I've had lovers that have requested some pretty outrageous outfits in bed. I've worn a masquerade-style mask, a nurse's outfit, a red wig, fishnets with denim hot pants and black garters with fuchsia ribbons (OK, so the last one was my fantasy, not his). But with Indian men, there's always been a particularly demure-seeming request that comes up: sex in a sari. It is an Indian man thing, of course. It's right up there with fucking a woman with thick, long hair down to her ass in the pouring rain. Indian men have poetic fantasies about making love to gorgeous Indian women who are wrapped in saris.

It's partly fuelled by Bollywood -- with images of Mandakini frolicking under a waterfall in a white sari, Sridevi's near-masturbatory dance sequence in Mr India and Shilpa Shetty's dangerously low-waisted petticoats.

But, as a woman, I can say with certainty that there's something innate in a sari that has the ability to transform me: Immediately, I look and feel more feminine, poised and graceful. I look taller, slimmer and curvier, the fabric resting on the arch above my ass, showing off a bare stomach and belly button, the folds of the pallav strategically placed to reveal the faint outline of a dark nipple on a blouse that clings to my breasts (the tighter, the better). And, at the same time, a sari places me immediately as Indian, as a traditional beauty, a goddess and -- sad, but true -- a mother figure. In fact, there's something Oedipal and almost primal about undressing a woman in a sari. It's like the ultimate act of "badness" -- stripping a virtuous Indian woman of her garb and, consequently, her timid demeanour, revealing the vixen underneath. And that's the great thing about doing it in a sari: it's fabulously dirty, when done right.

I have a favourite way of doing it, and it starts with picking the right sari. It must be either chiffon or georgette, something diaphanous and soft to the touch. The blouse has to be cut to fit, stopping right under the bust, and cut low both in the front and back. The pallav must be long, almost to the back of the knees (so you can grab it from far away and watch as it unfurls). Sparkly high heels are imperative, the kind you can kick off before lunging into bed, not the sort complicated by straps and buckles.

But it's really all in the act of the undressing, which happily lends itself to a long, drawn-out tease. There is an art to peeling a sari off a woman, of stripping away, layer by layer, the fabric she's wrapped in. It starts with a tug on the long pallav, so it drops off the blouse in a quick surprise. (This is why I never fasten a sari with a safety pin -- pins are for prudes, not sexy women always open to the idea of an unexpected fuck.)

Then sit down and watch the show: it's the ultimate Indian striptease and can go as fast or as slow as the goddess wants. I love it both ways. An excruciatingly slow build-up of long, stretching turns -- while you watch from afar and beg me to hurry -- at long last results in me standing there in a skin-tight blouse, satin petticoat and heels, my sari a zigzagging snake on the floor. I like to toy with the knots of the skirt, let it drop leisurely to the floor and then step out of it, still in my sparkly heels. The blouse stays on. It's a little trick fashion -- savvy sex kittens know -- a well-tailored sari blouse masterfully squashes your breasts together and propels them up and out, giving your man a steamy show when you're on top.

The other way to do it is to go sexy right from the start and make it a power-fuck. Midway through an elegant dinner, when I'm being the demure, sophisticated Indian woman you're mentally imagining your mom approving over tea, I lean over and let you know that I left my panties at home. Back at home/hotel room/bathroom, I simply kick off the heels and hike the entire sari up to my waist, unhooking most of the blouse buttons so you've got something for your lips to do while you're going at it. Most times, I've only just managed to enter the room before this happens, and I'm being banged against the back of a door, the thumping accompanied by the clinking of gold jewellery. Such is the power of a dirty tramp in a sari.

And it's the best way to justify spending a month's salary on a new Sabyasachi.