I don’t want to say ‘I love you’ yet again. I only say it because I’m too lazy or too tired or too wrapped up in it to give you eloquent specifics. What I want, instead of these ‘I love yous’, is to be able to describe the shape and weight of your presence in my life. I’d like you to see yourself through my eyes.

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If my other half is beside me when I die at the age of ninety, it will come as quite a surprise. Not just surprising that I’ll have lived until ninety, which is unlikely given my lifestyle. It will come as a surprise that we haven’t yet split up.

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When we first got together, I was excited about dating you. I remember the outfit I wore on one afternoon of peak excitement, when we had nothing planned but a long day of drinking and then fucking on the carpet in your flat. I wore boots, shorts, and a semi-transparent top. Badly applied make-up and a giant grin. I was excited, in a horny way. And in a general way too: you excited me as if we were on our way to Alton Towers and not just the pub up the road.

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I don’t want to boast, but my partner and I are quite good at Lego. And by ‘good’ I think I mean ‘prolific’ rather than accurate. We have almost-perfect models all over our flat – treehouses and Batman cars and other colourful delights. When we’re not busy shagging or counting pennies, we like to build things.

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I’ve been asked before about the best sex I’ve ever had – the question itself is a weird one. Much as I love ranking things, it’s truly hard to choose a ‘best’ shag, because the criteria will change depending on my mood. Do you mean ‘best sex’ in terms of filthiness? Sheer pleasure? Bucket-list options ticked off? If you ask me about the best sex, I’ll need a bit of clarification on terms. But if you ask me about the best sex with any specific guy, I can usually give you an answer. It just might not be the one you would expect.

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