Catherine Townsend: Sleeping Around

'So, Cat, you wrote once that you can tell if a man is good in bed by the way he behaves at the dinner table," my new friend John said. "Can you do the same thing with women?" We were among the guests at a Date a Millionaire event, which was lovely because the entire event turned into a house party. Soon, we were all sharing war stories.

I read a piece this week about the differences between the grooming habits of British and American women. The writer lamented the fact that British women morph into shepherd's pie-scoffing fatties, while American women, though they may be brash and confrontational gold-diggers, at least don't eat carbs after 2pm. As I read it I had to laugh first of all, because I'm American and was wolfing down a pizza at 2am, and secondly, because I suspect that the author is clearly missing out on some hot sex. Maybe that's why he seems so angry.

Everyone wants a partner who looks after themselves. But women (and men) who are obsessed with appearances are far too worried about being in control to let themselves go in the sack. When my male pals ask me how to tell if someone is likely to rock their world with screaming orgasms, I advise them to seek out women who are comfortable in their own skin. I advised my friend John to avoid overly groomed women, because too much make-up could be a sign that she'll have a different face in the morning. Manicures are fine, but avoid talons as women with shorter nails are dirtier.

I told John that I remembered my first sexual experience with a woman I had his full attention at this point with a Russian friend of mine at university. She was physically stunning, but the best thing about her was her outlook on life. She wasn't into self-denial, so we often ate chocolate cake. After midnight. Off each other's bodies. She really was the perfect woman if only I was a lesbian, my love life would have been sorted years ago.

I have a healthy "detox and re-tox" attitude these days; I spend time doing yoga and running, but also eat rare steaks and smoke the occasional cigarette. But at times, I've taken things too far by thinking that skinny equalled sexy. Once, I fasted to get myself down to eight stone and I'm 5ft 10in. And after a few days of drinking lemon juice and cayenne pepper, my sex drive was dead. When I saw a well-muscled man, I found myself thinking about biting into his bicep, and not in a good way. Finally, I snapped out of my cannibal fantasies, and tucked into a plate of pasta.

These days, I'm the unofficial "wingwoman" to my male friends, and I'm rarely wrong about guessing sexual prowess. A few days ago, I met my friend Michael's stunning and stick-thin date. She started grilling the waiter about every item on the menu, and by the second time she sent back a drink because the fruit juice wasn't organic, I wouldn't have cared if she could memorise the entire Kama Sutra. I knew that the spicy tuna roll wasn't the only cold fish that he was going to be sampling that night.