I HAVE nothing against looking at semi-naked pictures of David Beckham. In fact, given a choice I would look at them every hour on the hour until the power of my lustful gaze blurred the photographs beyond all recognition and turned this fine figure of British manhood into little more than a grey smudge with a fancy hairdo.

But there is nothing more likely to throw cold water over a gal's flaming flimsies than seeing such an Adonis-like creature (please tell me if I start to over-egg this particular pudding) getting up close and personal with his own wife.

It's what I like to call the Cruise-Kidman Conundrum. When Tom and Nic - then still together and supposedly very much in luuurve - made the movie Eyes Wide Shut with Stanley Kubrick, there was a palpable feeling of unease in cinemas whenever the real life couple did what real life couples do.

Watching two actors romping about in the all together is nothing new - in fact I think some thesps insist on having a minimum of ten minutes of bottom baring written into their contracts - but when the actors are married, there is something undeniably cringe-worthy about it.

The audience is made to feel like a bunch of Peeping Toms, leering grimly through the upturned collars of their grubby macs into the love lives of the rich and famous. It's just not sexy. It's unnerving, it's uncomfortable - it's like catching your mum and dad "at it".

Which is why I'm not happy about the new supposedly uber-sexy snaps of the beautiful Becks in various states of undress, nibbling on various bits of his wife's barely there body.

The photos, taken for Dolce & Gabbana (the Marks & Spencer of high fashion), show Mr and Mrs Beckham in all manner of sexually adventurous poses, but lack even a smidgen of real sensuality.

Really sexy images have an element of fantasy about them, an "if only" factor. And there is nothing more likely to burst your fantasy bubble than knowing that as soon as the shoot is over, the woman takes off her basque and puts on her pinny to make tea for the kids while the man wipes the fake sweat from his glistening chest with a copy of the Radio Times before putting his slippers on, grabbing the remote and settling down for an evening with Gary Lineker (and the rest of the Match of the Day crew).

They are a married couple. They have sex. Big deal. It might give them a thrill to pose for their own personal version of the Karma Sutra, but don't expect me to get my not insubstantial knickers in a twist about it. Knickers, I might add, that I'm not ashamed to say come from M&S, not D&G.

David Beckham might have more sex appeal in his right eyebrow than most men, but there is something seriously unsexy about pictures of him getting it on with 'er indoors (who, incidentally, weighs about the same as her husband's right eyebrow). She ain't big, and it ain't clever.

MAYBE counselling is the answer. Maybe if I spoke to a trained advisor for an hour twice a week for the next 25 years, I would be able to look at the Beckham pictures without feeling queasy. Then again, I might find that counselling would do me more harm than good.

A study in the latest edition of New Scientist magazine has found that counselling rarely has a positive effect and that talking interminably about a stressful event can increase the trauma suffered. This echoes a report published in the medical journal the Lancet last year, which concluded that those who keep a stiff upper lip and don't dwell on their feelings tend to cope better with post-traumatic stress.

I'm a firm believer in the power of pouring your heart out to friends and family, but I also believe there is a time to stop pouring and to put a cork firmly back in the bottle.

Reliving the past is a sure-fire way to mess up the future. And if you don't agree with me - tough. Get over it.

Updated: 10:01 Tuesday, July 01, 2003