Talking to a friend recently, I realised that for the past decade – I’m now 30 – I have only dated former public-school boys. I don’t know how this happened (I went to both private and state schools), but most of all, I don’t know how I have tolerated the bedroom tedium that has come with it.

Don’t get me wrong. I love having doors gallantly held open for me; I don’t mind him ordering for me in restaurants; and I definitely don’t mind my dinner being paid for and being showered with presents. It all makes my date feel more masculine, and me feel like a lady. My parents have been waiting with bated breath to hear to whom I am going to announce my engagement. Will it be the banker? The IT director? Or the multimillionaire property developer?

But, as well mannered and well spoken as these boys are, they are all hopeless at sex. On paper, they’re perfect marriage material: ambitious, articulate, charming and financially successful. Yes, they might not be known for their spontaneous displays of affection – but, hey, what’s a bit of emotional detachment when it comes with holidays in the south of France, a house in the country, stylishly dressed children and a chocolate-coloured labrador?

But there is one thing I can no longer live without; one thing that all the gentlemanly gestures, swanky cars and fancy restaurants just can’t quite replace. And that is good sex. Not the kind that requires censorship when spilling the beans to your girlfriends, or that is particularly inventive, or difficult to do. Just good, old-fashioned, satisfying sex.

Because sex with posh boys is just one long list of excuses. I’m bored with these men who can’t do it without either apologising beforehand or thanking me after. Men who justify their lack of technique by saying things like: “Forgive me, darling, it’s been a while.” Men who don’t like shagging with the lights on, who do it with their socks on, who employ the washing-machine kissing technique. Oh yes, and there’s the brevity problem. They’re all over you like a rash, and then it’s over before you’ve even got your kit off. They’ve been so busy working late and slogging it out in the City, making all their dosh, that they’ve lost all sense of how to get a woman off before they do.

And then there are the hang-ups. They can never discuss what might be working or not, they’re no good at postcoital chat – and don’t you dare try to snuggle up to them afterwards. It might seem charming in a foppish sort of way at first, but it soon turns into a list of embarrassments – for you and for him. The sex they have to offer leaves you wishing you had settled for joining him and his “rah” friends in the village pub to discuss clay-pigeon shooting.

After 10 years of tolerating mediocre, half-baked attempts at copulation, I had my epiphany in a busy Soho pub. He was cocky, open and funny, and I spotted him across the bar. His grin by return told me that he was ready to show me what I’d been missing.

Having locked eyes, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. After a decade of diplomatic, to-and-fro manoeuvring – which dragged on for hours, days, even weeks, and frequently died a boring and languorous death – his instant come-on was so refreshing and sexy. A slight smile from me, a moment of hair reorganising, and he was straight over. No time-wasting here.

I could tell straight off that his parents hadn’t remortgaged their home to enable him to build a network of contacts, or work himself into a coke habit and state of premature hair loss. He was a working-class cockney, confident, tactile and full of himself, with all the raw masculinity I needed to put me through my paces. We left the pub together, and the moment he opened the door and marched through it first, I knew I’d made the right choice. I liked the door in my face and paying for our cab ride to his basement flat. I found it exciting – I was finally about to get a proper, old-fashioned seeing-to.

Sex with him was satisfying, dirty, honest and real. He made no apologies – not even when he had my hair firmly gripped in his hand. He had none of the hang-ups that I’d previously regarded as somehow being my fault. He showed me that I am free to be and do what the hell I want, without embarrassment, shame or self-consciousness.

As we talked afterwards (no immediate postshag shower or dash out the door), I could tell his parents loved him. Even though he’d had a tough upbringing on an estate, he knew how to be warm, attentive and tender. And he had all the sexual dominance I’d been searching for.

It makes me wonder how much an expensive education actually matters when it comes to emotional balance. The scars public-school boys carry from a childhood spent locked away in dormitories are profound. They feel exposed in the company of anyone who dares to fully acknowledge them. As soon as they get physically close, there’s a flash, a gushing spasm of excitement – then nothing again.

The difference between them and my boy in his basement is that he has nothing to prove. He isn’t obsessed with becoming filthy rich, sporting the right watch and being a member of the right clubs. He doesn’t care what I think of him. He’s just there as he is, take him or leave him. And I’m more than happy to take him. Again and again.

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