Celia Walden

The scandalous truth behind on-screen sex

on the sordid details of on-screen sex;

Actors will regale their public with tales of chronic discomfort, halitosis, merkins, modesty pouches, pasties and the big daddy of libido slayers: flesh-toned undergarments

Ionce asked an actress friend to teach me to lie. I had seen her do it – airily and convincingly – in print and on air, and it occurred to me that being able to make something true simply by saying it out loud would be a useful talent to have. ‘It’s about believing it in that moment,’ she explained. ‘Which is why, in Hollywood, hypocrisy doesn’t exist.’

Right. Because as the A-lister is solemnly giving her keynote speech at the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species, that little row of African Nile crocodile-skin totes in her walk-in has been airbrushed out. And as the red-blooded action star is telling Graham Norton just how sexy he found Scarlett, Charlize or Jessica, the man cradling his miniature schnauzer backstage really is his assistant /trainer/ spiritual companion. That the holistic lifestyle guru stubbed out a ciggie minutes before her Oprah segment on skin foods doesn’t make her advice any less valid; that the ‘face’ of a cosmetics giant uses a bounty of injectables needn’t affect the veracity of her ‘love your fine lines’ message.

But nothing brings out the luvvies’ porkies quite like sex. On-screen sex, I mean. Hell-bent on maintaining a medical-grade professionalism, they will regale their public with tales of chronic discomfort, halitosis, merkins, modesty pouches, pasties and the big daddy of libido slayers: flesh-toned undergarments. All endured for the sake of art. In private, of course – and at a recent lunch with three actors discussing the merits of the soon-to-be-released Fifty Shades

Darker – they laugh up the lies. ‘Because the truth,’ explains my favourite fibber, ‘is that sex scenes are great. If you’re single, you try out the goods with no obligation to buy, and if you’re married, you’ve basically got permission to fool around.’ ‘What’s called a “professional pass”,’ nods her husband approvingly – adding that the odd ‘palate cleanser’ can actually be good for a marriage.

I’m in the wrong job. The only professional pass I get is laminated and to be brandished before a mournful-faced man in reception. It gives me access not to some of the hottest male screen properties today, but an open-plan office with faintly humming LED lighting. It certainly doesn’t allow me to engage in faux heartfelt outrage when – hosed down in what’s known in the business as ‘sex spray’ (a rosewater and glycerin solution used to mimic sweat) and smooching some unfeasibly attractive actor – ‘they cheekily slip a tongue in’. Apparently this rarely happens any more (something to do with never working in this town again), but there is one celebrated British actor famous for taking liberties on set (if I told you who it was, you’d understand why none of his co-stars have ever reported him). And of course there are other, less calculated and age-old ways of doffing a cap to one’s leading ladies. As Sean Connery apparently once said, ‘If I get aroused, I’m sorry. And if I don’t, I’m sorry.’ I’ll bet that either way, he was made to feel it.