And when the other shoe dropped...

So yes, re "Houston, wir haben ein problem" below, it took a great deal of relaxing and bringing my feelings down to earth for things to work and, eventually, one night on my turf, everything worked perfectly.

Ever since, the sailing has been smoother, but also sans teenage infatuation. This is the point where you start looking beyond the looks for the strength of character and personal appeal in someone. The time we spend together remains amazing, but I catch my mind posing questions and making comparisons it should never make.

We all fall into that trap. Your first true love becomes the standard against which you measure all future relationships, or so some have claimed. But I am making a conscious effort not to go down that road. AD is an apple, my ex JS was an orange. It's no use pointing to the bothersome seeds at the apple's core when you know very well that, even though oranges have no such seeds, their peel is equally frustrating. Conversely, it makes no sense saying "umm" how crunch that apple seems when you know very well that the orange will always be juicier. In short, any sort of comparison, whether it accentuates what you now have or not, should be avoided at all cost. You don't end up giving the person you are with a clean slate, the benefit of doubt, or a chance to make their own lasting impression on you.

As with most things, it's easier said than done.

Huston, wir haben ein Problem

The second date went even better than the first. We rolled into Lab in Soho for a choice of cocktail (out of a menu of 400) which turned into 3 cocktails and a shot of Mumm (yes, champagne shots as a side to fruity vodka are in), then walked across WC1 to Carnaby Street where we found a funky Chinese wok restaurant. From there, we hit Sketch (for about 3 seconds) and ended up at the Polo Bar for a bottle of the Widow (Cliquot, who else).

 

Needless to say, that was a lot of alcohol, even for my Nordic liver. I was entirely composed throughout, which is a relief, but the moment of truth arrived at the Polo Bar and we decided to spend the night together. I swung by my flat, picked up work clothes and got back in the cab to his place.

 

I sound like a pathetic teenage girl, but this guy ticks all my boxes. MY boxes. That is, he’s fun to be around, he’s drop dead gorgeous, and he’s kind. I’m still trying to get used to his (heavy) Australian accent, and sure, this morning he asked me whether Moscow was 3 hours ahead of us or behind. I only have envy for those who go through life with some sort of blissful ignorance.

 

At his place the clothes came off, fast. We were lip-locked and inebriated. That’s when we both realised there was a glaring problem. I wasn’t hard.

 

I didn’t get it. Here I was with one of the most attractive men I have ever come across, and King Henry won’t even fly at half mast. I was so freaked out by this unusual situation that mentally I became even less prone to getting hard.

 

He didn’t react very well to it either. First, he was sure it was him and that I wasn’t attracted to him enough. Then he asked: do you have a boyfriend? Nope. Are you in love with someone else? No. Are you HIV+? Nah uh.

 

As we lay there in bed, frustrated, I decided it was time for me to go back home. He wouldn’t let me, and I wasn’t sure how much more humiliation I could stand for one evening.

 

Sharing this with a friend of mine, she immediately responded, “Wow, you must really like this guy.” The truth is, she’s right. Maybe, I haven’t been able to move him down from the realm of fantasy into the very real world of intercourse. I feel almost inadequate in his perfect presence, and the vulnerability affects me in ways I didn’t think possible.

 

The thing is, now it will be even harder (no pun intended) to get this going off the ground. Now I have something to prove, pressure to perform. It’s a downward spiral waiting to happen. For a quick second, I even contemplated artificial inducement. WHAT THE HELL? I’M twenty £)£$%ing three!

SOIs

My friend and I used to have a term we'd give to guys that were so beautiful, they actually inspired something within us completely separate from what or who they were. Sources of Inspiration, or SOIs for short (the French meaning completely accidental), are the kind of people that are so attractive, you cannot imagine them if you tried. They are unbelievably real, and you'd kill to be even a drop of water trailing its way on any part of their glistening skin.

Last Sunday afternoon was one of those London days that sears itself into your memory. Sun and spontaneity; good energy, good food, good wine, good company. At around 5 in the afternoon Charlie and I sat at our favourite cafe on Old Compton street, which was buzzing with afternoon socialites. Across the street I spotted him, sitting down with his friend. One hell of an SOI.

My immediate reaction to seeing an SOI has always been uniform. My heart jumps so violently at the magnificent sight that I deny myself the pleasure and look away abruptly, almost standoffishly. Usually, I see or meet SOIs in passing, and therefore I never have the opportunity to correct my reaction. This time was different, because we were both sitting with a friend directly across the small street from one another.

I did something I never did before, or at least, not ever to someone this attractive. I asked Charlie to watch my phone and I walked across the street, pushing through the bursting tank tops and Tom Ford jeans, to where He was sitting. He eyed me in mild bewilderment and smiled. His smile gave me courage and I introduced myself, politely acknowledging his friend also. That's when He surprised me, and asked me for my number.

I gladly provided it, half thinking he might have been pre-empting an awkward conversation by taking my number for now and scooting me back to where I came from. Holy shit, I thought to myself. Humiliation in forms I haven't yet experienced, like I needed more.

I insisted that was not the case and walked back to my seat and continued my conversation with Charlie, nonchalantly, all the while virtually trembling inside.

Minutes later, He came by to wish us a good afternoon. My fears were set aside.

One date and 4 days later, I can't get over how smitten I am by this creature. His conversation proved to be just as delightful as his features. I have no vision of what this is or where it is going, but I feel like I have a new lease on the days to come thanks to him.

Kink

Wednesday night, the boys and I, all suited and booted, descended on the No. 11 Hotel in Chelsea for an Italian jeweller's very small, but very opulent, launch event. Inside the tight Parisian hall of mirrors and gold leafed accents, fabulous and overdressed women mingled with the gay crème de la phlegm (flu season was clearly also making its debut along with ruby encrusted rings). Pointless conversations were only interrupted by the clink of Prosecco flutes and the snap of an oversized camera. Needless to say, after a day of labour this was a welcome treat.

Our entourage included Juan. Juan was an acquaintance, and we got along well when we met. As we all stood and chattered in a group, the conversation devolved (as it often does) into weekend partying. First it started as a joke, we were eyeing a certain over-pretentious Mr X and joked about how he would handle himself at the Hoist or XXL (as is probably obvious through the names, both these London establishments, and particularly the Hoist, are known for their over-the-top, out-of-this-world fetish indulgence). I decided to share a story, for better or for worse, of when I needed to use the bathroom at the Hoist and the only urinal available was in fact a small man of Asian descent on his knees with his mouth open and eyes rolling with ecstacy. Having been already 3 vodka-on-the-rocks into my evening, I wasn't going to pass up the release, and if he got a kick out of it then what the hell, right?

Juan looked it me with gaping eyes. "But...you're a lawyer!" I wasn't sure what to make of that. He explained: "You look so innocent and young, I am so surprised...". Even though he was married and our relationship was at best superficial (if not cursory), I could see in his eyes a new found...respect! Maybe even a hint of curiosity that was not there before, as if he started thinking of me in a sexual way for the first time.

I was intrigued by this reaction. What is it about gay men, whether it is that Asian guy at the Hoist, or Juan that makes them weak in the face of some kinkiness? Do men have to have an unpredictable, almost abusive side to them for them to get attention? It's a social experiment that's proved itself time and time again. I, in my customary shirt and tie and unabashed preppiness, time and time again find that I throw people off guard (and get their attention) by going into bizarre details of my life.

If you, like me, believe that our relationships with our fathers in many ways influence our relationships with our sexual partners in bed, this obsession is a telling sign of...well, something. Maybe kinkiness and fetish in all its forms are mere reflections of a particular facet of a man's relationship with his father. So much to think about. I'll conjure up the spirit of Freud, but in the meantime, bonne weekend!