Never mind death by chocolate or having egg on your face; I am getting completely killed in custard, and my mug is so soaked in sauce that my eyes are sealed shut.

Blind, I shriek as what feels like a bucket of soggy sea creatures suddenly splats onto my back, and gooey globules slurp slowly down my spine. I realise from the sickly-sweet smell that they’re actually tinned strawberries, and chuffing chilly they are too; as it seeps into my bikini top, the freezing fruit makes my raspberry ripples stand so much to attention that you could use them as snooker cues.

I don’t give two hoots about my thrupenny bits, though – I’m more worried about which direction the next slap is going to come from. Shivering and panting with exertion and adrenaline, I flail around, feeling for my rival’s body, half scared, half elated, my senses sharp as a Mach 3. I try to wipe the gunge away from my face with the back of my hand, but I’m so covered in jelly and juice that I merely add to the mess.

My opponent seizes her chance. In the blink of a custard-encrusted eye, her thighs straddle my neck and I’m nose-down in deconstructed trifle. Squealing and congealing, I splutter for mercy. “You pussy!”, my captor laughs triumphantly. “I win!”

FIGHTING DIRTY

Simone, the woman who’s just gotten me feeling completely wet in pretty much every sense of the word, was first introduced to erotic wrestling by her husband Ian. Having developed a taste for bird-on-bird battles by watching online videos, he suggested to his other half that she might like to try smacking a bitch up herself, and things kicked off from there.

They now co-manage their own company, Bitchfight UK, producing DVDs, staging shows and ring-based brawls, and arranging custom catfights for private clients. Today, Sim’s agreed to give me a crash course in whore wars at her Chester home. We ease in by having a relaxing cuppa (you gotta get the brews in before a bruising) in her lounge, which is immaculate; ironically for someone who makes money from grubby grapples, Sim also works cleaning houses.

Although the spotless suburban setting initially seems at odds with the filth that takes place there, Sim is quick to point out that the tasteful leather sofas and laminate wood flooring weren’t chosen for style, but because they wipe clean: after her troupe of goo-goo dolls are done covering the place in gunk shooting films for blokes to polish themselves off over, a quick spritz of Mr Sheen clears away the evidence.

From dusters to knuckledusters, upstairs, fighters Kez and Summer are squaring up to each other in the bedroom. “I’ve arranged a little demo so you can witness what you’re in for”, explains my pile-driving professor, “although this is a catfight rather than a messy bitch wrestle – there’s no gloop, and whilst wrestling moves tend to be more about gripping and pinning your rival down until they submit, catfights are raw, and can allow moves like slapping, face sitting, spanking, scratching and hair pulling, although there is some crossover between the two disciplines. You’ll come out of any match with burnt knees and aching muscles, but I’m now very strict about laying down rules beforehand to make sure things don’t get too aggressive. My first ever scrap nearly put me off for life, as I ended up ripped to shreds and bleeding badly. Some people even allow low-blow bouts, though, where opponents punch each other in the fanny.”

Frightened out of my wits, at this point there’s a fearsome struggle going on between my very tight sphincter and my abruptly loose bowels, never mind the two girls on the duvet. Luckily, I’m distracted as they begin their smackdown. Things start off playful, but the tumble soon turns to a rumble as the pair go from giggly to gritty; lingerie is ripped, elbows slammed between shoulder blades, and a scowling Summer ends up sat astride Kez, mercilessly yanking her head back by the roots of her fringe. Yowling and snarling, Kez writhes beneath her, trying to break away, but succeeds only in freeing her breasts from her skimpy top, much to the delight of cameraman Dave.

As Summer is declared victor, the time nears for my own Mini Milks to get dunked in dairy products and become mucky puppies. But first, I have to learn some moves.

ANOTHER FINE MESS

Back in the front room, I find myself on my knees in a paddling pool, brandishing a bottle of conditioner marked ‘Dry and damaged’. I’ll probably end up one of those things, but certainly not the other…

I’ve slipped into a PVC leotard and fishnets, and Simone’s in a swimsuit and hold-ups. “Clients request all sorts of outfits for private sessions”, she remarks of the tussles she holds in hotel rooms, wrestling either the gents themselves who are after ‘a good workout’, or taking on their girlfriends as they watch.

“Sometimes guys like you to wear their partner’s clothes and mimic them as closely as possible, so that they can imagine that they’re with their lover even if she refuses to indulge their fighting fetish. I’ve worn nurse and police costumes, and Ian likes funky stockings – it’s his ultimate fantasy for me to duel with a blonde the same size and age as me, but completely naked. I get off on wearing sexy underwear, though occasionally it can be a bit icy; I once went mud wrestling in Cumbria with a group called Pennine Messy Maidens, in a 16ft trench in the middle of a field, complete with sheep and tractors. I was blue with cold, and I had to have my ears syringed afterwards to get the soil out.”

We get to work spraying each other with two bottles of Pantene and six cans of shaving foam, then fling in a couple of tubs of glitter poster paint for good measure. Covered in a twinkling potion mixed from foam and grease, I feel like I’m in a XXX version of George’s Marvellous Medicine.

It’s frankly freakin’ hilarious, though more slippery than a WD40-coated eel; I have to be very careful standing up in case I go arse over tit and chin myself on Simone’s coffee table. My chin’s going nowhere, however, when she has me in a headlock.

As I muck in with my mentor, trying out half-Nelsons and getting lessons in crotch-to-face scissor thigh grips, I begin to appreciate the multitude of reasons why messy bitch wrestling kicks ass; yes, there’s definitely a humorous element, not least when the poppers on the groin of my suit burst open while I’m stuck butt skyward, making a noise which sounds like I’ve let rip with some humongous homebrewed fart (well, that’s one way to knock out your rival).

However, I see too why people spunk over gunk; sliding sensually over Simone’s nearly-nude, sleek, shiny skin is a massive tactile and visual turn on. In the frenzied jumble of oiled-up limbs, I never know where a finger might happen to slide or a toe accidentally poke.

It’s full-on, hardcore aerobic exercise, and my endorphins are flowing along with my sweat. When I’m losing, I’m a sub. When I’m winning, I’m a dom.

And I find I want to win. Just like Summer and Kez, I feel a competitive edge I didn’t know I had in me cut through the comedy; it’s thrilling, primal, and a tad disquieting – I’ve gotten to know and like Simone by this point in the day, but if she was some stranger I didn’t give a shit about, I think I’d want to hurt her a little. Very Lord Of The Flies – even if my own flies won’t stay done up.

HAVE YOUR CAKE AND BEAT IT

Once I can just about hold my own in the art of holding down other people, it’s time for a proper match. Will I cut the mustard in the custard, and become victorious in Victoria sponge? Or will Simone pud me in my place and dish out my just desserts?

To find out, we whip up a batch of blue bun batter big enough to satisfy a billion bulimic secret scoff sessions and a week of spiffing Enid Blyton-style midnight feasts, then pour in a million hundreds and thousands. As we lube up in the slops, I realise I’ve totally lost my inhibitions.

I’m usually a touch self-conscious about my legs - seriously, I have sufficient cellulite that I don’t need a handbag when I go out anymore, I can just tuck my keys and comb into my in-built thigh pockets. I have so much orange peel that the man from Del Monte gets jealous.

Yet even when the tights shielding the world from my doomsday dimples get torn off, I don’t give a monkey’s, though I’d normally go ape. The cake mix camouflage helps, but predominantly my confidence comes from being completely immersed in the moment.

Unfortunately, I’m also completely immersed in unbaked cake for most of the 12 minutes that our final fight lasts, and despite putting all my effort into it, dodging, ducking, and even achieving a few bodyslams, there’s no question that Simone is the one who comes out on top.

I’m not giving up though. I’ve discovered that me + messy bitch wrestling = custard pi: this is one enjoyably mucky little number that’ll definitely be recurring an infinite number of times in my future…