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I would like to think that, being a liberal sort of girl, I may be the sort of person who could use a women's brothel, should the need arise.

I have disposable income and for the price of a good bottle of champagne an hour of sex could perhaps be something on the menu, should the need arise.

I mention "need" and "arise" because I am a contented married woman. But my husband may get run over by a bus, or 20 years down the track I may be a needy widow. Stuff happens.

There are a few things I'd need to sort out first, though. Like who makes the first move?

You're standing there with this man, in a room which I presume will have an emphasis on red velvet drapery and perhaps a faux Renaissance statue in the corner and you say: "Hi."

The guy says "hi" back.

You stand there.

"So, um, nice curtains," you say.

"Yes," he says.

"I've always loved Renaissance statues. Have you been to Florence?"

Five minutes down. Fifty-five minutes to go.

"You been doing this long?"

"Yes, a few years."

"Right. So ... well ... right."

"Did you want to have sex?" he says sitting down on the fluffy duvet encased in crisp white linen, smiling patiently.

"Mmm. Suppose. Ha, ha."

"You could start by taking your clothes off."

"Yes, good idea ... could you turn the lights off?"

Ten minutes down, 50 minutes to go.

The problem with the idea of women paying for sex is that most of us are extraordinarily shy when it comes down to it.

Men seem able to charge in with appendage primed and ready to go, but we need a bit more time and often quite a lot of alcohol to get us in the mood for a first-time encounter.

"Could we have a cuddle?" is our idea of a sexual proposition. Followed by 20 questions about his life.

"Got any sisters? Where'd you grow up? Do you like strawberries? I'm allergic."

All this while he lies there counting to 10 and wondering how long he can keep this, or it, up.

So that's the first hour gone.

The next hour is spent relaxing enough to enjoy ourselves. It is a well known fact that women take an average 20 minutes to orgasm - but you don't start counting until you have your new sexual partner's life history in your head, you have managed to get naked with the lights off, you are lying down fully covered by the duvet and there is absolutely no noise to distract you. That's another expensive bottle of champagne gone.

When it's finally all over we're never in any hurry to move on and would spend a good 10 minutes weighing up the economy of it. Does size really matter? Would two bottles of expensive champagne have actually left you feeling happier? Should you have demanded that other position you've only ever heard about, since you are after all paying. And then we roll over and sigh.

"You're lovely," we say gazing up at this new person in our life with complete adoration while he once again counts to 10.

"You've got a funny look on your face. What are you thinking?"

Finally, after three hours he makes his excuses, pulls on his pants and makes for the door.

"When will I see you again?" we ask, hopeful.

"Whenever you like," he replies, not meaning a word of it before he exits and makes his way down to reception where he writes a note for the owner.

Dear Pam,

Please only place me with women who:

1) Can get it over in an hour;

2) Don't talk;

3) Realise that I'm a hooker, not their new life partner; I do have my standards.



PS Your decor sucks.