'Mr Sex' Talks NON-STOP FILTH (£1.99 per minute peak rate, £1.50 all other times)

Now then. The first job I ever had in the Porn industry was as a picture librarian for 30 grot mags. What this basically meant was that I was shoved into an office the size of a broom cupboard, had about 20 bin liners filled with loose transparencies of women showing off their Minnie Moos thrown at me, and was told to sort them all out into sets again. It was the world's largest pornographic jigsaw, and it took fucking ages.

Once I'd done that, my role was twofold. I had to ring up photographers, tell them I was in possession of a set of pictures they took 20 odd years ago and were demanding back until they gave up ten years afterwards, ask if I could buy the rights from them for £50, and then be
screamed at for being a fucking robbing bastard who wanted his head kicking in. My other role was to fulfill utterly ludicrous demands by magazine editors who wanted images that matched their letters pages to a tee. Did I have an upskirt shot of a blonde in a Hawaiian hula skirt, who was up a stepladder doing some decorating? (No.) Was there any chance of finding an image of a black Policewoman sucking a truncheon outside a football ground? (Absolutely none. Go away.) How many photos have you got of a redhead and a brunette in a bath, with someone in an Elvis costume in the background about to get in, and the bath has to have gold taps? (Fuck. OFF.)

There was one job, however, that made it all worthwhile, even though the first time I did it, I thought I was gonna get sacked on the spot. I was called up to the office of one of the big bosses, without being told what he wanted me for. Everyone had already warned me that he was not a bloke to fuck about with. I could immediately tell by his voice - a flat strangulated Essex sneer - that everyone was dead right. He had a icyness in his drawl that could reduce the testes to Cadbury's Mini-Eggs. But, to my surprise, he looked up at me with doleful eyes, picked up the phone, and said; "You'll 'ave to forgive me for this, but I 'ate this fucking part of the job."

What on earth did he mean?

"Yer...'allo, mate. Yes, very well, thanks. Shall we get on with it?"

A pause. And another glance in my direction, before casting his eyes downwards. Just like Lady Di, if she was a man in his late 40s, and worked in the Wank Factory. Then he let it fly...

"I'm a dirty fuckpig, and I'm hungry-hungry for cock"

Wham. I sat bolt upright as if someone had taken the ends of my puppet strings and jerked them upright. What the fuck?

"My slack fanny needs a turbococking by three black pricks. No, I didn't say 'slag fanny', you prat. Slack fanny. And Three. Black. Pricks."

Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod. This is my first experience with senior management, and I'm fighting to stop from pissing all over the carpet with laughter. I avert my gaze. I catch the eye of his secretary. She must have heard this a thousand times, and she's biting on a handkerchief. The cow.

"Your mouth. My toilet"

Fucking No. Stop. Please stop. Now. This is the only job I could find in London so I could be with my girlfriend who I love desperately, and if I lose it, I will have to go back and live at my Mam's on an estate 150 miles away. Please stop this crazy sex talk.

Then he says it. He takes one more look at me - his eyes practically bulging with piteous humiliation - and he says it.

"Granny wants your spunk"

And I snort like a sleeping walrus being anally penetrated by an icicle, and produce a snot bubble so enormous that the Montgolfier Brothers could have attached a basket to it and gone across France.

Amazingly, I didn't get sacked/slapped up/murdered. And yes, as you've already guessed, my boss was reading out the latest wankline adverts down to the phone to Repro, before getting me to provide appropriate images for them. And this week's selection of posts from me are gonna be devoted to them, because they're far and away the most entertaining part of any wank mag.

Let me get the scanner fired up, dear readers, and I will show you a world of wonderment and depravity, where every possible sexual urge can be sated for a mere £2 a minute. Except it can't, really, because you're trying to have as quick a wank as possible with a bit of plastic wedged between your ear and your shoulder because you're too scared to put the speakerphone on.

To be continued on Thursday...