people are born lucky. Not me. The only thing I’d ever won before was a CD on a radio phone-in, and that was only because I knew the DJ. So, although the HP competition wasn’t exactly a game of chance, I didn’t expect to win.
Imagine my surprise then, when they phoned me and asked if I’d come in for an interview. Yikes! Of course I would!
Interviews are not my strong point. While I’ll happily talk to strangers for hours and flirt with any decent bloke that catches my eye, job interviews make me nervous. Sitting in the boardroom atop HP towers with one Mr. Niall Stokes, and a couple of other HP operatives, scared the bejaysus outta me. It probably wasn’t the best time to come over all coy, but I couldn’t help it. I felt deflated afterwards – a bit, I guess, like a man who’s blown his wad too early in proceedings.
Like an obsessive lover, I sent Hot Press another column. And then another. I’m not sure how their deliberations were proceeding but – responding no doubt to my boundless enthusiasm as well as my good looks – they eventually decided to give me a chance. Would I like to be their sex columnist? You bet I would! I’d been driving my friends mad for weeks. There was nothing I wanted more. And so it came to pass…
I love writing Sexed Up. At times it’s been difficult, particularly when people accuse me of ridiculous things, such as being a prostitute in print (Matt Cooper, I still haven’t forgiven you). But as a full-blown, certified sex fiend, it is great to be able to write about my favourite hobby, pastime and interest on a regular basis. I still get a thrill every time I see my byline, and there’s a fresh buzz any time I meet one of you lovely readers. There’s nothing better than hearing how much you love the column and then offering to buy me drinks! Aren’t you sweet?
There’s just one thing I am peeved about though – Hot Press promised me groupies. Where the hell are they – and can I have one tomorrow, please?