He types fast, seems to get my jokes and has a high-powered job as a risk manager.
        During the day he sends me web galleries of corsets, stockings and women in bondage and asks me which ones turn me on. In the evening he gives long distance orders that are unexciting (do not touch yourself), boring (get undressed) or off turning (watch a porn movie). Whenever I chat to him he is either back from shopping or on the way to shop for mysterious gadgets he wants to stick into or tie to body parts he cannot mention.
        His fantasy is to dominate a woman in public without anybody noticing. He promises to mercilessly tease me, bring me to the brink of orgasm and make me do things I’ve never done before.
        For our date he asks me to wear a short skirt, high heels and no knickers and to walk up to him as if I was his girlfriend and embrace and kiss him. The plan is for him to slide a remote control vibrator inside me while we are in a pub, then go buy a slim collar and handcuffs, which he will put on me in the shop and hide underneath my long sleeved top.
        It all sounds pretty straightforward for a gal who wants to try it all and has little clue what she is looking for.

We meet in front of the fountain on Piccadilly Circus. He is impeccably groomed, dark suited and purple tied; with a round face, rosy cheeks, big blue eyes and hair so light he looks bald. I smile as ordered, put my arms around him and kiss him.
        When I’m finished he stares at me, motionless, lost for words. I should have left it at that but I’m all dressed up and there is only one way to go. I take his sweaty hand and lead him through the streets of London until I find the ideally located barstool in a back room of a smallish bar in Old Compton Street. I position him in front of me so that his body hides me from the drinking crowd. This way he can touch me to his heart’s delight and stuff the vibrator in whenever he feels like it.
        Instead, he takes my hand, presses it against his crotch and whispers: ‘This is the effect you already have on me.’
        I sigh. ’Go get us some drinks.’
        The beer loosens him up somewhat. He tries to check if I’m pantyless but cannot aim right and just fumbles around the outskirts of my skirt.
        ‘Your photograph doesn’t do you justice,’ he says and ‘You must be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
        This would go down so much better if he didn’t grin like the man the expression sheepish was invented for.
        ‘Please may I kiss you again?’ he asks.
        I say yes, because it seems as good a way as any to shut him up.
        For reasons unknown to myself I stubbornly stick to the agreed plan and lead him to some Porn Palace in Soho with a huge selection of cuffs and collars in all shapes, forms and sizes.
        He freezes into a lump in the corner and watches with anxious eyes while I touch various leather goods. I see a perfectly pink collar but I don’t want him near it, so make a mental note to come back for it another time.
        ‘Now get me something to eat,’ I say, grab his arm and pull him out of the shop and into a posh Thai place I’ve always wanted to go to. There is a short wait for a table. We have nothing to say to each other and I ponder getting up and going home but the food smells too good.
        ’Would you please put in the remote control yourself?’ he asks in a strangled voice.
        I say yes because I hope it will give us at least one thing to talk about.
        He hands me a condom and what looks like an oversized silvery tampon. I go to the toilets downstairs. The thing is easy enough to install.
        Back upstairs it starts to tickle. For a second it is pleasantly odd to walk through the restaurant and smile at waiters and other guests while I get a quiet buzz inside.
        Then I reach our table.
        ‘Is it working? Can you feel it? How does it feel?’ He looks like a puppy that ran to fetch a ball and now expects me to pat his head and caress his ears.
        I shrug. I don’t have a G-spot. I’m a clit girl. I even told him that. I can’t bring myself to pretend I’m excited by some piece of plastic stuffed up my cunt.
        He keeps making hopeful remarks such as: ‘All well down there, aye!’ ‘Are you still buzzing?’ ‘God, you are so beautiful!’
        If he would at least turn it on and off once in a while, make it a game, use it to accentuate our conversation. But he just keeps it running while half a bottle of wine helps him tell me all about his divorce and the way he is sorting out his money issues. He got married when he was twenty-two to the first woman he ever slept with and has been faithful to her for over ten years.
        Now he sold the house, bought a flat, paid out the wife. Mature, childless and affluent, he is free to enjoy his life and to date whoever he fancies.
        I gobble down my food and stifle my yawns but my mind wanders.
        A rich man. A weak man. A weak, rich man. A rich, weak man, smitten with me.
        I should go for him, take him for what he is worth. Kiss him a bit. Touch him a bit. Fuck him a bit. Play with cuffs and collars a bit. Marry him a bit.
        Nobody is waiting for me. Not a soul in the world would stop me from taking this boy for a ride.
        A few months out of my life. So many women do it every day. Why can’t I?
        ‘I’m sorry this date is such a disappointment for you,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you expected things to go different. I apologize for letting you down.’
        I wish I could find his confession of inadequacy endearing, but I can’t – not for all the money in the world.
        ‘Please tell me how you feel about me,’ he says.
        This is a no win situation. Either I tell him that he is a waste of time and feel guilty or I say he is wonderful and risk having him on my back for the rest of my days.
        The only way out is evasion and a non-committal: ‘I prefer not to be put on the spot like this after a first date.’
        ‘So you don’t think there should be a second one.’
        If he hands it to me on a platter I better take it.
        ‘Yup,’ I say. ‘I don’t think we need a second date.”
        His face falls. I feel sorry and lie that he kisses well.
        ‘At least one nice thing,’ he mumbles - and after some silence. ‘May I cuddle you later?’
        Enough is enough! I don’t feel that sorry.
        ‘This is a silly question.’
        When the bill arrives I rush to the toilet and jerk out the vibrator.
        I give it back to him in front of the restaurant.
        Although his car is parked the other way he insists on walking me to the embankment.
        ‘Can we still be friends?’ he begs. ‘Can we stay in touch? Can we do things, like going to the cinema? It wouldn’t be a date – I just want you in my life.’
        Watching a grown man clutch at straws is not a pretty sight. I speed up my steps.
        When we say good-bye he tries to kiss me.
        I raise my arm behind his shoulder, look at my watch and murmur:’10.23!’
        His tongue slips out of my mouth.
        ‘Gotta catch my train,’ I say and run.

He sends four text messages the same evening and two e-mails, which I find the next morning. He calls at noon just to make sure I - ‘Yes,’ I cut him short. ‘I got home ok. I’m in the office. I can’t talk.’
        Another e-mail full of how this has never happened to him before, how he is not a boy who falls head over heels for any old girl he meets, how he has lots of dates but never has anybody ever touched him so deeply so quickly, how he needs me to be his friend, please, he needs to see me again.
        I prefer a sound blow to prolonged torture of the pining male, so I write:
        ‘It would be unhealthy for you to stay in touch. I’m not the woman you’re looking for. Now bugger off. PP’