I’m the banger that is dating. Talking and meeting lovely people. I am attempting to meet someone to cuddle and snuggle with, rather than just fucking in the toilets (although if the love of my life doesn’t like the occasional rumble in the jungle, it’s not real).

So I have a date planned with a guy in two days’ time. Second date and it’s a whole new experience – not bad, just new.

I hit the dancefloor in a whole new way – I don’t actually care if anyone sees me – I am there for the choons and the hilarious banter with a friend.

We’re chatting with each other, with dudes and she dares me to have a dancing competition one of them. And, well, who am I to argue with that. We dance and it’s instantly good. We are both making all the right noises already and, damn. He has at least 75% genetic and personality match with my most-recent and someone I have been missing.

He is younger, but eager. I clearly win the competition, turning him on within half a second, and we head back outside. He seduces me instantly and we make out in public. It’s frowned upon, but you know what, I haven’t been laid in a while and I miss kissing. I straddle him and realise that it’s going to head south quickly, if we’re not careful.

He spends about 10 mins convincing me I should take him home – promising all kinds of delicious things, like going down on me. I would have said yes in the first minute, but because I am ‘dating’ I did not come prepared for this. I have early morning plans, I have done nothing about tidying the house – physically or metaphorically and I am suddenly extremely self-conscious about both things.

15 mins later, we are holding hands through the Friday night throng, hailing a cab and chatting/kissing in the back seat. Oh, it is lovely. It is so, so, lovely. It’s not perfect, but it is lovely.

We get back to my place and after I apologise for the dishes, the leak, the state of the place, the clothes everywhere, I scramble to find condoms. I decide that this level of chaos is really not sexy, but try to ride with it.

We get to the bed, and whilst kissing me all over, he slides his finger in and dammit I am wet. He says something along the same lines and it’s on.

The condoms I have are crap. I kept them for the nice packaging, but in this situation, they need using and we go with them.

I can’t tell whether it’s them, my formidable ’70s full bush’ (his words, not mine) or something else, but it’s a struggle to stay hard. His cock in my hands isn’t as firm or eager as I thought it would be, which is slightly disappointing. I go down on him for a while, licking and pulling back his foreskin – the saltiness of it is a sharp reminder that he’s still a stranger.

Eventually, he is hard again, and he slides it in. Damn it feels good and I think I come early. Obviously nothing mind-blowing, but one of those ‘oh my god, finally!’ orgasms. We keep going because I want a deep orgasm – I want all the anxiety of doing stupid dates to come out of me, so I get on top of him.

Usually this works like a dream, but it’s not as hot. I can’t get ‘traction’.  I ride him anyway and he flips me over again – still neither of us are totally spiked. By this time, I’m tired. He asks if he should come now and I pant ‘please, do’.

So he gets in real close and thrusts away, with his eyes closed, his face against my shoulder and holding on for dear life and then he comes.

I feel it, just. The main indication that he has come is that he sits up on me, still in me and sings

‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Halle-lujah!’

I laugh so hard and the mediocre sex instantly goes from something that I might have been sullen about, to something sweet and adorable.
We fall asleep with the light on and he draws me in extra close, with his kisses so tender. Sometimes, it’s just nice to share a bed with someone.