I bought a guy home the other night. I haven't done that in a while, not since the storming of the French Bastille, which left my heart in shreds.

How I have managed to still my deafening libido, is beyond me. My libido has recently been an overwhelmingly sycophantic thorn in my side, for no man could conquer it of late. No man really has, come to think of it.

It's a challenge, because my libido is on constant acceleration; an uttermost second character to my entire personality, for even if I feel heart sore, I know it's just banging away underneath my layers, bursting to come out and party.

No sex ever again?

How did I manage to curb it without the help of a man? I bought a new vibrator of course. And I'm going to be frank, because sincerity and sex should always go hand in hand. Well, I probably don't need to have sex ever again.

This little toy has transformed my previous conversations of, 'Would you like to show me how sturdy my coffee table really is?' to 'This pub is lame. I'm going home to... watch a DVD. See you around, hot stuff.'

I was usurping real-life sweaty shagging for a buzzing toy (that comes with seven different speed settings, inclusive of a pulse and acceleration option — dildos these days are certainly the height of modern gadgetry).

However, as satisfying as a toy is, men shouldn't feel threatened. For, like the train set you received that one delightful Christmas when you were five, you're going to get bored eventually — especially if you play with the train every night. Nothing in this life beats variety, so toys are good for segmented or perhaps limited time, gentlemen.

Which brings me to my evening. I almost forgot what it was like bringing a fellow home. Three glasses of Morganhof Pinotage later, I started wondering whether my house was acceptably tidy to bring the male succubus home to.

Perhaps I speak for all women, perhaps I don't, but my domestic lieu has to be suitably apt for leg-over slumber parties. I have to run through a checklist if I am certain I will bring home one of my dates. Starting with the basics: did I make the bed? Is my vibrator is my secret drawer and not lying about on my night stand? Did I wash the bloody dishes?

But it goes deeper. Before I head out, and spray on my perfume and straighten my hair, I check the toilet. I needn't explain why, but if there's so much as a suspicious-looking watermark on the seat, my shag isn't going to be full of reckless abandon, because like dirty dishes, I'm going to worry about it the whole night.

'Human detritus is a passion killer'

Are my patent leather spike heels thrown carelessly onto the lounge floor, and is a black lace bra hanging off the edge of the chair? These are timeless props for the single-but-horny-girl's domicile.

And last but not least, blast the bath ring with Handy Andy. For even if he never touches your bath tub, best it be pristine, because human detritus is a passion killer. End of story.

And if I can keep my house clean, then so can my male counterpart. Stray jocks lying on the floor, especially those with any of the following: 1) holes; 2) paisley patterns; 3) looking suspiciously like a thong, are going to be tentatively stepped over, and all kinky conversations involving me and him standing on the Yellow Pages up against a wall, will suddenly be null and void. Instead he'll just get the missionary, because out of the corner of my eye, the pink elephant of underpants will be leering at me from the corner spot of his floor.

What about personal foibles, such as his personal tarantula collection? If the man collects furry venomous creatures with mandibles, and they’re breeding in tanks, atop a bookshelf in his bedroom, no dice.

Similarly I suppose, should a women collect and display a large ream of self-help books ('Women Who Love Too Much'; 'He’s Just Not That Into You'; or even 'Why Men Marry Bitches'), it's probably best not to store these within close proximity of the boudoir in which you plan to exchange bodily fluids.

One of my devilishly studly male friends (who happens to have a 99.9 percent strike rate — his wife turned him down. Once), said that if the girl owned a fish tank, then he knew she was cool. Obviously her bathroom and kitchen had to look as though she did care a little for hygiene and basic cleanliness, but a well-kept fish tank basically closed the deal for him.

Perhaps much like how my black lace bra, carelessly flung over the back of a chair closed the deal for me — and rather pleasantly too.