“Who’s this?” I ask him, hand shaking as I hold the phone, complete with text that I definitely wish I hadn’t read. It’s the first time in my life that I realise I’m jealous. Until then I had never expected to be. He shakes his head in reply, mumbles, and tells me that he fucked her.

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We’re chatting about fucking, and all the bucket list sex we’d like to have. Recently we’ve been trying to plan more kinky sex, so this sort of stuff is occupying our thoughts, but it’s hard to think of anything enticing yet possible: we’re pretty good at ticking new sordid kinks off the second they cross our filthy minds, so most of the fucking we want to do has already been done. I ponder the issue for a while before suddenly it hits me. There’s one really significant thing that I’ve never done with this particular guy: break up.

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Waterloo station. Bottom of the escalator, going up. Brunette, mid-thirties, backpack full of last-minute Christmas presents. The last time she fucked was yesterday – a quick make-up shag after a week of loneliness. He slipped out of her just as he started to come, and she conjures the memory of the wetness spreading on the inside of her thighs, and tries not to let the other commuters see her smile.

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When my partner is sad, he wilts like a plant. I can sometimes tell he’s sad, despite him putting in his best efforts to try and make me think he’s fine, and for a long time I struggled with knowing how to cheer him up. The kind words and reassurances and ‘I love you’s that usually work on me have very little effect on him. But I think I’ve cracked it now – the closest I can come to a ‘cheat code’ for love. His ‘love language’: cuddles.

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My favourite time to fuck is after I’ve emerged from the bath. I step out, dry off, cover my body in lotion or talc, and lie on the bed listening to the tail end of whichever podcast I put on to keep me company while I washed. When it’s nearly finished, I sext…

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