“SHORTS,” my brain screams, irritatingly. “LOOK. MEN WEARING SEXY SHORTS.” Try as I might to shut it up, it refuses to be silenced on the most important issue of the day. “LOOK,” it insists, even as I try to distract myself by remembering my times tables, “THERE ARE SEXY LEGS ALL OVER THE PLACE. SHORTS. LOOK AT THE SEXY SHORTS.” So I comply. I drink it in. And I melt with lust.

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I stood on the escalator the other day behind a woman in slightly-too-tight clothes. Her bra straps dug into her shoulders and back, pressing against her flesh. Pinching at her skin. Highlighting the unquestionable solidity – the thereness of her. She was beautiful.

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My dude and I are walking down the street on the way to catch a train. It’s fairly late, and the streets are filled with tanked-up football fans and loved-up students off their tits on MDMA so naturally, there are police. Just in front of us, a pair of young police officers get out of a panda car in their stab vests. She’s mid-twenties, with short blond hair and the kind of muscle tone you’d need to restrain a suspect. He’s slightly older, and has a solid heft to him that I’d imagine would feel achingly good on top of me during a struggle-fuck.

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I love bras. I literally never leave the house without wearing one. Even if I am just popping to the shop to get milk – a task which takes a maximum of three minutes – I will still put on a bra before I go, and I will be a million times happier for it. I know lots of people hate them, so I just wanted to raise my voice in a joyous shout in defence of bras: I LOVE THEM.

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I don’t want to be naked when we start to fuck: I want you to undress me. I want frotting and cotton – want to rub up against you with a barrier between us. I want to be able to slip a hand inside your t-shirt and feel the soft hair in the small of your back with my palm. I want to feel like we’re going somewhere.

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