I’ve got to admit something: I need a man.

With all that’s happened recently and my life being held up to public scrutiny, spending the evening in the company of a fine gentleman would make me feel a whole lot better. I’d like nothing more than to curl up in a guy’s arms and cuddle all him night. Not to mention get fucked hard too. But – and the irony of my being a sex diarist does not escape me – even this is not very likely for me right now.

For a quick shag, there’s always the possibility I could call up a trusted fuck-buddy for some emergency sex. Broaching the possibility of shagging them, strikes me as somewhat difficult though, given their knowledge of my present circumstances:

Me [After the small-talk]: ‘So, do you fancy having some fun?’

Them: Silence

Me: ‘I promise not to write about it.’

Them: ‘On page 42 you said the guy ‘shagged like a rabbit’. Was that me?’

Me: Silence

Them: Silence

Me: ‘Sorry…’

Them: The sound of a telephone hanging up

I suppose I could go out and meet a new guy at a bar, or a party, but I don’t really fancy jumping into bed with a stranger; right now, I need more intimacy than that – I’m feeling a bit fragile. Besides, given how much I have written about other people’s bedroom habits, if I shagged someone who knew about my blog, or book, there’s always the possibility that they might consider it ‘news’ to report what I was like in bed; it’s only fair, after all.

‘You’ve got no worries about that’, an ex-boyfriend reassured me a few days ago, when I was anxious and tearful about it on the phone. ‘No-one, I repeat no-one, could ever say you were a bad lover.’

It was nice of him to say, and it boosted me to hear it, but it wasn’t enough to assuage my fears: I’m barely taking phone calls right now, let alone feeling confident enough to start up a romance, or something casual, with anyone new.

At the moment it seems I am fucked whatever I do. But just not in the way I’d like, sadly.