A few days before we’re due to hang out, he texts me a fantasy. Couched in the standard consent-focused caveats (“Only if that sounds hot to you…”) that I find extremely cute – they function essentially as the ‘no worries if not!’ of fucking. His request is neat, specific, and very easy to achieve: he wants to arrive at my place, have me greet him at the door with no words whatsoever, then as soon as he’s inside, drop to my knees and start sucking his dick. No words, just cocksucking.

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Tingling with excitement at about 5pm, I hop in the shower. I wouldn’t usually start getting ready this early, but fuck it – there’s no way I’m getting any work done when I’ve been promised the chance to buy a hot guy a pint. Not just any hot guy, either, but we’ll get to that.

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“There is absolutely no way he’ll text me back,” I tell my friends, the day after an extremely hot date. I can’t really explain why I’m so convinced of this, but I am. In fact, so certain am I that he’ll wake up tomorrow and realise he’s made a mistake that I ask him – while we’re on the date – if I can take a picture to show people how hot the man I shagged was. In case, you know, I never see him again. This is very impolite of me, but he’s game so we take pictures. When I show one of my friends a shot of him – kissing me on the cheek, while I grin inanely to camera – my mate laughs and tell me: “you look like you’ve won a contest.”

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Despite the best efforts of cinema and TV to convince us human beings can be smooth in seduction, most of the time we’re as ham-fisted at that as we are at everything else. Flailing around and trying to act cool when really we’ve no idea what the actual fuck we’re doing. Which is why it’s lovely to encounter someone who manages to pull off a smooth transition: from hanging out to making out, with no pissing about in the middle.

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Back in August last year, I wrote a post called ‘love is an addiction’. In that blog, which I typed up as a distraction to help me hold off the urgent, all-encompassing desire to text my ex-boyfriend, I said this…

“It feels like trying to quit smoking – an exercise as vital as it is futile, at which I have failed every single time I’ve tried. But I still haven’t sent that text so now I wonder if the wasted, flabby muscle that might once have been my willpower is growing with each passing day. Perhaps every text I compose and do not send builds that muscle up – flexes it, makes it stronger. Maybe if I can make it through the next six months, I can make that muscle strong enough that it’ll haul me through to the end of my smoking addiction. Wouldn’t that be a thing?”

Well, here’s a thing: I quit smoking.

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