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After ten, the rippling ribbons in his forearms were driving me to distraction. A glorious half‐hour later I was aching to jump his bones.
    Suitably panting, we headed for the bench press (which I can't do) and the bench pull (which I can). Suffice to say I am not fit to hold the man's towel.
    For the piece de resistance I goaded him into chin‐ups. Four sets of six, shirt off, ensuring that even the resident thick‐necked gym bunnies were suitably humbled. Cower in the wake of his manly pheromones, you six‐packed Narcissi!
    In order to reassert control we did something I am good at ‐
    stretching. A cliché perhaps, but I have always been able to put my legs behind my ears. A long session of contorting hamstrings ensured that, fragrant with sweat and lusting as only long-distance lovers can, we never got past the car park.
    Well, we did. But our clothes didn't. And our dignity came nowhere near.
    Ah, young love.
    samedi, le 22 novembre

    Of all the services the manager and I had discussed at our first meeting, there was one neither of us mentioned. Oral. But there on the website for all to see, I am advertised as OWO. Oral Without. Without condom, that is.
    To tell the truth, if she had asked, I would have said yes. I've done the deed with condoms in the past and my lips react badly to the latex and spermicide, swelling and
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    tingling. And like all other sex acts, there is some risk involved, but nothing near what most things entailed. I wouldn't do it if I had cold sores, for instance. Or if I was especially concerned about the staying power of my lipstick.
    But I'm a swallower and always have been. Once it's in there it doesn't taste any better to spit it out, and to be frank, it's no worse than the taste of a woman. A girl I went to school with once described semen as tasting of 'an oyster on a two‐pence piece'. I wouldn't know, having never eaten either, but she's probably not far off the mark.

    dimanche, le 23 novembre

    Last night I was walking down the fag end of Fulham High Street looking for a cab. There is a book store on the corner ‐ not the horrible kind assaulting you with endless stacks of remaindered Michael Moore and lattechinos to go, but the wonderful quirky kind. The sort of shop where the proprietor ‐ who can remember your tastes, previous purchases, and make appropriate recommendations even if you've not been in years ‐ appears to live on site, and either owns a collection of identical outfits or never changes his clothes. The proprietor of such a shop is always a man, always.
    Unfortunately the shop was closed. Or perhaps fortunately; I had a wad of notes on me, some time to kill and a distinct inability to refuse fusty booksellers. When I was a student, I calculated I spent more per term on books ‐ and not ones related to my course, either ‐ than I had on food. But the shop was locked up and dark. Outside the door a plain white shelving unit held a few paperbacks. Whether these were donations to or from the public I didn't know. Being curious, I perused the titles. This is how I ran across the best thing I've ever read on a paperback cover: 'A girl
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    can go anywhere if she believes in herself and has a mink coat.'
    Well, yes! Indeed! How true, and wonderful! How very Holly Golightly! Uncertain whether the books were for sale or not, but certain this novel was destined to be mine, I deliberated a moment before dropping a pound coin through the post slot.
    (Now is a good time to point out that I do not actually have a mink coat. I have a fairly nice watch, and suppose it is the most politically correct luxury item one can get away with wearing. I wouldn't want to be accused of either animal torture or funding cartels in the developing world. The possible exploitation of Swiss craftsmen is not a daily burden on my soul.)
    The book, in case you are wondering, is B.F.'s Daughter by John P. Marquand, he of the Mr Moto novels. It is the most delicious trash. Think Mickey Spillane