His photo is tasty. It shows him pulling himself out of a swimming pool. Silvery droplets of water fall from his muscular chest and his wet hair is slicked back.
        The ‘what I’m looking for’-line of his profile says: ‘Now in my forties, I need a woman who can see the real me: not a boy – but a hero.’
        He grew up in New York, studied psychiatry and worked in prisons and mental institutions. He moved to London five years ago and now earns his living as an independent hostage negotiator. His speciality is to create an atmosphere of trust and to remain in control when the world around him explodes.
        We chat all night long.

The next morning just as I reach my office he texts me: ‘What underwear are you wearing?’
        ‘Dark blue cotton with white stripes and a Mickey Mouse button on the front.’
        Not sexy. Sorry.
        ‘I want you to cut off that button and give it to me when we meet in front of the Salisbury Pub in St. Martin’s Lane at 7.30 tonight.’
        He’s in luck. I’m in town for an audition in the evening and have no plans afterwards.
        ‘I’ll be the pale woman in black dress, black boots and pink handbag,’ I reply.

At 7.27 I wait for him in front of the pub.
        At 7.37 a huge mass of a man in blue jeans and a black T-shirt steps up to me, shows me a badge that says ‘City of New York Police detective’ and hands me a piece of paper.
        I read:
        ’I’m Officer Dr. Joe Doe and you are under arrest for suspicion of prostitution. Tell me your name and your safe word.’
        I return his paper and look up to him. He’s tall like a tower, with big shoulders and a handsome smile, rugged in a sweaty, gum-chewing cowboy sort of way. Just that his hair that looked so good on the photograph being slicked back from water, now looks less good being slicked back from grease.
        ‘My name is Pink and my safe word is red,’ I say and hand him the Mickey Mouse button.
        He takes it, nods and blows a bubble with his gum. Then he grabs my upper arm and drags me away. I have trouble keeping up with the long steps of his long legs. He avoids other pedestrians by zigzagging between them. I lag behind, bumping into people’s elbows and hips until he pushes me into a dark doorway.
        ‘Spread your legs. Hands against the wall. I need to frisk you.’
        His hands touch me without much interest.
        Matter-of-fact.
        Professional.
        Like a real policeman.
        I like it.
        Until his hands rest on my breasts and I feel his breath on my neck.
        ‘Mmm,’ he groans. ‘I like frisking you.’
        He pulls me out of the doorway and aims for a restaurant further down St. Martin’s Lane where he pushes me through the door with a hard slap on my arse. I consider turning around and planting my knee into his crotch.
        Then I remember that he is three times my size – and that I’m hungry – so I walk inside.
        It’s Friday night and we don’t have a reservation.
        ‘How about a drink at the bar?’ the waiter suggests.
        ‘Good idea.’ Officer Dr. Joe Doe heads for a door in the back.
         It’s the one leading to the toilets and before he can open it I pull his sleeve and guide him into the bar at the opposite end of the room.
        Reluctantly, he follows.
        ‘How do you know where the bar is?’
        ‘I’ve been here before.’
        ‘Why didn’t you say right away.’
        ‘I thought you wanted the restaurant.’
        ’I don’t conduct interrogations in restaurants.’
        We find a table in a corner and order red wine.
        He gets out a notepad.
        ‘Do you have a pen?’
         I rummage through my bag and find my pencil case.
         ‘Write down your name and your birthday.’
        I do.
        ‘When was the last time you had sexual thoughts?’ he asks.
        ‘About an hour ago.’
        He takes my pen and writes that down. Then he looks up and frowns.
        ‘Do you have a pen that doesn’t write pink?’
        I thought pink was an appropriate colour for boys. But then again, he does want to be a hero so I find him a royal blue fountain pen.
        ‘What were your sexual thoughts about?’
        ‘Just on the train I thought of the Bodyguard, who fucked me in his house in Streatham.’
        ‘What was that like?’
        ‘Good.’
        ‘Write that down.’
        He returns the pen to me and I scribble. ‘Bodyguard, fucked in Streatham, good.’
        He watches me, chewing his gum.
        ‘Have you had any sexual thoughts about me?’
        ‘No.’
        He doesn’t ask me to write that down and takes a sip from his wine.
        ‘You know I can arrest you.’
        I do him the favour and nod.
        He fishes his gum out of his mouth and buries the enormous piece of gunk in a napkin, which he hands to me.
        ‘Get rid of this.’
        I take it and, smiling, drop it on the floor.
        ‘So Pink …’ he reads my notes, ‘… Starling. Do you have any questions for me?’
        Yeah, lots actually. Why haven’t you washed your hair? You’re seven feet tall – where is the hero in you hiding? How many hostages died because you behaved like a boy?
        I shake my head.
        ‘I don’t have questions.’
        ‘That was a real NYCP badge by the way,’ he says.
        ‘Wow.’ I reply, trying to look impressed, failing.
        ‘You look much more beautiful than your photograph.’ He takes my hand. ‘How does that feel?’
        It feels needy, like the hand of a man who pretends to be a police officer so he can touch up women he just met.
        ‘I have held the hands of a lot of guys recently.’ I reply carefully.
        ‘That is not what I asked.’ He squeezes my hand until it hurts.
        ‘It feels good,’ I lie.
        He nods and drinks up.
        As soon as we’re out of the bar he pushes me into another dark doorway.
        ‘You understand that I need to frisk you again.’
        I don’t, but I hold still anyway.
        When he’s done we walk next to each other down St. Martin’s Lane and into Adelaide Street. His fingers are closed around my wrist like iron clamps. I can’t feel my hand because he is cutting off my blood circulation. I’m about to complain when he pushes me against a wall.
        ‘Stand with your legs spread,’ he says.
        I move my feet apart, enough for it to feel unnatural, not enough to look suspicious.
        He steps up to the urinal next to the Oscar Wilde memorial and opens his fly.
        I lower my head. I don’t want to watch him pee.
        With a crooked movement of his head he invites me to come closer.
        I pretend not to see.
        ‘Come on,’ he says through clenched teeth.
        I keep my head down.
        ‘Touch my dick,’ he hisses.
        I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.
        ‘Come on, do it. Touch my dick,’ he repeats.
        From the corner of my eye I see him standing with his thing in his hand struggling to shout orders that don’t attract attention.
        ‘No,’ I say and turn away.
        He zips the pecker peephole shut. His eyes are dark and filled with anger when he grabs me by my shoulders.
        ‘You little whore.’ He shakes me.
        I try to get away but he catches me.
        People start to notice and suddenly I remember.
        ‘Red,’ I say. ‘Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.’
        His hands drop as if I slapped them.
        ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he asks. ‘I thought you were enjoying this.’
        Was it my mistake not to use the safe word? Or was it his mistake to assume that touching some hero’s little play sword was a turn-on?
        ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
        He stands still now, a big American rock in the middle of the flooding crowd. His face has lost its Cowboy rough and ruggedness and looks doughy and soft.
        ‘You should have said the safe word.’ He sounds close to a sob.
        ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
        He shrugs and his shoulders droop and the corners of his mouth point down.
        ‘Well, bye then,’ he says and walks away.

A week later he calls.
        ‘Say, Pink. Why don’t we try again? I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way I thought they could. No role-play this time. Just a drink and a bite to eat.’
        It’s been a long day and I have no energy left to get on a train into town.
        He insists and offers to come all the way from West London to South East London so we can meet in my local pub.
        I give in.
        He arrives on his motorbike. His helmet is too small. It makes his head look like a cheap toy out of a bubble gum machine. When he takes the helmet off his hair sticks to his temples and the straps of the helmet have left orange imprints on his cheeks and chin.
        Just a drink and a bite to eat, I remind myself.
        We find a table and he gets two hamburgers and a bottle of wine.
        He talks about his life in New York, his two kids and the ex-wife.
        ‘She’s crazy,’ he says.
        Are you sure she was crazy before you met her?
        I don’t ask him that.
        Out of the blue he says: ’I really want to fuck you.’
        I look straight into his eyes and see that one thought in his head. Like a telegraph, hammering down the same message on a blank piece of paper: ‘I wanna fuck you. I wanna fuck you. I wanna fuck you.’
        I like that look. It doesn’t matter that this is the only thing he wants: I still like that look.
        So he sees only my body?
        So at least he sees something.
        I smile.
        ‘Don’t you know how much power you have?’ he says.
        What power?
        ‘That smile, you have such a beautiful smile. You can have any man you want with that smile.’
        That makes me smile even more.
        ‘I really do want to fuck you,’ he repeats.
        And another smile.
        ‘Kiss me,’ he says. ‘Kiss me as if you mean it.‘
        I close my eyes and I can’t kiss him as if I mean it but he’s still out of breath and pants: ’Go to the toilet and take off your underwear.’
        Following his orders is a reflex – nothing more. When I return he’s still an oversized, muscleman from New York whom I don’t know.
        ‘Give me your panties,’ he says.
        But I can’t.
        ‘It’s ok,’ he says. ‘I should head home now anyway.’
        Outside he looks at me like a puppy begging to be taken for a walk.
        ‘May I frisk you?’ he asks – and when I don’t react right away he adds: ‘May I frisk you, please?’

Over the next few weeks he sends me text messages such as: ’It’s a beautiful day today – and I keep dreaming of you’ ‘I think you are cool as hell’ and ‘Whenever you feel lonely, remember there is at least one man in the world who wants to fuck you, no matter what’
        Very romantic that last one.
        There is something unreal about these messages, something stale and rehearsed. I can’ put my finger on what is wrong with them.
        But then again: Maybe he wants more from me than a fuck after all? Maybe he understands that he needs to slow down? But why does he keep writing and never calls to ask me out?
        I always reply something like: ‘Beautiful day indeed. Lovely to know you think of me’ or ‘I’m not that cool, but thanks for the message’ – while I wonder why he keeps writing, but never asks me out again.

A few days later I solve the mystery with the help of my friend Lovey:
        Lovey: what’s new?
        PinkParanoia: not much
        Lovey: this page has just as many creeps as matchnet
        PinkParanoia: so true
        Lovey: had a fun date with a guy from New York, though
        PinkParanoia: don’t say he tried to arrest you for prostitution
        Lovey: oh dear god, have we done it again?
        PinkParanoia: he keeps sending me odd text messages
        Lovey: same here…
        PinkParanoia: I wonder…
        A quick mobile phone check confirms that we have been receiving identical text messages at exactly the same time over the last two weeks.
        Lovey: looks like we can arrange for a threesome?
        PinkParanoia: I wonder how many others…

And so a few days later:
        JoeDoe to PinkParanoia: Today is a wonderful day. I hope you get to enjoy it to the full.
        PinkParanoia to JoeDoe: Please stop texting me.
        JoeDoe to PinkParanoia: Ouch? Why such harsh words on such a nice day and from such a nice lady?
        PinkParanoia to JoeDoe: This isn’t going anywhere so I think we better leave it.
        JoeDoe to PinkParanoia: That doesn’t answer my question.
        PinkParanoia to JoeDoe: I think it does.
        JoeDoe to PinkParanoia: I think you owe me an explanation!!!
        PinkParanoia to JoeDoe: Why did you send all those texts?
        JoeDoe to PinkParanoia: Because I like you!!!!!!!!
        PinkParanoia to JoeDoe: Please take me off your mailing list. And if I’m ever taken hostage remind me to call for a hero and not a boy who would hand terrorists his own head on a silver platter.
        He calls a second later – but I can’t pick up.