This time I met him outside his dorm room. It was a balmy night again and stupidly I’d worn wedge heels, not realising the merry dance we were going on.

Yet again we embarked on a walking tour of Clerkenwell, trying to find a place to get intimate. Everywhere we stopped, someone would come along and we’d both get the jitters, me probably more so than him. I’d worn a silk dress that was easy to ride up, he had shorts again.

We went down fire escapes, found a roof garden, doorways but nothing was quite right.

We ended up in a concrete stairwell between flats and a car park. I was wet as hell by now purely with the anticipation and his fingers entered me easily. He flicked on a condom like a fricking pro (this guy was like, 21) and I mounted him, my hands on dry leaves, grit and god knows what on the ground to steady myself. I’d just got comfortable, easing myself up and down ever so slowly when a car pulled up and I leapt up in fright.

We sat, side by side on the steps like kids caught stealing sweets. His cock was still outside his shorts and I almost laughed.

We tried again, this time him on top. It was dirty and hot and wrong all at the same time. He quickly reached his climax in minutes and pulled out just in time to coat my face, my glasses and most of my dress.

We never met again. I rode home on the tube with a glistening stain on my dress, Monica Lewinsky style.