Global Slut

My slutty mission has taken a new twist. Just after Christmas, I started a new job as an air steward for a world-famous airline and I love it. Every week, I fly from London Gatwick to fantastic destinations all over the globe.

You may think that this job has given me exclusive access to the world's most notorious membership: the mile-high club. But you'd be very wrong. Believe me, I can't imagine anything more unerotic. The cramped conditions, the smell, the floor covered in piss and sometimes even blood. And these are the good points!

You would have to be seriously desperate to attempt sex in an aircraft restroom. Apart from the highly undesirably surroundings, the crew check the loos every twenty minutes so - unless you're very quick - you're bound to be caught. I'm sure that some people find the prospect of being discovered quite exciting, but it doesn't appeal to me. I'm far too classy - hey, don't laugh!

So although the legendary mile-high club remains out of bounds, my new employment has allowed me to explore my promiscuous side on a whole new level. I was quite chaste for the first 6 months, but I have recently discovered the advantages of being a fly-by-night slut. I can literally have a cock in every continent, with no fear of getting a bad reputation or bumping into the people I've slept with. It's shame-free shagging!

Being a worldwide wench has been fun and I've learned that American boys are the easiest. I took a gamble and shagged a concierge in Las Vegas, popped a guy's cherry in the Big Apple and got blown in the Windy City. God bless America!

I recently got back from Hong Kong and, after barely three hours' sleep, went clubbing in London. The day before, I'd consumed far too many Bloody Marys and ended up in bed with a colleague. I should have been all shagged-out, but I'd developed what I liked to call 'Aircraft Amnesia.' The moment the plane takes off, the memories of my slutty behaviour are banished from my mind and I almost feel cleansed of my shenanigans.

So, although I'd been shagging my co-worker all through the night, I was now back in the U.K. and therefore the incident had never happened. It's warped logic, but it works for me.

As a result, I found myself in Soho on the prowl for my next victim. My friend Garv had long abandoned me in search of the dark room, but I prefer the more traditional form of pulling. Call me old fashioned, but I like to see what someone actually looks like before I shag them.

Several vodkas later, I found myself in a cramped Camden apartment with a former Big Brother contestant. At first, I'd pretended not to know who he was - I thought that was the correct etiquette for celebrities. Maybe it is. But not if the 'celebrity' in question is a Reality TV reject. The moment I uttered the immortal words "I recognise you from the telly" his hard-on literally popped up from nowhere. It seemed like the notion of celebrity turned him on more than I did.

To test my theory, I said "You're famous" and - I swear on my life - his erection grew twice the size. Much like his ego, I suspect.

Against my better judgement, I went home with him. The fact that his bedroom wall was covered with cut-outs of himself from Heat magazine should have put me off, but I was randy. When he turned on his stereo and put on a CD, I was half expecting it to be the Big Brother theme tune. Fortunately, it was a Ministry of Sound complilation.

We stripped off and started playing around.

When he fixed me with an earnest stare and, affecting a Geordie accent, said: "Who comes first? You decide?" without a trace of self-awareness, I knew that it was time to leave.

I promplty evicted myself from the house. I was in such a hurry that I forgot to grab my £300 All Saints jacket on the way out.

Well, they say that fame costs. I just didn't realise that I would be the one paying.