I have sat on a number for weeks, then ruined my own nerves with wine. Want and wisdom do not clock in at the same time.

Saying what I like still feels risky. This is the essay about asking anyway, because hinting has wasted more good nights than honesty ever did.

First time sex is often built for him. I write about leaving wet, polite, and furious, then deciding I will not fake it again.

A good kisser can ruin me faster than a speech. Bad kissing is a warning. I should have listened more often than I did.

I want the savage bit and the soft bit. Foot rubs. Kettle. Hair stroked. If he can only do one, he was never going to keep me.

It is my day off and I have done absolutely nothing, and I mean that as a compliment to myself….

In my head I am fearless. In the doorway I am shy. The gap between the filth I imagine and the girl who still hopes for kindness.

Not shame exactly. More the Tube ride home in last night’s dress, thighs still humming, wondering if I was brave or just lonely and lucky.

At work I am stern. At home I am greedy. This is about the sweet act, the private hunger, and why I keep those two girls separate.

Last night with the girls started the usual way, proper loud and messy in some random Shoreditch bar that smelled…