By the Book Ch. 03

May 13th 2004

So, how successful is the book of flirting? Well, it's day twelve and already I'm paying a visit to the Last Resort. I wanted step-by-step instructions on how to flirt but instead I've been asked to imagine I'm an animal and to flirt with no one else bar myself. When you've been single for as long as I have, that novelty has well worn off. So tonight I threw away the rulebook and headed to the gym. It was time to get me some sex with the ex.

Ordinarily, when it comes to desirability, Nick wouldn't have made it into the top five on my list of exes but he does have one advantage over all the others; I know where to find him. And just like a decade ago, I managed to wander out of the gym at the same time as Mr Spontaneity came off the squash court.

Me: Hello stranger, fancy meeting you here.

I can't remember his answer, as I was busy trying to recall the order of service for the flirting techniques. As we chatted I smiled, dipped my head, looked down, looked through my eyelashes, smiled some more and amazingly it worked. Before long we were in the bar mirroring our moves, laughing and chatting, oblivious to everyone. And I was definitely on for getting laid, which I'd like to think was thanks to my being a flirting queen. Either that or he'd read the slogan on my t-shirt. I bought it when I skydived for charity. 'Fancy a Jump?' it read, and he took it literally.

Back at my place, I went through the usual charade of making coffee, up to the point where I asked whether he took sugar – oh no, what other things about him have I erased from my memory! – when he cut to the chase.

Him: Let's go to bed.

Me: Who said anything about us sleeping together? There's only coffee on offer, tonight.

He didn't answer. He grabbed my hand, pulled me towards him and kissed me. For a long time.

Him: Let's go to bed

So I followed him up the stairs and into my bedroom, all the time wishing I'd put a couple of large brandies in those Diet Cokes he plied me with in the bar at the sports centre. I was in desperate need of some Dutch courage.

Me: I just need to use the loo.

With just a flimsy plasterboard wall between the toilet and my bedroom I put masses of toilet tissue down the pan before sitting down to do a wee and simultaneously say a prayer. After a quick wash of my hands, a last check in the mirror I took a deep breath and entered the bedroom, hoping he'd either fallen asleep or done a runner.

No. He'd busied himself lighting the three novelty candles displayed on the dresser, taken off everything except his boxers and was now lying prone on the bed, hands behind his head, waiting for me to come in and remove my clothes – Why, oh why, hadn't I thought to take them off in the bathroom and come back in just a robe?

We'd always been very competitive, him and me. Once I'd challenged him to take part in a 10K race with me, because I knew he would sprint ahead but wouldn't have the stamina to keep it up. Sure enough, I was waiting for him at the finish line, having already changed into my tracksuit, rattling my car keys in mock frustration at having been kept waiting.

Even when it wasn't centred on sport we'd compete. Who dressed the best, which one of us could drink the most, even who had the longest orgasm. Bless him! We stopped going to the quiz after the night when I goaded him uso much he picked me up in front of all our friends, marched outside with me and threw me in the River Dee to "cool off".

And he certainly wasn't going to get the better of me this time. The last time a man watched me undress may have been too many years to mention but old habits die hard. Externally I was clad in shapeless velour, underneath pure silk. Classic cream and deep claret hip hugging French knickers were teamed with a balconette bra, both designed for maximum effect.

Him: So, it didn't all go south, then.

The standing joke that as soon as women reached twenty-five everything drooped wasn't funny back then either.

Sex with the ex is probably hugely successful because it is so easy to just slip back in there. The first night nerves completely disappear and there's none of those worries about how do they kiss, where to touch them, how far is too far, how low do you go.

However, things threatened to come to a crashing close after just my second cumming.

Me: Who taught you that?

It's hard to get annoyed when every fibre of your being is screaming to be released yet at the same time begging for more but as I've said I'm very competitive. If anyone's going to teach a man the best way to please me it wasn't going to be some faceless bimbo he's been slapping around with.

Him: You liked it.

Not a question.

Me: Had better.

Him: Liar!

Me: More a faker than a liar.

Him: There was no faking going on then. I know you.

Me: You barely know my name.

He started nibbling my earlobe, pinning my arms above my head while pressing his body against mine.

Him: I know you like that.

He moved his lips further down my neck.

Him: And that.

To my breast.

Him: And that.

My legs parted, hips rose and with a sigh he was inside me, sliding up and down, slow and regular. And then he said it.

Him: Are you actually contracting your muscles?

May 14th 2004

The Ann Summers shop had its usual mix of lunchtime shoppers in. Plus me, armed with thirty pounds worth of gift vouchers and humiliation by the sack load.

Me: Do you sell pelvic floors?

Teenager behind counter: I don't think so...

Customer behind me pointing to the display behind the counter: I'd get the Rampant Rabbit if I were you.

This is where I pretend it's not for me. No, not me at all. I'm not built like a bucket. I'm sexy, all woman. In fact it's normal to wee when you laugh or sneeze. Why else do they sell Tena Lady?

Me: Do you think?

Customer: Put it this way, without a pelvic floor it will be the only thing that gives you a second date.