‘If eyes are the window to the soul, your soul must be beautiful,’ CC writes, referring to my picture on alt, which shows nothing but said eyes.
        The next day he sends me a photo of the blood shot, yellowy wrinkled Cyclops window to his own soul.
        He is a lawyer.
        He has ticked ‘prefer not to say’ in answer to his marital status and never picks up his mobile.
        It takes him a week to admit that he is married.
        He insists he just wants to buy me dinner and get some advice as he is new to all ‘this’ and I seem to know an awful lot.
        What I know is that a married man cannot afford to skimp on the food.

He says the Cinnamon Club is close to Victoria.
        As always when things look easy on the map I miss a turn.
        As always when I miss a turn it starts to rain.
        As always when I’m lost in the rain my shoes start to hurt.
        I find the place after a fifteen minute power hike.
        I shake his hand and he tries to kiss me on the cheek.
        He blushes when I pull away.
        We wait in the bar until our table is ready. It is noisy and the way he leans forward to hear me talk makes his gut hang down between his legs.
        ‘Sorry about that,’ he says.
        ‘What?’
        ‘That … before .. the … when I .. ‘
        I know he is referring to his clumsy greeting ceremony but I enjoy watching him squirm.
        ‘What do you mean by ‘before’?’ I ask.
        ‘I tried to kiss you. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
        Who he fuck is embarrassed?
        ‘No worries,’ I say.
        He gives me a present. It’s a DVD wrapped in pink paper – a subtitled French Horror Classic from 1959 called ‘Eyes without a face’.
        ‘You know I was intrigued by your eyes,’ he explains.
        A famed plastic surgeon lures young women to his secluded mansion, where he removes their faces in an attempt to restore his daughter's scarred visage reads the cover.
        ‘How sweet,’ I say.
        ‘Just a thank you for brightening up my days.’
        ‘You know I’m only here for the food.’
        ‘I know, I know. I still find you fascinating. And I still want your advice.’
        ‘I can’t give anybody advice.’
        ‘I think you can. You KNOW things.’
        First food. Now flattery. He is not stupid.
        I order Wild African prawns baked with kasundi mustard and lemon rice, Roast saddle of Oisin red deer with pickling spices and Baby aubergine in Hyderabad style sesame tamarind sauce.
        ‘What do you need advice on?’ I ask.
        ‘On how to realize my dream.’
        What he wants is a woman to live on his house boat which is currently filled with an expensive, extensive rope collection that grows and grows without ever being put to use. What he wants for that woman is to be there only for him. What he wants is somebody who does what he says, somebody he can mould and teach and tie and own.
        A dog, I think and suck warm mustard sauce out of a prawn with a slurping sound.
        He looks around to check if the waiter has heard.
        ‘Tell me about your wife?’ I say.
        She is intelligent and attractive, head of the history department at some university. He loves her dearly, fucks her on a regular basis and wouldn’t dream of doing anything to hurt her or his wonderful kids.
        And yet – he still has this urge, this thing, this fantasy.
        ‘Why don’t you try and tie up the wife?’ I ask.
        He looks disappointed.
        Did he hope my advice would consist of offering myself to help him live his fantasy?
        The wine is sweet and strong. It makes me talk as if I had something to say.
        Most sub women are confident and successful in real life – blablabla – taking control of your wife might be the sexiest thing that ever happened to her – blablabla – doing this would save your conscience – bla – your marriage – bla – your wallet – bla – and your rope collection – blabla.
        He listens and nods and sighs and rolls his eyes.
        ‘Amazing this internet thing,’ he says after a while. ‘Online – for a few days – while I was waiting for your replies and only knew your eyes – I really thought I was in love with you.’
        I’m glad my real life persona took care of that emotional blunder.
        I stuff down a Spiced blood orange crêpe with banana parfait, Batter fried rice pudding with grilled chilli pineapple ice cream and a couple of Date pancakes with vanilla and toasted coconut before I leave.

The DVD he gave me is in US format. A colleague finds me a decoder but I cannot get it to work. I sell ‘Eyes without a Face’ unwatched on Amazon for £15.99.