Catherine Townsend: Sleeping Around

Shamelessly, I've chosen sizzling sex over banter

Lying in bed, blissfully, afterwards, I told him about a scheming co-worker's Machiavellian tendencies, and he said, very politely, "What does that mean?". Since then, I have explained "marginal", "verbose", "salacious" and "cunnilingus"(though fortunately, his lack of Latin did not impede him in the bedroom). In most of my relationships, I have spent hours debating everything from the English translation of L'Amant to Patrick Swayze's mullet. This time, I've shamelessly chosen sizzling sex over sarcastic banter.

I've always maintained that the brain was the sexiest muscle for seduction - so I feel a bit shallow admitting that, for now at least, a perfect set of abs seems to be doing the trick. I don't know what genre of movie he likes, his views on politics or even his middle name. But I could write volumes on how he likes his neck kissed, and know how tightly I can bind him to his bed's headboard without causing wrist abrasions.

Perhaps pillow talk does not need to involve discussions about string theory. After years of dating self-centred "artists" whose endless phobias and issues need to be explored in depth over dinner, dating a guy whose main priority in life is playing football feels like a vacation.

"When a guy is that gorgeous, you don't need to spend a lot of time talking," says my friend Victoria, who has counselled me through several exhausting break-ups with neurotic creative types. "What you need now is a sex machine."

It's not that R isn't smart: as a graduate who runs his own company, he's an expert on car parts and woodwork, no pun intended. While he may not know Nietzsche from Nabokov, he's charming and has an incredibly kind heart.

But am I creating more to the relationship than is there just because the chemistry is so fantastic? Sex has always been a huge priority for me, so in a way I'm a victim of my own success. I ask R if it bothers him that he has no idea how my mind works. "That will come in time," he says, winking.

Many of my girlfriends admit that their most unforgettable nights of passion were not with their boyfriends. "The best sex ever was on a dive-boat with a Greek guy whose English was basically limited to 'You. Bed. Clothes off'," sighs a girlfriend of mine currently living with her boyfriend. Alas, none of these flings lasted very long.

Meanwhile, my more shallow male friends fail to see the problem. "Just chill out and enjoy it, and don't obsess about what everything means," says my friend John. "You want literary conversation? Join a book club."

Are we using the guise of a semi-steady relationship as an excuse to shamelessly use each other for sex? Lacing up my corset for another night out, I decide that I can live with that. So that night, I apologise to R for being jaded. He looks down and ruffles my hair. "What does 'jaded' mean, honey?" Maybe with someone that beautiful, it really doesn't matter.

c.townsend@independent.co.uk