Has anyone else noticed how much new relationships resemble a tub of Philadelphia? The slightest contamination, and the whole lot goes mouldy within two days!

I can't help but think that this is what is happening with Salsa Boy.

He never phoned all weekend, whilst the German guy kept ringing every five hours or so from his holiday in Africa, making me feel warm and fuzzy inside with his easy, genuine charm and friendly, attentive voice.

I mean, anyone apart from a hard-core Catholic would be frustrated at the lack of physical contact since I met him before Christmas, and whilst I am a very confident and outgoing person, I am also extremely approcheable and affectionate.

We had a tentative text exchange about what actually happened on the weekend, and he kept throwing the "blame" back at me... not a good start! His "defense" for not being more offensive with his affections is that I had stretched out on the sofa, leaving him no space to sit, so he had to sit on the other one. Pur-lease! I ask you, does the man have no mouth to ask me to shift over? No bum, to sit next to me or hands to move my legs or head onto his lap?
Should I draw him a map? I suppose in this case I should include a very obvious arrow to my clitoris, for future reference!

I am getting exhausted just thinking about it, so bringing it up with him wasn't easy, and won't be any easier in person.

How hard could it have been for him to ask me on Sunday if I wanted him to come over in the evening, or to basically just phone to see if I was alright?

German Boy may live abroad, but at least it feels like he is there for me. And I don't feel awkward making sexual references, which Salsa appears to be able to do via text (albeit fairly harmless, along the lines of: "next time you won't escape...") but not in person, preferring to chat about friends, pets and politics, and other neutral subjects.

I don't just want to dump Salsa Boy on his arse, but give him a chance to explain properly- without appearing to criticise or ridicule him. It is quite possible that his actual experience with women is rather limited, especially since I established now that he used to go to a convent school followed by an all-boys grammar school which left little exposure to female company.

On the other hand, it is quite possible that in the long run my 40-plus lovers won't go down well with his confidence, even if the actual number never actually emerges. I refer to "boys I once dated" fairly frequently if some related subject comes up, and it is usually a totally different person from the one I mentioned before.

I don't know how I'd feel about getting intimate with someone whose penis possibly hasn't felt a stranger's hand for ten years, and I have begun to wonder whether he grooms his pubes any better than his eyebrows...

If I can feel myself pining for Tall Boy's passionate aggression in bed with someone as offensively affectionate as the German boy, how would I manage to stay awake with someone inside me who is even too shy to hold my hand properly!?

All in all, I can almost smell the fuzzy green film approaching...

I've had a weird pain in my left breast for a few days, and in a slight panic I have begun to examine it for lumps every so often all day long, whilst watching TV, under the shower, in bed.

It definitely felt more painful than the right one, especially when pushing and prodding it, and I worried about all sorts. Namely breast cancer. People in my family have had it rather young, and you've just got to worry. Or rather, you don't have to, but your brain does it without your consent.

However, no lumps were forthcoming. Fortunately, one should think, but the pain was still there, more pronounced when running and I noticed it more after the gym, but there didn't seem to be an explanation. Until I remembered my fall from Friday.
Whilst I am glad there was a suspicious absence of blood or grazed hands, not even my jeans were torn and the shoe box I was carrying in one of my bags only sustained a slight dent, I suppose the mighty impact onto uneven concrete at full tilt must have been absorbed by something- I suspect my left boob!

That goes some way to explaining the pain, but doesn't make me feel a whole lot better about myself.

Why does having sex once a week set you up for creamy knickers for the rest of the week, wishing the object of your affection could shift as easily as the fingers of your latest encounter slipped your gusset aside to enter your involuntary wetness?

Whilst I don't yearn for an anonymous, shallow encounter I can't help but wonder what might entice Tall Boy back into my life, my bed, my cunt.

I will slip that condom off him like I now know how to do, slip my finger into his arse and fuck the consequences.

I will cry again as I come, wish my tears away as he spunks into me, and rub my wet face on his broad shoulders.

I would hear him moan and snore, then sneak off with a beating heart to check his phone again, stalk him on facebook, and ignore that little packet on my bedside table for the rest of the month.

I would despair at his personality, the state of his house and the amount of weekends he spends away, nursing my growing stomach and resentment. Waking up next to his sparkling eyes would take the edge off, and his sperm would become my breakfast.

Lvoe is bliss.

...Salsa Boy?

He and I spent a wonderfully sunny Sunday in Oxford, taking the fast bus up and walking through beautiful winter fields until we hit the university gardens.

We had a nice pub lunch in the sun, which was so warm I sat in my t-shirt, and then he rowed me around the canals just before sunset.
We swapped, and sat next to each other in the rocking row-boat briefly, but he didn't touch or kiss me, which was a pattern that repeated all day.

Didn't he think that after all the things he had done for me, and got so right, he wasn't entitled to take even a tiny little liberty, maybe just once? Especially as I'd kissed him at the tube station following the lovely dinner he'd cooked for me and some friends, and backed up the fact I wasn't entirely disgusted by him by sending him two Valentines cards: one real one with a dancing couple, and an e-card which referred to kissing...

To be frank, I was getting confused. After lunch, I had taken his arm which he appeared to feel comfortable with, but he didn't reciprocate by putting his arm around me later or anything, and when I held his hand as we walked across Christchurch college's courtyard, he appeared happy with that but didn't take it again after we broke the connection.

"We can go inside the cathedral if we pretend to be there to attend Evensong", he told me with a wink, so we ended up in a full-blown high CoE service that involved kneeling, praying, repenting and listening to a very talented choir with faces straight out of Ugly's casting books. Beautiful voices apparently come in strange packages it is easy to underestimate, and I lost myself in the strangely relaxing limbo of a church service.

A beautiful boy in a pew opposite kept catching my eye, but he wouldn't be distracted from prayer by looking at me, so I guess that Christchurch Cathedral isn't a prime location to scout for local talent.

Bad girl, I was there on a date! Albeit with one who seemed less interested and interesting by the hour, so no wonder I was glancing around. He could, however, have been there to pick up one of the choir boys, although I doubt it was the skinny one with the pudding-bowl haircut and glasses, or any one of the fatties.

Gosh I am so mean, they really were singing quite beautifully!

When we left the church, the sun had gone down and we began a mini pub crawl, had dinner and finally caught the bus back to London.

During one of the drinks we shared, Salsa Boy confessed that he does like me, and said something along the lines of me being "the best thing ever, the most beautiful lady..." etc, however without the deep and meaningful glances climaxing in a kiss which I am more used to than this rather puzzling restraint from a guy rapidly approaching forty.

I don't quite recall when he made the statement that it was "nice to hold your hand, but then you dropped mine", but I was really stuck for a response. I mean, truly, what does one reply to something like that!? Apart from: "Well, you twit, you should have just taken it again", which can only lead to an argument.

On the bus- it was very late by now and we were both tired- I suggested putting my head in his lap on the back seat, and he didn't object.

I got the feeling he wasn't used to such level of intimacy, but I wanted to be comfortable, and, frankly, hoped he might kiss me again so I could ascertain his suitability as a serious contender, but I was disappointed.

Instead, and ever so sweetly, he began stroking my hair until he fell asleep.
At first, I took the sustained pulling on my hair as a sign of a slightly kinky side he had thus far managed to conceal, which would not be entirely unwelcome.
I wondered if he was actually trying to hurt me, or if it was accidental, enjoying the sensation and the uncertainty- until I looked up and saw his sleeping face, his hand entangled in my hair and pulling down with the weight of it, not by any attempt to turn me on.

His haplessness in getting physically closer (because, surely, he must want to- having splashed out on that enormous bouquet and displayed all manner of signs that he fancies me beyond friendship) began to remind me of the budgie I used to own: He would approach and retreat from his little wife I'd got him from an animal shelter, nodding his head in typical courtship display, and she would be sitting there with her tail up in the air, back arched and looking expectantly up at the top of the cage.
He would approach and kiss her, retreat again, nod his head a bit more, singing all the while, then he would return to her and place one foot on her waiting back, pull it back and start all over again. He never got any further than that single foot, being unable to complete the mating act despite the little wooden nesting box I'd provided for them.

Maybe he lacked example or confidence, two reasons which seem more and more likely when I watch Salsaboy making his approaches, only to retreat again.

Can this ever be a subject I could bring up with him? If yes, how would I start?
"I noticed you seem to be quite shy...", "What can I do to make you feel more comfortable around me...", "Would you say your're an affectionate person..?" or, more to the point: "Whilst you were faffing about, someone else got in there before you..."!?

I don't want to discourage him, but I can't be the only one that makes all the moves, the main reason he plucked up the courage to kiss me at the tube was, I think, the fact that he'd had a bit of Dutch courage, and that I kept looking at him and basically blocking his way until he couldn't help but plant his lips on mine.

The main reason that our date tonight won't amount to a sleepover, is the huge lovebite the German boy mysteriously left me with since I don't recall him kissing my neck at all.

In preparation to our night watching DVDs at his (is this a euphemism, I did wonder) I am wearing a rollneck jumper and brought my new Hermes scarf, just in case I get hot and have to take the jumper off. A sore throat, I suppose, may also work as a convenient repellant.

I am deeply annoyed about my apparent inability to stick to a new year's resolution as simple as: "no more casual sex".
Or maybe this is sticking the marks too wide, and should merely read: "No more sex without love and commitment", which, in all honesty, this last encounter is by all accounts most likely to fall into- unless I manage to screw up again. It is no doubt still a far cry from staying celibate until married, but I can honestly say that the other party involved is not only utterly besotted with me, I can virtually see our unborn children skipping around his head through his permanently enlarged pupils in their bright-blue setting.

Nope, and it's not Salsa Boy, either. Confused? Me too!

This one was a rather coincidental result of the one mad night out I had with my friend in Cologne, which saw me and him literally swinging off the rafters of the night club in question and cumulated in my telling him that I don't usually kiss boys unless they have bought me a bottle of champagne first. Well, a girl can at least try to emulate a smidgen of class with fancy-dress makeup dripping down her sweaty face.

Of course, at this stage I had already kissed him! And seen his ID card, which he produced with a flourish after I told him I am not interested in guys under 35. "In that case, I am really lucky", he grinned, pulling out the necessary proof that would grant his tongue access to my mouth because it stated that he was born in 1972. Since in my world having a young face has never got potential suitors barred from close contact, seeing legal evidence that he was, in fact, not another child of the Eighties made it difficult to resist his sustained attempts to kiss me for long.
Well, I suppose I had tried to put him off, and failed miserably. Despite subsequent shenanigans with Bavarian Boy and the surprise airport pick-up, dinner and Valentine's surprise from Salsa Boy, this one refused to go away and fade into a distant memory of succulent lips on my own.

I received regular phone calls from him as I continued my trip through Europe, and his laughing, sympathetic voice oozing with youthful enthusiasm never failed to brighten a dull moment.

As soon as I was back in London, he began planning an opportunity to see me again. During a long chat in the night leading up to February 15th, I told him about Salsa Boy's existence and the enormous bunch of flowers I'd received from him, but he seemed to take the news well. "I don't have expectations", he told me, "so that way, I can never be disappointed". Maybe that's where I go wrong!

To his enquiry on my opinion on a visit from him I told him that I can't exactly forbid him to sit on a plane or visit a popular European capital, and that of course I would be happy to meet him whenever he decided to come to London.

We got on so well on the phone, and the conversation flowed and went beyond the surface in a way I have never experienced with Salsa Boy (or, as a matter of fact, with most representatives of the opposite sex in possession of a British passport), that I found it very hard to finally put the phone down two hours later. It was, however, 2am by then and I was tired.

He came, saw and conquered on Wednesday, leaving again for a trip to North Africa early the Thursday morning.

At what stage I decided to fuck him I don't quite recall, but it was somewhere between him kissing my bare back whilst lying on top of me (whilst I naively expected a nice massage), reaching his hand around my hip and beginning to vigorously massage my pussy through my suit trousers, and me getting up to fetch a condom.

It annoyed me that I got naked with him, and he with me, when he lifted his arm at one point the stench nearly took my breath away (not to be confused with the sweet smell of sweat acquired during a recent strenuous activity, to me it represented a day spent in the same clothes without deodorant, the olfactory equivalent to petrol fumes), and the soppy look on his face made me feel like I was being covered in treacle.

However the less rational part of my brain told a different story. Starting from the point I could have gone to my own bed and didn't, to the moment I decided to brush my teeth and return to his bed, continuing with the minute he took my top off and I didn't protest and leading to the slight tilting of my hips which allowed him access to remove my trousers.

I can't say I didn't want his fingers inside me, and I didn't stop rocking against him when the sensations begin to build up, covering his hand in my juice.

Of course, he had said we'd only be cuddling, and I enjoyed the feel of his arms around me, the look of lust in his eyes and the liquid bubbles. We'd had a fantastic night out together and were happy to relax, as we were both so tired- BUT I still can't put my finger on why I didn't just say NO. After all, I have walked away and told the tale before, frequently at the stage where I was wet and knickerless, and could taste myself on his lips.

In this case, it seemed almost inevitable, and I curse my flimsy chastity belt and lack of resolve and reserve.

"Are you on the pill?", he whispered into my ear, pushing my legs apart with his knee.
"Yes", I replied, wondering if he'd just go ahead and try to enter me without a rubber? He did, and I stopped him before he got too close. "I'd better get a condom", I told him, and, although slightly surprised (why? Does he not worry about diseases?), he concurred this could be an option too.

He couldn't find any condoms in his own pockets, which made me suspicious of whether or not he had even brought any along, so I delved into my own stash.

At this point (or, if I am honest, even earlier), Tall Boy entered my head with a force not unlike his passion in the bedroom, and wouldn't leave.
I wanted him in bed with me, I wanted it to be his hands, his mouth, his passion, and above all, his smell that overpowered me, his dick to penetrate me and his come to gush into me, preferably without hesitation, rubber barrier or worry about consequence.

In this case, it was nice. Yes, nice, but- only- nice. Especially nice for him, as he came -almost noiselessly- almost immediately. I could tell by the way his dick swelled, as, of course, I had my hand down there bringing myself off by sustaining pressure on my clit.

No gasp, no squeeze, no sigh or moan as Tall Boy tends to let out. So you know he's come, and you don't have to feel guilty if you mount that hill in 30 seconds flat.

I waited til I came myself to ask him, but as it happened I already knew the answer anyway.

By the time he snored for the third time, I was out of his arms and tiptoed quietly along the hall to my own bedroom, stopping for the obligatory, cystitis-preventing pee on the way. I had about two hours of sleep to enjoy until his taxi came and woke me up.

When I knocked on the bathroom door, he was frantically using the flatmate's towel to dry himself off- although I had left him a nice stash of fresh, clean towels to himself. Men!

...as opposed to a hot date!

The reason I am still happy as Larry or cheerful as Cheryl, is the insanely large bunch of greenery I was assaulted with by a woman I have never met before as soon as I stepped through my front door.

Turns out she had been waiting for me to get back all day and managed to catch me at just the right moment, rather than 7:30am this morning!

She probably lacks the degree in electronics needed to push the doorbell correctly, so failed to wake me up.

Instead, she stood there with the largest bouquet of flowers I have ever received in my life whilst I juggled with my bike and helmet.

"It's been sitting in the shop all day", she told me, "and everyone has been admiring it!". I bet. I am surprised any customers managed to fit in the shop at all, next to this thing!

"Oh my God", I managed to gasp, "what do you think he is trying to say!?". "Do you know who it's from?", the flower lady asked, and I admitted I'd had a tip-off earlier today.

Amazingly, Salsa Boy is turning from a still water into a seriously dark horse.
Arriving back just before midnight at one of London's minor airports in the sticks a few days ago, I never expected to receive a text message informing me that his driver would be waiting to collect me in arrivals.

"Salsa, what have you done!?" I yelled into my phone a bit louder than strictly necessary, shaking with giggles of surprise and disbelief. "Yes", he confirmed, "my driver is standig outside with a name board".
The best response I could think of was: "If this is a joke, I will be soo annoyed...", before diving over to the luggage carousel to retrieve my suitcase.

Chelsea Boy, who had been on the same plane but without a chance to sit next to me in the completely booked aircraft, hoisted my bag onto the trolley alongside his own, and I skipped ahead through customs to search for the driver, or whoever.

Indeed, it was Salsa himself who had come to meet me, sheepishly holding up a piece of paper with a different spelling of my name on either side. Sweet!

I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a hug and a kiss before he could get too confused about Chelsea Boy's presence, which he only noticed once he realised the absence of any luggage appropriate to a two-week absence.

They shook hands in a manly way, and Chelsea continued to push my suitcase on his trolley whilst I linked arms with Salsa Boy on our way to the car park.

Chelsea Boy went to get the bus, and I made a point of telling him to give my love to his girlfriend (who Salsa boy also met not long ago), just to avoid confusion. After all, who would want to hurt a man who has just completed a two-hour round-trip the wrong side of midnight to the opposite side of Greater London?

"I can't believe you came", I kept repeating like an electric parrot with a faulty battery, "how on earth did you even know what day I was getting back, and at what time, and which airport!?"
I was truly a bit freaked out, yet pleased at the same time: I mean what else would he be able to find out about me... Had he asked someone? Who?

Never in a million years would I have dreamt of asking him to come pick me up, knowing this airport was only slightly more convenient to his location than, say, the one on the Isle of Wight.
I had no such qualms with Mr Married, however, who I tried to entice in a text a few days earlier- knowing that out of all the men who currently have me on their radar he lives the closest.
I am glad he declined due to family commitments, imagine them both turning up at once!!?

I didn't even have the slightest incling when I might see Salsa Boy again before receiving that text after I landed, and it's lucky I even turned my phone on.

There are few things that show commitment more than picking someone up from somewhere, especially unexpectedly. It shows you are thinking of them and missed them, it proves initiative and generosity, and the person can be seen as reliable and supportive.

Maybe he remembered my story about Cashmere declining to pick me up from hospital after a general anaesthetic, or perhaps he just picks everyone up... in any case, I was really touched.

I was reminded of the time a couple of years back when Sportscar Boy met me at the same airport in his Porsche, after I had spent a nearly sleepless night in Chubby's bed, but at least Porsche Boy got a shag out of me the same afternoon (after forcing me to listen to his extremely dull choice of music in the car).

In comparison, Salsa Boy and I chatted so much we didn't even get round to switching the radio on.
Also, I beg to remember that this is a man I hadn't even kissed!

He walked me across the car park straight to a huge black Bentley.

"This isn't the car", he told me when we got closer, and I noticed a smaller sports car tucked behind it. We laughed and fiddled the suitcase into the boot.

Ninety minutes later -after a detour to Camden in order to inspect the fire damage (I worried about Camden Boy and other friends), which turned out not to be as bad as feared, thankfully- we found ourselves with a cup of coffee on my sofa. Tired and happy, yet we still didn't kiss.

Somehow, it still wasn't the right time.
Somehow, I wasn't getting the right vibes from him.
Somehow, I could tell he wanted to, but couldn't quite bring himself to risk possible rejection.

I got the impression that he felt as though in a shop which displays signs stating: "don't ask for credit, as refusal may offend", he'd rather not cross the invisible line into a territory where pride would prevent him from ever shopping there again.

Although most people would agree that the free ride he just gave me from the airport would entitle him to a bit more than just a cup of coffee... I suspect he is waiting until a promotion is on before he asks for any freebies!

Reading Belle de Jour's new book really annoyed me.

Not the book so much, it is nice and I enjoyed her ventures into a foreign land and can sympathise with the fact she gave up her former career as a call girl (although it must be tempting to slip into it again every so often).

However, whilst the type of behaviour also displayed by "the Boy" (what, only one?) led to a nuclear melt-down of my own relationship nearly three years ago, she- wait for it- never even mentions it to him, and, get this: LETS HIM MOVE IN WITH HER (!!!) whereupon the book stops on the brink of relationship bliss, or, alternatively (and much more likely in my opinion) total disaster.

And she is supposed to be a feminist?

Since when was it more feminist to be able to say: "let's play with my anal beads" than: "Excuse me, why are you still fucking your ex!?".

I think modern taboos really screw a lot of women up.

Whilst it is now acceptable for a woman to ask for his cock up her arse, shove her tongue into his ring piece and suggest getting involved in threesomes, it is completely unacceptable to suggest he may want to put his baby in her stomach, push a ring onto her finger and buy a three-bedroom house together.

Brave new fucked-up world!

Blagged my way into a huge film festival bash last night, with Chelsea Boy and Berlin Friend in tow.
Dressed to the nines, stuffed from an earlier party and gagging for a drink, we weaved our way through the throng, assaulted by the bad music choices of the tiny DJ.

Having lost my friends in the crowd after chatting to a man of recent acquaintance and some business importance, I found myself at the mostly grazed-bare buffet with a most divine specimen of Bavarian descent.

Dressed casually in jeans and a fraying t-shirt, he remarked on my glamorous party dress and my cleavage in particular, whilst we chewed our salads washed down with pink champagne.

About an hour later, I was kissing him outside the toilets.

This being a very German party in a very grand hotel, it was distinctly lacking any discreet and unlit corners, so we exchanged saliva and carresses in full view of the assembled creme of the Teutonic film world.

Not that I minded too much, of course, seeing as I was tipsy and he was gorgeous!

His body almost too hard for my taste, I was nonetheless unable to stop myself running my fingers over his sixpack and tightly muscled back, twisting the soft dirty-blonde hair in his neck and staring up into his starry-blue eyes whilst he kissed me.

The kissing, however, was a disappointment: too hard, too dry, too shallow for my taste, no sucking or tongue, and as a lady you can't exactly try to extract his tongue from his mouth with your own without coming over a bit desperate. I was also worried I would choke him, as he was so clearly inexperienced of "serious" kisses not to be confused with superficial film or stage kissing.

A few acquaintance's amused glances later, I got too embarrassed and dragged him into the staff stairwell, where only moments later we were disturbed by a waiter on a mission: "You can't stay here", he told us, "do you realise that when this door closes you'd be trapped?"- so we re-emerged into the brightly-lit corridor by the toilets only a few seconds after trying to hide.

I thought "fuck it" and continued to kiss him at the top of the grand stair case under a huge chandelier. So what, he really was extremely good-looking, and our happy giggles attracted only benevolent glances from the assembled crowd.

"Your friends would never believe we could ever have sex", Bavarian Boy told me, "we'd be laughing too much".

Indeed!

Him being German and me being on a mission for love-induced sex instead of alcohol-fuelled fumbling, I left him standing after a long kiss goodnight and went home with my friend, dropping Chelsea Boy and his sparking Columbian off at another party along the way.