15 months without sex can get to a girl. Especially a horny girl who doesn’t need much encouragement now to get wet. So I go back to the swingers site and plunge myself into a sea of cocks. Maybe I belong there, maybe I should be in a position to choose who I want and ignore those I don’t. Maybe this is a terrible idea.

It’s overwhelming and I feel out of practice. But there is a familiar face there amongst the angry looking pork swords. He’s very persuasive, which I am a sucker for and gets my number very quickly.

We chat for two hours into the night and early morning. I never know if this is a good sign or a sign of a psychopath. The following day many voicenotes and phone calls. There is a double entendre about cake, and then I think he’s mugging me off.

I’m chatting to a handful of others anyway and arrange to meet a different guy that evening with very little notice. I like the idea of going out despite a hectic day. The weather is unpredictable at best and I don’t want to look as if I’ve made an effort. I slip into black jeans and a top that shows my boobs but cover it with a jacket. New kicks. Adding a necktie which is actually a silk blindfold is my master stroke. For the first time in a long time I actually feel amazing. I look fucking hot.

I arrive too early and for some reason he doesn’t want to meet at a bar so i’m waiting by the station, sucking on my new CBD vape, trying to curb my anxiety. But I don’t actually feel that nervous. The area I’m in is hipster central and there are a lot of excellently dressed people to watch. So when he comes across the road immediately I think NO. There is something about the way he walks, the way he approaches me, his coat, his shoes. He leads me up the road walking so fast I have to tell him to slow down. He chats nervously about the area and I’m just thinking oh fuck how do I get out of this.

We find a restaurant with outside seating – I don’t want to be inside as I’m now roasting hot from the speedwalk and it’s a gorgeous evening. So now I’m sat opposite him. I don’t drink, and order a tonic water so he doesn’t either. I’d rather he got a fucking glass of champagne or something, Jesus. And nah, I definitely don’t even want to see this guys dick just to get laid. He’s boring, there is no spark. He talks like he’s never talked to anyone before. I’m distracted by literally anything in the street, the cute whippet sitting at the table next to us, the gang of girls off out out getting into a cab, the woman who leaves the house in a neon mask. Sure, we chat about stuff – I’m not a complete bitch. But it’s awkward and stilted. Is he really that nervous?

He finally asks what I want to do after we’ve finished the drinks. I apologise and tell him I’m not really feeling it so I’m going to go home. He takes it well. I realise at this point he hasn’t smiled or laughed once. Am I making him nervous?

There follows an awkward series of events that you would cringe at in the movie version. He says he’s going to the loo and he’ll ask for the bill. I really hope that he disappears and just leaves me. I think about doing the same tbh, but politeness. He takes ages but comes out and the waiter brings the bill. A few moments later the heavens open in to a monsoon-type rain so we shelter for a bit and realise we need to get inside to pay. We split it and then I think “fuck it” I’m going to pee. There’s a girl stood washing her hands and I almost want to say ” mate i just swerved one” but I keep that to myself.

Annoyingly he’s waiting for me, we say our goodbyes and I walk off feeling amazing. And then I look at my phone, missed call from you know who.