Stuck in traffic yesterday after finishing a meeting in Dulwich, I was hit with déjà vu. It wasn’t just that the surroundings looked familiar – green spaces, posh houses and wankers in 4x4s are a-plenty in this part of South London – but there was something else about the place that was sparking my memory synapses.

I sat there in the stifling heat, trying to figure out what was bubbling under the surface and bemoaned the despicable school run – why don't parents get their kids to take the fucking bus or move their fat arses by walking for chrissakes? It worked for us back in the 70s and we’re still here, er, fit.

Anyway, then it hit me. A bloke I shagged ages ago lived just a couple of streets away: that’s why I recognised the area. This got me thinking: which parts of the city am I similarly familiar with? How well do I know London? Who have I fucked here, and where? A quick memory jog produced the following:

• There was that guy in Croydon all those years ago: what a fucking shithole that place was. Unsurprisingly, he was also a complete arsehole.
• The bloke in Brixton was fun: we fucked in my office, me grabbing hold of my boss’s desk, imagining his reaction if he knew of my getting rammed from behind.
• Then there was the chap from Morden. He had a thing for cunnilingus. I didn’t object.
• Twickenham man was great in the sack, but his obsession with constantly sticking a finger up my bottom began to annoy me.
• The man from Acton was eager, but dull as fuck. Boredom and shagging don’t go well together.
• Kensington bloke probably thought I was a bit of rough, given his wealth and massive penthouse apartment. So I roughly fucked his cock till it hurt.
• The guy from Wembley likened his cock to a bicycle tyre: ‘pump it hard’, he said to me as I grabbed it, ‘and then ride me’. I did.
• Harrow man was very sensual. He had a thing for fucking me during my period. ‘You’re even hornier then’, he reassured me. He wasn’t wrong.
• The guy in Cricklewood thought that playing some R. Kelly songs would get me in the mood. How wrong he was.
• Highgate man was sweet, kind and a fantastic kisser. That made up for my never having a climax with him.
• Euston bloke first fucked my friend, and then me. When we found out shortly after, neither of us spoke to him again. Plus, he was crap in bed.
• The guy from Finsbury Park was left with a hard-on as I exited his flat. Don’t worry, I made sure I had climaxed. He wasn’t worth my returning the favour.
• The man in Tottenham loved my arse. Whilst I enjoy my bum being focussed on, sometimes it’s nice to have face-to-face penetration too.
• Woolwich bloke was too drunk to fuck. After wasting an entire box of condoms through unsuccessful attempts at penetration, we both gave up.

Funny that I can barely recall the names of some of these guys, but where they lived; what part of London we were shagging in, I can remember in detail, like some kind of mental roadmap of the city. Helpful for if I get lost, I guess. (Though I’m not going to be pinning up a map of London on the wall and sticking pins in the areas I have shagged in, that would just be silly) (And I would most likely run out of pins).

The one place in London that I have rarely had sex in? My own home. There are a few reasons for this:

First, I am a very private person and am reluctant to let a guy into my personal space unless I like him a lot, trust him, and wish for him to get to know me more. If things are just casual, then it’s going to be at his place, or a hotel, or, well, a public toilet if necessary, but we sure as hell aren’t going back to mine to shag.

Second, I am a messy bastard – not that you would know it to look at me: I take great care in my personal hygiene and try to present myself well (give or take some fly-away, frizzy hair). My home though? Messy as fuck. Constant mayhem. Absolutely fucking disorganised. So when I do show a bloke just how many knickers I have lying all over my floor, it won’t be on our first date: I wouldn’t want to put him off me from the start.

Lastly, I have come to a pragmatic decision over the last few years that if there’s going to be anyone leaving someone’s flat first thing the next morning, with a bow of the head and an embarrassed, mumbled, ‘thanks’, it damn well is going to be me.

I shan’t be one of those women who gets saddened by the bloke exiting at first light (believe me, I’ve been her in the past, and I’m not doing it again). But, conversely, I also don’t want to be the woman stuck with a guy who just won’t leave when you want him to (again, I’ve been her, and again, it’s no fun). That’s not to say that all casual sex ends in regret and a wish to immediately be alone - far from it – but I do find it’s easier to be the one who arrives and leaves on their own terms.

Admittedly, traipsing over to the bloke’s place and back, has cost me a small fortune in tube, rail and taxi fares over the years, but it has helped me discover - in the most fun way possible - another new part of this great city, so I think it’s worth the outlay. Even if, once or twice, the sex was a bit shit.