At dinner with my cousin Cat last night – two grown women well into our thirties and when the subject of David Beckham came up, still we had to squeal. And she’s not really the type.

But on pure physical loin-pounding quiveration…seriously, who’s hotter than Becks?

And what’s hotter than Becks protecting his property – also his wife’s privates – as she descended from their car the other night. Indeed, Posh might be a famewhore but she still won’t whore out her hoo hoo which is why her husband is using his hand to shield it from the paps.

Again, these two are like porn for me. Seeing him all possessive and sh-t with his fingers so intimately jammed in the most intimate of places … the inner thigh… like he owns it, like it’s all his…

Am sorry. Am a perv.

But look at him. As he heads for morning coffee dressed down LA in flip flops and tattoos. It’s how his belt hangs off his hips and the naughty half smile and his gait and the confident way he holds his body even standing still – you can’t teach that kind of natural sex.

Lucky bitch.