After my confession to Tall Boy the other night, all was suspiciously quiet between us. I was hoping he couldn't see my tears in the dark, and that he would blame my words of love on the alcohol and general atmosphere of our post-coital fug, but you can never be sure.

Today I tried to find out when that office party was that he invited me to.

"There will be loadsa clients there", he text back, "why don't we just meet up when I am back next week?"

Oops, silly me: and I thought that the clients present would be the point in having a glammed-up, tall blonde on his arm!?

I called him to give him a piece of my mind, which, of course, turned into mindless flirting and general catching up and being filled with bubbles of happiness upon hearing his voice.

His explanation left me feeling less fobbed off than his text had done, and I wished him a good night and a fun trip (he is going off abroad AGAIN this weekend)- vowing to myself that I would delete his number and never see him again this side of Christmas, for the sake of my own sanity.

Once upstairs, my friend rang me, asking where I was: "We've just been to Bryan Adam's house and are now hanging out at St Martin's Lane, why aren't you here!?" I answered that I had tried to ring her an hour ago and had called it a night after a Chinese meal with a friend who'd come to the cinema with me.
"I thought you'd gone home after the exhibition", I told her, "the film was good, but I would have stayed if I'd known you'd end up hanging out with Bryan Adams!"
Even my friend had gone off to spend the night at his girlfriend's.

I rang Tall Boy back.
A bit of chit-chat ensued before I got to the point. "You are so smooth", I said to him. "I've been called a lot of things", he replied, "but never that". "Why not?" I asked, "how would you define 'smooth' then?"
"As someone who has a lot of lines", he answered, "and always tells people what they want to hear".
"Well, you've told me a lot of nice things that I wanted to hear very much", I said, "like when you told me you wanted me to meet your parents, and that you'd fancied me for a year, and how I was like your dream girl..."
"That is true", I heard him smile, "but that was not a line. My parents would love you, and they are always banging on at me about bringing girls home. Well, my mum is", he continued, "my dad doesn't say very much".
"Maybe he knows you don't bring girls there, but you bang them at home", I suggested.

The conversation started to unravel a bit and I found it hard to express what I actually wanted to say. "Maybe", he said, "I will just give you a ring when I get back and we can meet up next week".
"I was thinking the opposite", I told him. "We've not been very good at just being friends, have we". "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Every time we see each other we have such a nice time", I continued, "but we're not just friends, are we? I mean, every time I see you we end up holding hands or something, so we're more than just friends".
"True", he said, relieved that I hadn't said he was a crap friend or anything, as he thought that's what I was implying.
"But it's hard for me", I went on, "to see you and feel really close to you, and then we don't see each other for ages... you don't know what I am getting at, do you?" I asked. "You told me you don't want a girlfriend and I think it's messing with my head too much".

At this stage I began to realise that he hadn't actually noticed me drawing back from him, but interpreted as my being "too busy" to see him.
"Have you ever asked me to do anything, and I've said no?" I asked him.
He couldn't think of anything. "You see", I proved my point.
"You remember last year", I carried on, "when I kept asking you to come out for cocktails or something, and you were never free".- "It's all my trips", he agreed.

For the first time it dawned on me that he may be well and truly out of his deapth with me, but not admitting it.
Judging by the state of his house, his friends, his social habits, I think it is fair to say that although he is older (and much taller), he could be intimidated by me in some way.
What a novel thought!

(I wonder if he actually will ring me next week...)

Faced with yet another single Christmas, I thought of all the ways in which my single status is actually an advantage:

Firstly, I don't have to splash out on expensive man-presents. Browsing the cashmere jumper rack at TK Maxx (no reason), I found myself glad of the money I was saving, especially being without a regular income at the moment. Whenever I have a boyfriend I spend far too much money on him, frequently getting him a present without receiving anything in return, or buying something much too early on in the relationship because I know he'd love it.
I like treating people I love, and usually have some good ideas about what to get for them- but I hate it if the boy, in turn, makes promises he doesn't keep, or turns up at my birthday without so much as a card.

KB kept promising me cashmere socks, but the only pair I actually received from him were an old and holey pair of his... Tall Boy turned up at my birthday with two cans of beer for himself to drink. Need any more proof that romance was buried alongside impressing a girl you haven't upset with flowers?

I know that if I had someone special to treat this Christmas, it wouldn't be a cheap December. I may be a bargain-savvy browser, but I also like to get more than one "special" thing for my beloved and would probably spend in the region of £100 on threads, smells, books and maybe jewelry.

The other good thing is that I get to flirt as much as I like. Despite a lack of work Christmas parties to go to in the absence of a normal job, there is generally a cheery atmosphere around this time, and a few invitations have actually flown my way. Such as Yacht Boy's dinner party last weekend (a bit uneventful, but I liked his friends and the food he'd made), and Tall Boy's upcoming office party (where, I suppose, we won't be able to help "coming out" to his colleagues).

What I will find hard, is being alone.

By that, I mean man- and childless.
At the shop job I am now doing in the run-up to the holidays, I find myself faced with "happy families" every step of the way:
A tall, green-eyed handsome man browsing for presents - his two-day-old daughter strapped to his chest, asleep. Then mummy comes around the corner of the aisle, loaded up with nappies and sporting a proud smile. I am surprised she is even up and walking! Good for her.

A glowing black mum with two adorable, curly-haired boys between the ages of two and four, she carries a third baby in a papoose, who is peeking out at me with big brown eyes.

Another couple with a cute little girl in pink, wiggling her toes at me from her pram.
Blonde-haired small girls in denim skirts and ponchos, holding daddy's hand as he whisks around the shop.

A baby boy held steady by his mum in a shopping trolley, unaware of his presents piled beneath him.

One of the supervisors at the store, six weeks from giving birth. "You must be so excited", I say to her, "is everything ready?". "The nursery is finished, my bags are packed", she replies, "but I am so not ready", stroking her expanding bump. "Is it your first child?" I ask her. "Yes, but my husband's second. He is much older than me, he's thirty". "And how old are you?" I ask. "Twenty-tree", she says.

Two little girls on the train home, singing "Alice, the camel" (who, apparently, has up to 7 humps) in cute, squeaky voices remniscant of the Chipmunks.

I count down the months on my hands. No way will I now have a baby before the age of 31. Not even close to 32 if a suitable candidate to father him or her doesn't show up on the horizon soon!

Tall Boy swept me up in a big hug when his mate had disappeared upstairs.
"I have missed you", he told me and took me up to his bedroom.

All the way back to his in the cab he'd been holding my hand and looking at me in this excited, charming way that makes his eyes sparkle. I am sure I gazed back like a love-sick puppy, squirming in my damp knickers.

I had missed him too. I struggle to remember when our last time together was, I think in July- this involved fucking on my boss' desk, and I am not counting the sexless cinema dates now.

I want him to chase me, but if he's not prepared to do that I want at least to make our sex memorable.

Which, apparently I did already. "When we did it upstairs at your old office I came so fast because I was so excited. That was the hottest sex I've ever had", he told me in a raunchy whisper whilst his hands carressed my body.

When he envelopes me in his arms I feel totally wrapped up, at home, and swept up by our passion. I really forget the world around me. His soft lips and hair, his probing tongue and big, gentle hands could be part of my universe forever.
"I can still remember the first time I saw you", he said, "Yes", I replied, "I was wearing a really short red dress". "I know", he smiled. "I thought- this girl won't like me- but you did". "Of course I do", I said and kissed him. "I've fancied you for over a year" he said, and it sounded like a mixture of stating the obvious and a candid confession.
"This much is clear", I thought as I felt his hard-on.
He stripped all my clothes off (I shouldn't have bothered with the sexy matching lingerie) and pushed me onto the bed.

"You are like my childhood sweetheart", he said into my ear, "I love your beautiful face, your blonde hair, your soft skin...You are this beautiful, smart girl with a hot body..." and he sounded like he meant it.
Part of me was swept up in the moment and enjoying his lovely voice, the smell of his breath like sweet oxygen, bathing in the compliments. On the other hand I was intensely annoyed somewhere deep inside me, thinking: If he feels and thinks all this, why doesn't he WANT me!? Not just as an occasional bed mate, a fun girl to hang out with, the (ex)colleague he fancies, the naughty minx he knows me to be- but as a proper companion, partner, girlfriend- whatever you want to call it.

He even went so far as to say that his parents would adore me and that next time he'd try to make a better impression on my mum- is he serious?!

Anyway, the sex was fantastic... as usual!
He spent ages going down on me, his tongue busy probing me and licking my clit with just the right pressure, his fingers inside me, getting wet up to his wrist. I moved one of his fingers into my ass and can still feel it a bit today, maybe in the moment we go a bit too carried away.

I came hard, and clutched him to me tightly whilst my body rocked under the waves of my orgasm.
He pulled himself up above me and plunged his hard cock into me, so deep it hurt. I wanted him so much I pulled him in further by his arse cheeks and kissed and licked his neck whilst he pumped into me.
He stopped to put a condom on, which I put on with my mouth, continuing to play with his cock and balls until he stopped me and carried on fucking me.
His arms went all the way around my back whilst our legs intertwined, making me feel totally wrapped up and carried away.

There was no mistaking it when he came: I thought he would pass out. I love the way his cock expands inside me with the sperm spurting through it, and he moans and gasps with pleasure as he spasms, again and again, pumping his seed into me.

It was so intense, tears rolled down my face. This has happened with him before and I wondered if he'd taste the salt as he kissed my cheeks and eyes but he didn't mention it.

I rested my head on his chest as he pulled me close, stroking my hair, my back, my arm.

"I have a confession to make", I said, softly. "I am utterly in love with you".

This is the title of the TV show I immediately thought should feature Tall Boy's house. Not that it exists (yet), but it should.

I mean, how do you change a confirmed bachelor into someone who's worth waking up next to for the rest of your life? And, more difficult, how do you change his crumbling pile of arse-end-of-nowhere real estate into a place you may care about waking up in ever again?

Not that any of this is anywhere near the cards, but the thought crossed my mind. Having known Tall Boy just over a year and not found my affection for him waning a great deal over the months (despite dalliances with KB, Fencing Boy, Yacht Boy and the Greek Doctor etc), it was interesting to see just how far he is from keeping his house in order, let alone the rest of his life.

He spends most weekends abroad or otherwise away from home, so the state of his house may well be a reflection on that, or vice versa. I mean, how much time would any sane, sober person want to spend in a place which has a wall that just about escaped being knocked through, a sticky kitchen floor, dust-covered records in every corner, a door with a broken glass pane on the top landing, dirty sinks, a green bath, no shower curtain, a carpeted bathroom floor and hand-painted green-and-white tiles!?
Colin and Justin would have a field day.

I have seen younger sofas in old skips, was surprised to find girls-in-bikinis calendars in nearly every room, and flicked through back issues of FHM and other lad's mags piled on the bidet in the bathroom.
A shelf in the living room featured his expanding coin collection, beer cans were conveniently filled with cigarette ash and the stacks of empty bottles wouldn't have looked out of place in a recycling facility!

On the other hand, nearly every book on his shelves was something I'd read or would want to read, most of his clothes were clean and folded, he actually does play the drum kit and electric guitar set up in the lounge, and he laughed along with me when I tapped the tip of my shoe against his disintegrating kitchen wall.

There was only one thing for me to do: accept his offer of a generous glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and his mate's of a drag on his spliff, take my socks off to wriggle my toes to Iron Maiden, and grab the inflatable guitar for an impromptu air guitar performance whilst waiting for the hash and alcohol to numb my sense of aesthetics enough to get swept away on a wave of passion.

How did I end up in this episode of straight-nightmare-for-a-gay-eye!?

Basically, alone in my flat and buoyed up by Country Boy's compliments, feeling slick and horny from his restrained presence and somehow still awake in the middle of the night, I texted Tall Boy:
"Want to come and lick me out?"- the ultimate booty text.
"Only if you promise to suck me off", came his reply straight away.

A short while later, he turned up in a taxi with his visiting mate and swept me off to his "castle"... a slight misrepresentation of the state of affairs, really!

I should admit I'd had some warnings from a friend who looked at renting his spare room: "Sienna", she said, "you won't know him properly until you go to his house. Seriously, if you see his house you'll understand why he's probably not the man for you".
Now I get her point completely.

However, judging by the state of someone's dwelling, especially a single bloke, when IS someone truly right and ready for someone else!?

This made me think of all the various places I have visited to have sex with its occupant, and how none of them appeared to be like anything out of "Home and Garden"- not by a long shot. Were they really this much better?
I fondly remembered Rugby Boy's (just bought for him by Mum and Dad) detached brand-new house with huge flat screen telly, leather sofas, piano and karaoke room... but it was miles away from anywhere (i.e. the Tube), and he was a short, squat guy with a penchant for six pints on a Sunday, an offensive sense of humour and a smelly dick.

Fencing Boy's house was the size of a postage stamp (with a staircase making up about 40% of it), covered in dust and featuring a wrought-iron dining table with matching chairs and book-case so big you had to move the tiny sofa around if you wanted to sit down and eat. He grows weed in the loft, and lying in bed you can see the glow from the heating lamp and hear the whirr of the fan upstairs.

Kensington Boy may have been a whizz with a chopping knife, but he certainly wasn't a whizz with the hoover. His compact Belgravia flat contained a broken curtain rail, piles of dust and crumbs on the floor, old rubbish collected under the window and scores of books and DVDs stapled high in every corner. Whilst his fridge contained some very fine foods indeed, it was also frosted over, dirty and difficult to shut.
However, he also had a serious collection of silk ties, laundered shirts, cashmere jumpers and expensive linens to make up for the mess.

I suppose I miss Cashmere Boy's ex council house with its creaking (but clean) floorboards, white linen sheets, expansive wardrobe filled with crisp pink shirts, the mostly-clean bathroom, generous kitchen, cozy library and downstairs loo stuffed with crests of his school and family.

Phat Boy's Swedish flat was clean and tidy, but stuffed with odd toys in boxes and display cabinets as well as almost papered in film posters.

Later on this week I will get to sample Yacht Boy's house- I can feel my curiosity mounting already! Although what I am expected to tell his friends (taking into account that I have only ever met him four times), I have no idea!

I think if boys realised just how off-putting a bit of dust and grime is to girls, they'd all be a lot tidier (and rip that carpet out of the bathroom).

I confessed all to Tall Boy last night.

The evening started with a glass of Bellini with Country Boy (the one who's apparently been lusting after me for 3 years following a job interview), then we moved on to a party.

Much flirting and flattery ensued, but my questions as to WHY he wants to marry me were disappointingly answered only by "Why not!?".

"Are you sure you want kids this young?" I asked him, my ever-increasing broodiness being the biggest driving force behind my desire to tie the knot. "When was the last time you changed a nappy?". "We'd have a maid for that", he replied earnestly. "You can afford a MAID!?", I asked him with an ironic smile. He nodded and I laughed out loud. Get this guy! "An au pair, perhaps" I gave in, "but then I'd be worried of you running off with her". "I don't think any man who has you would run off with the Au Pair" he countered smoothly.

"I'm sorry", I should have said, "but I don't fancy you and can't imagine promising to wake up next to you for the rest of my life". My body, fuelled by champagne and his undivided attention, seemed to think otherwise.

"Claxton Hall registry office, Westminster Abby... or a beach, me in a white suit- you'd look divine in white..." and other nuggets which escape my hung over brain led us to sit down eventually, and I noticed the wetness between my legs.

My pussy was literally swimming, swollen and throbbing for I-don't-know what reason.
Facing a man three years my junior wearing a gold-buttoned double-breasted blazer, glasses and a shiny forehead should have me running for the ladies' only to climb out through the window - not hanging on his every word. I giggled more at him than with him, but in the back of my mind his hands found my moisture and explored my hidden folds on a four-poster bed somewhere.
Instead of discouraging him, my smiles and flirting must have spurred him on and made him bolder, until the tips of his chubby fingers rested against my back.
"I am disappointed I can't feel your skin though this", he commented, referring to my loosely crochet sequinned shrug I was wearing over a black corset.

Half waiting for his hand to remove the obstructing fabric, I leant into his touch and listened to him drone on some more about country weekends, shooting and my divine presence.

I must admit I was intensely flattered, and despite everything I will be rather disappointed if he doesn't follow through on his promises. If he does, of course, I will be scandalized and unsure how to react.
Not to be arrogant, but in terms of "leagues" I would say he's about a 6 (taking into account his status and presumed assets) whilst I hover around the 8 mark.
Well, I am sure he would say 10, owing to the fact I am "the most beautiful girl in London"! You've got to love a young man's enthusiasm!

My bullshit detector didn't sound a squeak, so I can safely assume he meant every word- at least at that moment.
"Women are like electric cookers", I told him, "whilst men are like gas cookers: you are hot immediately and when you switch them off you get cold again almost as fast, whilst women take a while to warm up and are still glowing a long time after. I worry that you only like me now but once I begin to warm up you may go off me again", thinking, this wouldn't be the first time.
This allegory is true in the emotional sense as well as in the sexual sense by the way.
He didn't seem to think so.
"I could never grow tired of waking up next to you in a thousand years", he told me in a text after I got home. "And I wouldn't want you any less". Wonderful words.

Their effect on me were bothering me, and, like a horny guy with a hard-on I wondered what to do with my warmed-up and ready-to-go pussy.

to be continued...

They say there is no such thing as a free lunch.

Well, this week I disagree.

Today, I've had no less than two meals paid for me by amorous guys, yet no physical action was forthcoming.

On Saturday, a free lunch at a Knightsbridge penthouse merged into a fun-filled midnight feast with free champagne flowing all night and waiters eager to supply an endless top-up of Pornstar Martinis, and I didn't have to shag anyone for the pleasure to my tastebuds.

OK, tonight's dinner and music at Ronnie Scott's cumulated in a veiled invitation to Wannabe-Sugar-Daddy's Mayfair shag pad: four hours only, as the man has a plane to catch. Seriously, his lordship is pushing seventy-five and shows no sign of retiring!
In any case, this is a girl who needs her beauty sleep and he wasn't pushy (or I wasn't drunk) enough to make this happen. I did appreciate the CD he bought me though, and the reassuring knowledge that there are still gentlemen in this corrupt town.

At our afternoon drinks at the Heights, my earlier date suggested we get married. A nice thought, and an unusual request at a first date (if this was a date), but he didn't exactly sweep me off my feet and carry me to a bedroom downstairs.
Now, he's a funny one. We met a good couple of years ago, possibly longer, and for some reason I stuck in his head.
It was basically a job interview (for a job I didn't get) and at the time I didn't realise that he is, in fact, three years younger than me. Similar to KB, he has the physique and easy confidence of a much older man, including his taste in bespoke suits.

Via the wonders of Fcukbook he managed to get in touch again and has "stalked" me (in a harmless but slightly bewildering sense) ever since. It took me a while to catch up to the fact that he was trying to earnestly flirt with me, and I didn't take his advances very seriously at all, trying to put him off with: "I want to meet a guy I can get married to and have children with".
Nothing worked- and he finally succeeded to get me out for a drink today.
Not that I managed to be on time!

I was running a whole hour late. Bad, I know, and embarrassing. Nothing like me at all- but again, maybe a subconscious effort to put him off my scent.

He wasn't put off- to the contrary: ordering a bottle of wine I didn't request, paying for my food although he wasn't hungry, divulging family secrets, name-dropping left, right and center (it appears that he has a lot of well-known, older friends... here we go again, KB all over!), and PROPOSING!

Not that I'd take any such suggestions seriously without a carat-laden follow-through, but I must admit to being flattered.

Now -if he were good-looking all would be hunky-dory! Or not, as I'd be sure to get my hopes up only to find myself roped in by the sweet words of an insincere charmer again...
Unfortunately, the first reason he looks older than 27 is his receding hairline, and the second about 2 stone in surplus weight.

Also he made the unfortunate mistake of telling me he used to date "someone famous" (i.e. a tabloid bimbo), who was now "like his sister" to him! Another red flag!

"Is her picture on your fridge?", I asked him, the Bastard's uncannily identical words echoing a warning in my head.
"No", he replied, "but yours would be", and proceeded to show me a picture of the two of them on his phone, wearing identical glasses.

I wonder. My picture, not hers? That would make a nice change... I used to take the Bastard's Ex' grinning mugshot off his fridge on a regular basis, or pin a fastfood menu over it, but like magic it kept resurfacing until I ripped it up the day I cleared out my stuff.

I am getting drawn in already, and I don't even fancy the guy!

This is another weird phenomenon: although there is no physical attraction whatsoever, someone flattering me and paying me attention, someone who agrees with me that amorous and attentive romantics are hastily tarred with the "stalker!" brush these days, a guy who looks me in the face and tells me it would be a good idea to marry him, makes me squirm in my seat.
A warm tingle spread from my pussy up my spine, and I found myself wondering how his passion would translate into the bedroom.
His slightly tubby hands on my flesh, like KB's big paws exposing and exploring my nipples in his club's library. Uninvited attention and a good mauling forced upon me, yet not unwelcome or rejected by me.

I suppose if he thinks he really wants to marry me, let him prove it! Who am I to say I don't want to get to know him better whilst he spoils and flatters me, and waits patiently to have me listen to him for a while, with nothing in return but a peck on the cheek.

"A feast for my senses", he texted me after I left in a hurry, as I had somewhere to go, "let's do it again soon".

Apparently he wants me to come shooting one weekend (gosh, the guy doesn't even live in London at present!), and for "another drink, a later, longer one". Not to forget "log fires and chestnuts, dressing for dinner, country church, mulled wine etc... and Sienna, can I just say you are beautiful far, far beyond words".

I guess that's just one more reason I just can't seem to stay away from boys who are too young and too chubby for me...
My head tells me one thing, but my pussy disagrees!

S. Miller's banner advertising some cool monochome clothes seems to have taken up permanent residence in my blog.

I assumer her name is Savannah and she is related to the actress.

Also watched "Factory Girl" last week, fascinating. The poor thing was wasting away on screen, but I suppose that's where you get the authenticity from in portraying a starving, drug-addled waif from the sixties.

I think I have the opposite problem: With too much time on my hands and a freezer in convenient proximity, lacking the incentive of "slimming into" a bikini (when has this ever worked!?), I bought a tub of Haegen Dasz yesterday which is now nearing extinction.

Anyway, certain jobs need a certain physique and my plans are to become a full-time plus-sized model!

I got the sack on Friday, oh dear!

From the job I left my previous cushty number for, no less- after just over a week.

Not good for the old confidence, let me tell you!
But I must say, the bizarre hours, "taking your job home", lack of communication and responsibility as well as a hopelessly inadequate computer system didn't exactly convince me that this job was really for me.
I suppose the dirty knife under the printer came as the last straw, as did my steadily increasing desire to be "on the other side" of that room.

I don't think I was born to work in an office after all.

Tired from an exhausting day, the humiliation of getting told "it's not working out" and a spontaneous outing to Chinawhite the night before, I found myself on my sofa without any plans.

Chelsea Boy and his diamond broker friend kept ringing up, trying to convince me to come out with them but I just felt deflated and low on energy. Getting myself out of my trackie bottoms and joining the party crowd would have been too much of an effort!
"Just come over here and fuck me, I don't feel like going out first" I told the Diamond Boy, but I don't think he heard me through his coked-up ears.

I decided I was going to catch up with a few old friends and lovers over the phone, and contemplated ringing the Colonel in New York, the Indian Prince and Canadaboy.
Desperate for an escape from dreary, dark London and the pit of unemployment, I began texting the Sailor- currently in Scotland ("Break in the sun?"), Music Boy (currently in France), and the wannabe Sugar Daddy- all without results.
I then rang Canadaboy and we had a really nice long chat. He is back at his mum's in Toronto and lost some money in the stock market, but he is buying a (yet to be built) nice-looking condo in a trendy part of town. He worries about not finding the money for the full deposit in time, but invited me to come and stay whenever I like.
Me not being Jewish may prevent us from marrying and having kids, but it looks like his hospitalitly and affection for me is unbroken despite the hot chick he is currently dating.

It was nice catching up properly, I miss him and he misses me and our time in London- I told him about my friendship with Chelsea Boy (the new "him") and he sounded ever-so-slightly jealous.

Then I began texting the hot Greek doctor (Doc2 from my sizzling fling in Athens) to convince him to take a break from people's diseased body parts and instead enjoy me and my healthy ones in his posh island shag pad!

He seemed up for the idea, pending hospital approval- and dirty messages began flying back and forth.
"I am wearing my robe and am hard for you, thinking of your ass and pussy", he texted me.
"Oh, a horny doctor", I replied with my mind working overtime and imagining him stroking himself under his scrubs, stethoscope hanging around his shoulders.
"I can't wait to taste your pussy again, Sienna, so hot and sweet", he continued.
"I imagine your tongue on my clit, fingers inside me...", I replied.
"I am in my room, thinking of you and playing..." he continued as I began to get wet.
"Send me pictures", he begged, and I pulled my sweat pants and knickers down to reveal the soft furry outline of my pussy.
I had recently begun to grow my hair back from a small summer landing strip and bare lips to a more womanly shape, trimmed but triangular which I decided I prefer- at least as long as I am single!

He seemed to have no objections- to the contrary: "DON'T STOP BABY, SHOW ME MORE! SHOW ME YOUR PUSSY AND ASS... YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY! LOVE IT" his words screamed from my screen.

This was a challenge. I mean, how does one take a convincing picture of one's own arse?

I began to empathise with my friend who'd come to me for help earlier this year, needing pictures of her boobs on her phone to text to her boyfriend in Singapore... I complied, of course, but who can you ask at nearly midnight to take snaps of your bare bum!? Not an easy task.

I slipped my trousers down further, listening out for the Flatmate's key in the door (now that would be hard to explain!), reached my phone round behind me and began snapping away.

First attempt: a peachy round shape with a crack down the middle- not very appealing- this could be anything!
Next attempt: too close up, again- this could be a loaf of bread or some flesh-coloured duvet cover with a reflection in the middle.

Again I tried and liked it a bit better, you could just about see the tops of my legs with the knickers pulled down between them to reveal my naked bottom, sticking out at a cheeky angle.

"My favourite ass in the world, so beautiful!" he gushed, "and soon will be mine again... I am almost ready to come baby, one more shot 4 me?"
I complied and he loved it. "U are a girl for everything! Smart, interesting, beautiful and sexy, what a deadly combination!!! How can I resist? PS. waiting for photo, still hard "

Next up, a close-up crotch shot, just to shut him up. "Do I get to see a picture of your cock!?" I asked, picturing him pulling aside his doctor's coat to reveal a huge erection, just before dashing off to A&E.

It was rather graphic, but at least you couldn't see my face.
"As you can see, I need a manicure" I commented on my chipped nail varnish holding my lips apart, just slightly, at the top above my clit.

But hey, I am sure he has seen worse in medical books or on an operating table (not that he specialises in gynaecology, mind).

I hope this has earned me a plane ticket and a well-deserved shag break on a smooth-sanded beach.

There you have it: whilst most people would presumably trawl the web and mail out CVs after an unexpected redundancy, I was kneeling on my sofa, arse in the air, snapping away.

Maybe I need to take my carreer a bit more serious!?

I am very environmentally correct. Why waste something that can still be put to good use elsewhere?

This is how I ended up with Fencing Boy, the Flatmate's reject. She told him they should "just be friends" and he seduced me on our sofa. Not entirely unwelcome, I must say. Or maybe I just have a strong pity gland?

In any case, last weekend my penchant for recycling came in handy when another of my flatmate's unwanted goods drove me to Ascot in his Ferrari. It's a long story how I ended up with a hospitality package for four, but Ferrari Boy seemed an obvious choice after Fencing Boy let me walk the plank.

We had a truly wonderful day, and despite my gambling losses I felt extremely privileged- first by the admiring glances people shot us in his flashy car, secondly by his entertaining, positive company and thirdly by the fact that he paid for me all day long- so much so that I treated him to dinner that night. Three scallops for £16 were pretty steep I thought, but worth it (yum!).

He mixed well with my friends (who he hadn't met before) and looked very dashing in his suit, all the way into that night's party.

Ok, I am not sure if he was flirting with me or whatever, also his driving us around meant he couldn't drink (and thus stayed trapped in the clutches of sober English reserve), but he was great company and stayed the perfect gent until he delivered me and my very drunk friend to my doorstep- dodging police all the way (his car has only 2 seats), and after scraping the bottom of the Ferrari over an obnoxious speed bump.

I can't wait to hang out with him again and get to know him a bit better (although I tried to seduce a 24-year-old cashmere jumper-wearing blond posh boy in the top floor bathroom...).

Yacht Boy got in touch again (or rather I did, and he didn't ignore me this time). Looks like we're on for a quiet night out this weekend.

Having wasted more than my fair share of half weekends hung over I agree with his idea of having a sober night, but seeing him at all was a long time coming.

Over lunch I discussed this with Chelsea Boy: "I don't understand how we can spend such a nice weekend on his boat (and no, I didn't shag him) and he invites me to come sailing with him for a whole week [which I was unable to do because of work], and then I don't see him at all for six weeks!"

"Looks like he has you on some kind of back-burner", Chelsea Boy replied, "like: oh, I am a bit bored and there's no-one else around, let's give Sienna a ring". Nice.
"There is definitely something else going on", he continued and agreed with me that it's not a great feeling to think you are running after someone. He's had the same with girls. Just one little pointer would be nice, or a text saying "sorry I met someone", "I am busy with work right now but nice to meet you", or "I don't think we are compatible". Whatever! I mean, I have done it and it's only fair on the other person.

"Why don't you meet him", he suggested, "like he said, for a quiet dinner or whatever, then after half an hour you thank him for returning your scarf and say you are meeting some friends. YOU be the one to leave, what do you think? He'd just sit there wondering what just happened. Let him think. Oh, and if he really likes you, he'll come with you."

"Ok", I smiled, and I must say look forward to the plans Chelsea Boy will undoubtedly make for me, his visiting ex girlfriend, my flatmate and her French friend visiting from Paris. Oh, and to the look on Yacht Boy's face when I walk out on him after our sober dinner.

Bring on the weekend!