I’ve lost count now of the number of exes I’ve stared at across a pub table and thought ‘God, I wish you were inside me right now.’ Chances are if I’ve fucked you once I’ll probably be up for another go, and having a casual pint with you and discussing your job/wedding/newborn baby is not going to do anything to help distract me from the fact that I once tasted your dick and it was goooood. But this isn’t about ex-lust, it’s about getting over your ex. It’s about the feeling you get when someone amazing has gone, and it feels like nothing will ever fill the cavernous, throbbing hole bored straight through your heart.

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If I’m certain of anything about myself it’s this: I am a fucking nightmare. Anxiety means I am constantly examining every detail to see what might be right and wrong with my life. No – scratch that – every detail of what might be wrong. What’s right gets dumped on the ‘finished’ pile, and rarely given more time than a cursory ‘hooray’ before it’s time to move onto the next thing. Leaving my brain free to focus on unpaid bills, people I may have offended, and a mountain of relationship insecurity on the side.

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I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.

Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.

But we do.

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I’m back. Only just – this goes live as soon as my plane lands and I drag my sweaty arse through security. But I’m back. So here are two things to kick things off after my break – the New York Museum of Sex and some bollocks from UK MP and general waste-of-time Philip Davies. Ready? Let’s go.

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Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.

Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.

I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.

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