I had awoken from another dream - a familiar dream. I was with my old work colleagues, in the office where I used to work in my 20s. There was nothing special about this office; it was a worn-out library. It didn't matter- I was with them, and I missed them. I woke to my baby crying at 3 a.m. I walked down my cottage corridor- a familiar walk I did most nights to pick him up for comfort. I lay with him on the spare bed, kissing his soft cheeks and stroking his head. I was distracted; I couldn't stop thinking about my dream. The dream had become violent. We had been ambushed and shot at by some random people. It was as though something beautiful was destined to be destroyed.

An intense, overwhelming despair engulfed me. I felt like I had died but was still alive. I replayed in my mind the past eight years: leaving my job to work for a friend's company, only to be made redundant on maternity leave. The identity I had built throughout my 20s and early 30s felt like a surreal dream. Maybe it wasn't real? How could I rebuild this life? Could I ever be that woman again? I knew the day ahead would be exactly like the one before. I would be looking after the baby and bleaching the toilet. I couldn't even cry about it. I just wondered, how do I find a way home?

The next day, I matched with him on Feeld. I wasn't paying attention- the baby had thrown the scrambled egg I had made across the floor and refused to eat. I was trying to focus on the soul-destroying task list for the day: clean the toilet, hoover, throw out old baby clothes, and cook. I couldn't stop thinking about my dream. On top of the dream, I started to recall my adventures in London after work when I was free- a world of endless possibilities. Now I wondered, what is possible? The most excitement I had had recently was a grass snake that entered the pond. Maybe I am too demanding and need to enjoy the small pleasures in life?

The baby slept at midday. I thought about my colleagues again. I wanted their voices, to hear myself speak in a different tone, but all I could hear was the silence of the walls and the occasional humming of the washing machine. These were my companions now.

I read his message on the app. He said he was neurodivergent and had a condition which had disabled him and would eventually kill him- a rare genetic disorder. It was a nerve condition which gradually robbed him of his autonomy and personhood. Yet, he had been a very successful professor at a top university prior to this. His photos told a story of a life that was vastly different now from the one before. Older photos showed a man of grand stature- dressed in uniform, handsome, confident, and carefree. A man I would have idolized in my youth. The new photos told a different story- he had the same confident and infectious smile, yet he had a walking stick by his side. I thought about my own photos. How many were actually new? Am I being honest? At least his told a story. Maybe mine were covering up who I was now? Selling an old version of myself. Three old photos and one new. I put that thought out of my mind. I couldn't bring myself to change them.

I knew I had to meet this man. What intrigued me more than anything was his resilience- he hinted at the fact he had defied doctors' orders to do less. He believed the system made him worse, not better. I love a rebel; I knew I would like this man.

I texted back quickly- I hardly thought about it. My enthusiasm for life was clouded by intense cynicism and very probably a hopelessness, or what we call 'depression'. I felt a pang of excitement. Maybe this would be worth pursuing. We arranged to meet at the Chequers pub in central Oxford.

The day we met, I was wearing a black dress. I had straightened my hair and thrown on minimal makeup. We were meeting for a coffee at 1 p.m. I had the baby. I was nervous and unprepared- I noticed I had stains on my black dress from the baby wiping his nose on my shoulder and throwing his breakfast in my direction. It didn't matter- I felt he wouldn't be interested in these details. I didn't get a chance to pop to the toilet to impress- the baby woke. I placed him on my lap, ordered two coffees, and waited.

I saw him approach very slowly; he had his walking stick and I could see he was struggling with the cobbled pavement. I offered to help. He looked delighted to see me. I knew at that moment I had made the right decision meeting him.

‘You look great! I haven't had a date in years. Most women don't want to date me.’ He was matter-of-fact- he explained how his condition hindered his ability to form romantic connections. He said far more.

It didn't take long for him to divulge his life story. I was happy to listen. Actually, an escape from my own life was more than welcome.

The conversation focused on the past- his life as a professor, his achievements, and his two daughters. A man who had successfully achieved every recognisable status marker: great job, highly regarded, had been married, wealthy, and had two children. He had been diagnosed with this very rare condition which gradually eroded his ability to work and to socialize freely. It ultimately led to a divorce.

' My wife couldn't cope. I cannot blame her. It was too much for her.'

At that point the baby cried, I breastfed him. So undesirable I was. I wondered if this man would want me even? I couldn't complain. At least my situation was temporary.

I had to ask him more. I was fascinated- I wanted to tell him about my previous life too, who I had been. I felt it paled in comparison. I wanted to know more about how he defied the doctors' orders, and this rebellious streak.

He told me:

'I am meant to be wheelchair-bound now. I shouldn't exercise or exert myself at all. I know the outcomes for people who followed this advice. They get worse and worse. Not slowly- abruptly. I have been living with this for seven years and I still go to the gym. I should be in a wheelchair now. I ignore these orders.'

I looked at him- I could see the intellect, the defiance, the ability to think for himself and take risks. We held hands- it wasn't planned. It just happened naturally. The best way.

He told me more- how he had been reported to social services as an 'unfit' parent. The endless judgment and scrutiny- I related to that. The feeling he described of going from being highly desirable to becoming invisible- it felt familiar.

The baby had fallen asleep on my breast. Little snores echoed throughout the room. I stroked his soft hair and smiled.

'Shall we meet again?' I asked.

'I would love that.'

Two weeks later, I was getting ready to meet him again. This time I wanted both of us to feel connected to ourselves outside our assigned social roles. I wanted to feel beautiful and appreciated intellectually. I wanted him to feel exactly the same. Not defined by disability or motherhood- simply ourselves. No labels or roles. Just a connection between two people.

I had an afternoon away from childcare. I shaved- I wanted him to enjoy me. I played up my femininity- something that I missed. To style my hair, to wear a plunge dress which exposed the outline of my breasts. I wanted reality to tell us both that we don't have to live small lives because of circumstance.

I had arranged to meet him at his house near Headington on the Sunday. I arrived early- I had a bottle of wine in hand. He opened the door, looking immaculate - his hair was long, blonde, and in a ponytail - he was wearing a sports outfit.

'I've just been to the gym. You look great. Come in. I will make you a coffee.'

The house was grand - books lined up neatly on the shelves, everything had its place. I could see it echoed his mind- disciplined and organised. Chaos didn't exist here. I couldn't imagine being able to maintain a house like it, even without any disability.

We sat in his garden drinking our coffee. He told me how he had been invited to talk about disability at a school. All they wanted to know was what he couldn't do, rather than what he could. He found this approach reductive and depressing.

His eyes veered downwards- focused on my breasts. This time they were for him.

'I think we should go upstairs,' he said. I felt in that moment I wanted to give myself to him. To both affirm that we still exist and can enjoy the same pleasures as everyone else.

His room was in an attic- it was a hot July day. I took the wine up with me. I poured him a glass while I sat on the edge of his bed, unsure of my role. Would he lead or I?

'Take off your clothes- I want to look at you. I haven't seen a naked woman in the flesh for years.'

I removed my dress. His instructions continued:

‘Remove your panties.’

I was wearing French knickers- a minority of sexy underwear in what was an abysmal excuse for underwear.

He held my hips as he looked at my vagina. He asked me to spread my legs whilst I stood. He ran his index finger over my vulva.

'Has anyone told you- you have beautiful lips?'

He squeezed my lips. His other hand clasped my left breast.

‘Use your hand on your pussy- I want to play with your clitoris. I want to see it.’

I opened the front of my vagina.

'Tiny clitoris,' he said whilst rubbing it with his fingers. His mouth enclosed around my right breast. His fingers entered me.

‘Would you like to have sex? I haven't had sex in five years,’ he said.

‘I would - I just want you to enjoy making love to me. Do whatever you are comfortable with.’

I felt at that moment unsure- I didn't want to push the issue. I wanted to let him lead. I could see he enjoyed that. He was one of my men.

‘I cannot do doggy style. How about you sit on top of me? I want to play with those breasts.’

He lay back on his bed- I mounted him. I was alternating between thinking about whether I would hurt him, and whether my post-baby body would kill his lust.

Neither happened- I felt him enter me. His hands playing with my nipples, kissing my neck.

'You feel amazing,' he said. He did too.

For five minutes with him inside me, I felt the rest of life and all worries were eradicated. We were engrossed in a moment.

He came inside me- I felt the warmth and the contraction that occurs when a man cums inside you. That hot, fuzzy feeling which only occurs at that moment. The semen was running down my thighs- he wiped my thighs with his fingers and put his fingers into my mouth. It was spontaneous. Spontaneity was something I missed and craved.

Afterwards we lay on the bed. We finished the wine and coffee. I felt, for those ten precious moments, free. I felt like myself again. He seemed happy too- he was relaxed and held my body close to his, as he kissed my forehead.

It was 6 p.m. I had to pick up my son. Reality kicked in. He was exhausted and needed to rest.

I booked a taxi home. I didn't know it then but he became a friend- a friendship which was based on emotional connection as much as lust. He would appear in my life many times again.

I arrived home. The house was silent, except for the creaking pipes. I awaited my son being dropped off. I was back here again- the long list of household chores awaited me. Yet it felt more manageable now. The encounter had reminded me- no one has disappeared.

I've been quiet for almost a week. I was processing something important. I wasn't quite ready to share. I'm still not sure if I am ready, but I felt maybe it is important. Sometimes the most difficult issues we face are those we actually need to discuss.

It started several months ago. Night sweats, difficulties losing baby weight. I had lost my job while on maternity leave. I suddenly found myself dependent on others. My worst nightmare!

I was looking in the mirror at my face and my body. I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me. I didn't want her. I wished to eradicate her. She didn't look like me; her breasts had stretch marks, her tummy too. I wondered - have I been living an illusion? Clinging onto a woman who no longer existed?

I had been increasingly turning to alcohol. Not every night, but twice a week. I had gradually lost control when I drank. One turned into six or seven drinks. Why?

Alcohol created a comforting illusion for me- I could reconnect with the woman I used to be. I recall dates and sex I had when drinking. The interesting thing about drinking is that until you stop, you are clueless about how you are perceived. You are free to create a comforting narrative.

I remember one date with a younger man. We met at The Chequers in Oxford. I recall spending an entire day drinking wine after wine. I felt young and free whilst with him. Alcohol gave me permission to ignore my insecurities about my body and aging. He was young (27). He was enjoying my company. I told myself: I must still be fun and sexy. I haven't changed and life hasn't moved on. The erotic power I had in my youth still stands. This is what I told myself.

We exchanged nudes the next day. I felt horrific. I was embarrassed- what did I tell him? We arranged to meet at my house. I had told him: ‘I won't wear panties and I'm wearing a slip.’It was fun then- it felt spontaneous.

He arrived at 1:00 p.m. He was physically my ideal man. 6 ft 2, long, dark brown curly hair, and ruddy cheeks. He was private-school and Oxford-educated. He was symbolic of a connection to the past. A life I feared was slipping through my fingers, and I hadn't a clue how to replace it.

I had prepared some cocktails and champagne. He wasn't interested in the drink - that was just me. He sat and we talked while I downed two glasses of champagne. The funny thing about drinking is you don't realize how ridiculous or dysfunctional you look until you are sober.

I suggested going to my bedroom. I had started to feel self-conscious- what would he think of my stomach? I bet he only meets women in their 20s with flat tummies. What about your grey hairs? Would he notice?

I downed one more glass of champagne- it gave me the courage to fully undress. He kissed my stomach, my breasts, and I felt for a moment good enough.

He asked me to bend over the bed. A position I used to love because it felt the most visceral. Now I was preoccupied- would my stomach hang? How big is your arse? Drink the worries and anxieties away, I told myself.

He entered me - he lost his erection. I sobered up fast. I should have stayed dressed, I told myself. You showed too much - your body is broken. Second attempt, he succeeded. He came on my arse. Okay - he wasn't repulsed!

He was in a hurry afterwards. It dawned on me- did he just think I was a drunk? I never heard from him again. It played on my mind. Was it my body or behavior?

The drinking started to creep up when alone in the day. Children away, and only myself and the walls to converse with. Is this what life used to be like for women? I asked myself. To have your days punctuated by menial tasks, such as washing and cleaning? To disappear into a void. The autonomy you had, the beauty you used to possess obliterated. Where does it end?

Once a week, one bottle would turn into two, and then sometimes drinks at the pub afterwards. I knew I had lost control. The thing now looking back is that I was trying to erase the present while also erasing the future. You don't think clearly in this state. I could pretend for a few hours that I was young, free, and desirable. I could create a world of excitement and possibility in my head. The irony being, alcohol robs you of such things. It just stays a fantasy.

It came to a head. I was forced to face the woman in the mirror- the one I had been running away from for several years. I accidentally drank too much one afternoon with a friend. The school noticed. They called the doctor and social services. All was fine, and I received appropriate support. It was a reckoning. I couldn't keep living this delusion. I wanted the fit body back and to rebuild my career. I wanted to enjoy sex and feel attractive. Alcohol gave the illusion of having the power to shape my future. In reality, it was robbing me of those powers.

I worried:

• Can I socialize again?

• Can I even write? What if I cannot find inspiration sober?

Then came a truth I had avoided. Alcohol stripped me of my power- being sober gave me power back. I felt flat for a few weeks after the school event, and frankly, deeply embarrassed. It was also a relief.

I realised that rather than escaping, I had to embrace what was me now. Not 20, but 40. That was okay. It was okay that my body wasn't exactly the same. Maybe now I am more free than ever to take control of how I look, but also how I feel.

In conjunction with this, my doctor mentioned perimenopause. I used to believe that this was a point where, as a woman, I become invisible and desexualized. I am lying if I say this doesn't still play on my mind- it does. I knew alcohol wouldn't liberate me from these feelings. I would have to sit with them and process them.

I was reluctant to write this piece- it is extremely exposing. I felt it was important. If I have learned anything, it is that alcohol masks reality and can rob you of your future and power. I would prefer to sit with my emotions and process reality. Only then can real change occur.

I had seen his photo on Tinder - the floppy hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and the smirk. He was that type, and I knew it!

I was 30 and he claimed to be 27, but given he was an undergraduate at Oxford and had youthful looks, I had my doubts.

No pep talks from my friends warning me off dating ‘more arrogant men’ could stop me. The compulsion to witness another world, one so vastly different from my own, was too great.

As I walked towards the bar in Jericho where we had arranged to meet, I couldn't stop fantasising: Would he be like some sort of libertine from the past? A man who might represent the sort of person who should be consigned to the history books: Decadent? Elitist? Most of all, I hoped - totally unpredictable.

I arrived. Walk in with confidence, I thought, and push your boobs out - they look good in this red dress. We aren't here for romance - not today.

He was easy to spot, stroking his posh-boy curtains back and laughing at some text on his phone (probably his next squeeze, I thought). Christ - his laugh is loud! A girl looks towards him disapprovingly. Bet he doesn't care, or notice.

‘Well hello Rachel - so nice to finally meet,’ he said, as though I was the most exciting person in his life.

‘I've been so excited to meet you. Love the dress!’ His eyes immediately darted downwards towards my cleavage - this won't be a long date, I thought...!

He offered me a seat. Everything about him fascinated me: the way everything he did seemed so rehearsed - the faux politeness, even the dramatic, thespian gestures. It was as though he had been given a script. I wondered who my character was? I wasn't sure I wanted to know! I was here for social anthropology with the addition of sex. Was he taking notes on me too?!

‘I have bought us a bottle of Dom Pérignon - I hope you like it?’ He knew I wouldn't complain, of course, and he knew I would be impressed. On some god-awful level I was, because frankly, this felt more alive and decadent than any dates I had been on in recent years.

It didn't take long - two minutes into sipping our champagne and his hand was wrapped around my waist.

‘So tell me about you? Why do you like me?’

What the hell do I say? I think he is a knob -a knob I want to have sex with.

‘I thought you looked attractive and seemed nice in your profile.’Half true!

He ruffled his curtains again and started reading texts on his phone whilst his hand was clasped around my arse. Ah yes -making sure I realise he is so very in ‘demand.’ I rolled my eyes.

‘Yah - sorry, sorry. My ex-girlfriend. She is crazy about me still. Texts all the time. Absolute bitch though - she fucked my best friend. Such a shame - stunning-looking woman.’

He leaned in, and this time I felt him pinch my bottom.

‘Do you always pinch women's bottoms after 15 minutes of knowing them?’ I asked.

‘Only if they're sexy,’ he said.

Oh dear! Why are you encouraging this? Bad feminist! Yet it is such a thrill. Never mind.

The conversation quickly moved onto his famous, or indeed infamous, relatives; apparently world-famous alcoholics and womanisers, many in the showbiz world. I realised I wasn't the star of this show. I had to pay attention!

He leaned in closer, his eyes transfixed on my breasts - he didn't hide it. Then again, none of the other men noticed them, so I wasn't going to complain.

‘You have beautiful breasts,’ he said, so casually, as though it were a throwaway remark. He smirked to himself. I know I should be repulsed - yet he unleashed another side of me. Playful and hedonistic - absolutely. One more truth occurred to me - I was enjoying his wealth, being near it and indulging in the excesses that wealth can bring. I wondered then: What kind of person would you be if you had that kind of wealth? Maybe something best left unanswered.

‘So listen - my apartment is just around the corner. Shall we go?’

I imagined he was in a rush - probably several women lined up.

We arrived at his apartment: a large flat on the bottom story of a terraced house . Decorated like a stately home inside - fur rugs on the cold wooden floors, large imposing paintings scattered across the walls. Everything took up space - like him.

As we walked into the kitchen, his real life became more apparent. Bottles upon bottles of half-drunk red and white wine were scattered throughout - the chaos and dysfunction transparent.

‘Yah - sorry about the mess. Had a party here last night. So wasted. Did way too many lines of coke.’

I wanted to hear more. Who are these friends? Was he planning on simply drinking and shagging himself to death?! I guess there are far worse ways to live.

I didn't need to ask - he looked coy, as though he was about to share an embarrassing secret. Of course, nothing he shared did anything other than elevate his status (in his eyes) - maybe in mine too?!

‘I'm in the Bullingdon Club. I host parties here. Don't mention it to anyone though.’ I almost spat out my wine laughing - he was hardly discreet!

‘Great night. I shouldn't tell you, but I fucked a girl in that chair over there. Shall I fuck you there too?’

I liked this - spontaneous, reckless, and utterly chaotic. I had no idea what would happen from one second to the next. Would this be a memory of unguarded pleasure, or a car crash?

He placed his hand up my dress; I could feel his fingers touching my vulva through my panties.

‘I want you to take those panties off and sit on the table with your legs spread open. I want to taste that pussy.’

I removed my knickers and threw them at him - a moment of feeling like his equal.

I pulled up my dress and opened my legs whilst sat on his kitchen table. He spread open my lips and rubbed my clitoris while inserting four fingers.

‘You are very tight. Love it when you squeeze,’ he said. ‘How many men have been inside you?’

‘Too many and not enough’ - that was always my answer, and an accurate one.

He pulled down his trousers and removed his pants, his penis fully erect.

‘Can you choke on it?’ As his penis entered my mouth, I couldn't stop my thoughts from racing. Why are you so addicted to such men? Are you just like him? Maybe I don't like you either.

He repeatedly shoved his penis into the back of my throat - I gagged and withdrew.

‘Lie back with your legs spread on the sofa - hold them up. I'm going to fuck you like that.’

I lay back on the sofa holding my legs up, trying to ignore the cramp in my right thigh. He pulled my hair back, tightly holding it against my scalp as he entered me. Each thrust felt more aggressive than the one before. He started to whisper in my ear.

‘You're a dirty girl, aren't you?’ There we go, I thought. Now I know who I am in his play. Yet, it didn't offend me as it should. On the contrary, it excited me. I hated myself for it!

He pulled my legs back until they were almost over my shoulders.

‘Have you been fucked like this before?’ The truth was yes, but I knew he wanted me to say ‘no’ - keep his little fantasy world alive.

‘No - never.’

‘Dirty bitch. Can I cum in your mouth? Will you swallow?’

He didn't make it to my mouth; he came partly all over my dress and on my face.

‘Oh shit - sorry,’ he said. I looked at him as we cleaned ourselves up. For all his awful bravado, there was something almost endearing about him. So desperate to be the persona he portrayed that his real self was completely neglected. True feelings never acknowledged - every word and action part of the performance.

I entered his bathroom and noticed the mold on the wall, the dirt collecting around the toilet, shaving foam spread across the sink. I imagined him when the party was over, when the buzz had worn off and his status-affirming bedfellows had gone home. I wondered whether he has any real friends? Or can even function? Everything in disarray - just a dysfunction hidden behind huge rugs and exquisite antiques. I recognised this because maybe I wasn't so different myself.

He stood in his lounge, lighting a cigarette.

‘Hope you don't mind if I smoke indoors? Shall I book your cab?’ He stood with his shirt unbuttoned, leaning against the window - the show was over. He was retreating back into his life. The living room looked dark and dingy as the sun set. I noticed the five empty packets of cigarettes scattered all over his table, cigarette ash on the floor. Maybe that was his life?!

We kissed and my taxi came.

In the taxi, the alcohol hit me like a grenade. I felt nauseous, dizzy, and out of control. Don't vomit!!! I told myself. As I approached my house, I wondered: Why are you drawn to men who make you feel out of control? An addiction to the unpredictable.

I collapsed on my sofa. I knew I would have a hangover tomorrow, and we had been somewhat reckless in the bedroom. Being out of control made me feel alive. Surrendering to the unpredictable gave life anticipation.

Reckless, maybe. Was it always worth the risk for the thrill? Only sometimes, I thought. Don't do that again. I rolled my eyes - I probably would...

I couldn't believe I was going to meet him. A man from an entirely different world to the one I inhabited; this was precisely why I was on my way in a taxi to the bar, where he was waiting for me.

I'd seen his photos online - broad bare chest, chiselled features; he was either sitting on a motorbike or pulling weights in the gym. He represented a raw, visceral, and unapologetic masculinity.

The taxi pulled up outside The White Rabbit pub in central Oxford. I was wearing a tight-fitting black dress and heels. I felt like this time I didn't need to prove I was a member of the club by being well-read or smart. All that mattered here was presenting bold femininity. Weirdly, that felt liberating.

I noticed him standing beside the bar immediately. He was unmistakable. Towering above the other men, we locked eyes.

'Hello - nice to meet you. You look absolutely gorgeous,' he said.

Wow - no need to second-guess his thoughts. So refreshing.

'Come outside - I have a table. I will buy us some wine. You choose,' and he handed me the wine menu.

I felt like a giddy teenager as I followed him outside. I didn't know the rules around a man like this - I wanted to go for the ride!

We sat down with our drinks. I took out my vape.

'Put that away - it is bad for you.'

Embarrassed, I did as he asked. Hmm... controlling? Or do I need a man who can curtail my excesses, essentially tame me?!

He leaned forward, clasping his hands, holding eye contact the entire time. For once, I was the intimidated one.

'I work as an engineer now. In Romania I almost went to prison for money laundering. My friends and I were smart - they couldn't prove anything.'

Laugh - pretend to be impressed, I thought. Women my age are meant to be past falling for bad boy tropes.

He continued to tell me how he avoided prison with the same pride the men I usually dated told me about their postdoctoral work.

A group of young student men sat down at the table beside us. He looked over at them with disdain.

'The men here are pathetic. Men cross the road to avoid me. In Romania I often broke up fights. I'm not afraid to use my fists. I would never hit a woman.'

Christ, I thought. This is what you wanted, isn't it? A man whose masculinity was his currency, who affirmed your desirability. You don't believe in all that pop psychology about 'polarity,' do you?!

'Listen - I have a key to my work office. We can go there. What do you say?'

I felt a wave of angst building up. How do you know he is safe? Yet such an antidote to my increasingly suffocating world. I knew my father wouldn't have any interest in creating an anonymous LinkedIn profile to stalk his academic credentials, my sexuality and femininity wouldn't be ‘inappropriate’ or too much. Maybe for once I could just let go of taking the lead and simultaneously suppressing myself. We don't have the same social script - I wanted to tear that script up anyway.

'Sounds great - let's go,' I said, still nervous but very willing to take the risk.

We arrived at 1 am. I had hardly said a word on the way. He only spoke when it was necessary. I felt a sense of relief the entire way - I didn't need to impress - I just did.

The office - it was like a Shoreditch bar; modern yet retro. Big comfy sofas, a fancy coffee machine, and even alcohol in the fridge.

I sat on the sofa watching him. He didn't wait. He directed.

'I want you to take off your dress and panties off - bend right over. I will fuck you like you have never been fucked before.'

I almost laughed... was I laughing at myself or him?

I took off my clothes and positioned myself over the sofa.

'Open your legs more - show me that pussy. I want to taste it.'

Gosh - no clumsy or apologetic fumbling here, I thought. I can just surrender.

He opened my vagina with his hands - it hurt, but in that moment I didn't care. He inserted three and then five fingers inside. He wasn't rough. It felt, for the first time, like a man was enjoying my body without guilt; no over-intellectualising - just uncensored passion.

I wanted him to look at my vagina and want to be inside me. I desired a man, who made me feel complete as just a woman - no fucking credentials. Just a woman.

'I love your cunt. Your lips are beautiful. I bet they would look fantastic wrapped around my cock. Can I play with them?'

'Yes, of course,' I said.

He started to slap my lips - five hard slaps, and I wondered why I hadn't found a man like this before. Why did I play the respectable game? I was not made for that world. Clearly not.

With that thought, I felt him enter me. He wasn't gentle. He didn't hurt me either - he just didn't hold back. Every thrust took me out of my mind - I was now in my body. I was not used to that. He opened my arse as he thrust, his fingers inside.

'Do you want me to fuck your ass?'

'No - I don't like it.'

'Ok - I will cum inside you. Is that ok?'

I should say no. I didn't - I was enjoying the fact that all the social rules were off the table. The rules of polite society were abandoned already in this room, possibly burnt to the ground. I wanted to, or needed to, feel I was part of the rebellion.

One last thrust, and I felt the warm heat of his cum inside me. I knew I would be making a trip to Boots the next day to take the morning-after pill. It felt worth it - I was no longer pretending to be the respectable girl. Maybe I should kill her outright.

Afterwards, we sat and drank coffee. I almost cried because it was the first time I had felt free. He never once asked my academic credentials or my opinions. Shouldn't I be offended? No - it felt like I was just allowed to be a woman without having to tick a hundred boxes that would make me worthy in those wretched middle-class circles.

We left at 2 am. He drove me back to mine, and we arranged a date a week later. I reflected. I felt a bizarre mix of unease and excitement. I had to ask myself a question:

What social script is he following? Do you want to be part of it?

On the one hand, I wanted to rid myself of the endless obsession with intellect, and yet I wanted some assurance I wasn't literally jumping into the fire and irresponsibly destroying everything. Where do you draw the line?!

The second date was different. I had invited him to a talk at an Oxford Philosophy Society. Two worlds were about to spectacularly collide.

He picked me up in the car from my house. As he drove me, he started to voice his opinions.

'I fucking hate the immigrants in this country. They are lazy and useless people.'

Wow - ok, he has strong views. He doesn't question them either. Does he lack empathy, or are my normal men just dishonest? I don't like these views.

We parked near the Oxford college where the talk would be hosted.

He stopped and looked at me. I was wearing a green, tight-fitting dress.

'Look - men are going to stare at you. You will stay seated the entire time. You understand? I don't want them looking.'

Wow! Am I meant to be flattered or insulted? How can he be so confident if my desirability is such a threat?

We entered the room. I was feeling light-headed. I hadn't eaten in two days and had had two glasses of wine to calm my nerves. Fuck - I am such a mess! I felt I needed to exude confidence. This was the crowd I had a love-hate relationship with. On the one hand, they were intellectually stimulating, and yet on the other, judgmental, narrow-minded, and oppressive. My thoughts were all over the place. Idealisation versus devaluation - a constant internal battle.

'Sit down - men are watching you.' He said

I made a joke:

'Are there any real men here?'

I half meant it, and the other half was performative.

The talks commenced. He was bored - totally bored.

'Fuck - that guy talking - he is such a geek. You literally need an umbrella to catch the fucking spit. What the fuck is he even saying?'

He left - he walked out.

I felt humiliated. My fantasy of disrupting my own world of status built on academic credentials was destroyed. This was just embarrassing! Worse than that, I was horribly drunk.

Being drunk gave me the confidence to be myself - why did I need to be drunk to own who I was?!

I made a speech - I hardly recall it. I was too drunk.

I felt afterwards, as I looked around and spoke to people, that I didn't fit into their world. Some were hesitant to talk to me. Some totally ignored me. This was always how it was - sober or drunk. It didn't matter. I knew I didn't play by their rules, yet the man I had idealised had his own bloody rules and I seemingly failed them too. I fitted in nowhere.

Was that a bad thing? Does it make me more free? Or just lonely?

After the event he messaged me:

'You all think you are so clever - you and your geeks. You are all a joke. Pretending to be smart.'

I didn't know what to say, so I never replied.

I felt conflicted. On the one hand, I thought maybe he was right for me. A man so far removed from the stifling and credentials-obsessed world I lived and breathed. Yet maybe the right man for me genuinely didn't need a specific social script at all. Maybe he could be intellectual and not feel the need to show off.

Possibly, if I am being optimistic, I could be very feminine and sexual and, rather than being horrified by how inappropriate I am or needing to repress my expression, he might just enjoy me.

Maybe that is it. Maybe it isn't about our background, but about being free to express how we feel without having to drastically mould ourselves to suit a narrative.

I am waiting.

I recall when I signed up to the escorting site, browsing through the catalogue of women for men to choose. They looked like models; perfected versions of femininity. I assumed men are buying an ideal version of womanhood. In essence, a beautiful face attached to a vagina. End of!

The women in the adverts all described themselves as ‘sensual.’ Urgh, better not use that word, I thought. My snobbish tendencies hadn't dissipated at all. I don't want to be like them.

I was used to this world, really. In dating, many men just wanted a hookup, and sometimes so did I. I thought about how I often equated the amount the man spent on me on the first date with his desire to sleep with me. Maybe escorting was just more honest? Like dating on steroids. Just the reality without the pretense.

I looked at my body nude. My face, ok, I think it is pretty enough - maybe it isn't! How do I put a price on myself? I looked down at my breasts. Ok, perky enough, but is it enough? What if these men have access to better faces and better bodies? Am I selling a dream version of femininity? I looked at my stomach; it was flat. My vagina - maybe I need a Brazilian. What do they want? A fully mature woman, or a fantasy? Probably a fantasy. I will get my vagina waxed. Every part of me fell under the microscope. I saw myself as selling an ideal of womanhood, and fundamentally just a body. How did I feel? Anxious, disgusted with myself, and frightened.

Maybe their reaction was going to reveal the truth about my value? At least on dates people pretend to be polite. Now, men are hiring my body for access to their ideal version (I believed). You will know where you stand. Maybe this isn't unfamiliar territory; maybe I do this all the time when I date men?!

So, I set my price. £200 per hour. I factored in my perceived body and facial attractiveness, as well as age. I hated myself for it.

My first few messages on the site only confirmed my assumption. They were roughly as follows:

‘Do you do bareback?’

‘Do you do A-levels?’

I hadn't a clue what half these things meant.

My next thought was: I am not sexually experienced enough. They are hiring their vision of a beautiful, ‘slutty’ woman. I know nothing, and I am not sure I am even beautiful! I have to play this role; this is a fantasy woman. I have to be her. This is why they are paying (so I thought).

My first encounter didn't help quell my fears. He turned up at my house at 11 am. He was very handsome and clearly married; I could see his ring. He shared nothing about his life. I was terrified. What if he is a psychopath and ties me up and then brutally murders me? Silly thought! More likely: what if he is unimpressed by me? What if I am not enough? I have failed the test of being a desirable woman! Awful, but this was my exact thought process.

He stood by the door. Dark hair, beautiful refined and a striking face. He hardly spoke; he simply looked me up and down as though he was evaluating me as someone to consume. What do you expect? I thought. He is literally hiring your body. You cannot be offended by this, as it is the implicit agreement.

‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked.

‘No, I can only stay half an hour. Can we say £150?’

Oh God, he is undercutting me! I was so anxious. All I could think about was whether my body would live up to his expectations, and all that mattered was that he wouldn't harm me and would find me desirable.

I agreed. Why? Why did you do that?! I was too awkward and scared not to. I felt in that moment I had to perform for him. He was paying for a fantasy and not me as a woman, a performative version of me.

We entered my living room. I stood in front of him fully clothed.

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

I wasn't ready, not mentally. I was full of self-doubt, and I didn't trust him.

I did. I took off my clothes and he watched me remove every item. I felt deeply uncomfortable. I was used to some level of performance, even in casual sex, but this felt all-encompassing. He was paying, so you must please him.

He looked me up and down. I wondered what he thought. Was I good enough to justify the price tag?

‘Nice pussy. Bend over the sofa; I want to taste you.’ Oh God, I am not in the headspace; I have only known him for 20 minutes. I best act. Do it well and convincingly.

I bent over the sofa. I felt his tongue enter me; I felt nothing. I was just relieved he didn't harm me. I was pleased I hadn't disappointed either.

I felt him enter after five minutes. Thank God! This will be over soon! He came within five minutes. My mind was racing: pretend to be a good fuck, fake the orgasm and pleasure. Perform, perform, perform!

After he had finished I tried to talk to him. He seemed disinterested. He hadn't handed me the money. Oh dear, maybe he doesn't think I was worth it? At the last minute he handed me the reduced amount. I hated myself for it. Don't do that again, I thought.

I reflected. I have been on dates with men who make minimal effort and expect sex. Is escorting so different?

I made a decision; I wouldn't meet a man again who didn't demonstrate some interest in me as a person too. I absolutely wouldn't allow myself to be undercut again.

A week after this incident I met a man whose wife had severe health problems. He was in his 50s and a CEO. Highly educated and articulate. Our phone conversation had been completely devoid of discussions about sex. He wanted to know about my background and what my hobbies were. It was fascinating: a man who just wanted to feel connected to a woman. I offered to send him photos of me, assuming that was what he wanted, and yet he declined. He wasn't interested in that. Ok, he isn’t just hiring a body, I thought. Maybe he is hiring a connection? Does the transactional nature of this arrangement ruin that from the start? Maybe, or maybe not...!

We met one afternoon at mine. The interactions we had had made me less self-conscious about my body and physical desirability. I didn't feel the need to shave every hair off my vagina or pluck my eyebrows. I ensured I looked attractive, yet I felt he wasn't seeking a fantasy. He wanted a person.

He turned up with roses and a bottle of Bollinger, yet there was nothing sleazy or pretentious about him. He was nervous. Very on the edge.

‘I've never done this before,’ he said.

‘It is ok. I have hardly any experience,’ I said, and we smiled - a mutual feeling of both being totally out of our depth. This time, neither party had to pretend.

We drove to a village pub in Wolvercote, Oxford. We sat outside; the pub garden was desolate. It was just us and the sun.

‘You really are gorgeous,’ he said.

I felt confirmation that my price tag was justified, for him at least. It didn't stop there. He disclosed his horrendous home situation: a wife who was unwell and whom he hadn't connected with for years. He disclosed the impact of his mother's suicide at the age of 22. She was German and had moved to the UK just after the war. Always an outcast, he told me how he never fitted in either. The transactional nature of the arrangement felt utterly irrelevant. I felt no longer like I was just a body for hire, but a complete person who was helping a man feel connected to his own humanity. None of it felt fake; I was invested. I started to care about how he felt and who he was.

He had booked a hotel in Oxford. We were two hours into our drinks and an intense conversation.

‘Look, I booked a hotel. We don't have to have sex. I just enjoy your company. If you want to go to the hotel, let me know.’ I did want to go. I actually did. I felt excited by the idea because I liked him. The fact he was paying me hardly felt relevant.

We arrived at the hotel. We were able to discreetly enter the room without prying eyes. I initiated taking off my clothes.

‘Would you like me to take my clothes off?’ I said.

‘Only if you feel comfortable. I just love talking to you. I would like it, of course. Up to you.’

The truth is, I did want to because I actually liked him. I felt incredible respect for him. I could feel that he not only felt invisible in his relationship sexually, but possibly even worse, disliked. I knew exactly how that felt. I also liked him physically and intellectually.

I removed my dress, bra and panties. I lay down on the bed. We didn't speak; we didn't need to. I felt I knew what he was feeling through his eyes.

I opened my legs, and he gently played with my vagina, inserting two to three fingers at a time. He wasn't assertive. He was careful and cautious. I initiated...

‘Why don't I bend over and you can do that from behind?’

He looked down awkwardly and said, ‘Yes, ok, that would be nice.’

He entered four fingers inside my vagina from behind and wrapped his other hand around my breasts.

He didn't want to have sex. He was too unsure of himself, his confidence decimated by years of being in a sexless marriage. He simply wanted a connection again, not a fantasy and not just a body. Whilst he was paying me, that connection never felt fake or fabricated. The thing is, if the connection isn't there, like with dating you just don't meet again. Same here; we met multiple times, and the connection deepened each time. We did eventually have sex. That wasn't the point. The interesting part is we kept in touch for ten years after I stopped escorting. Nothing about the transactional arrangement killed the connection. It can exist independently. Here it did.

He wasn't alone. Multiple men I met, I developed feelings for as people, and I enjoyed sex with them. Whilst like with dating physical attractiveness was important, they were really paying for my discretion and a potential connection to a woman. It wasn't always about paying for a fantasy; it was about the thrill and fulfillment of being appreciated and valued as a person, as well as the sex. Maybe they weren't so different to me, I thought. Isn't that what I want?! Not the ideal male body, but a man I am attracted to, who enjoys my company and makes me feel valued.

I walked into escorting assuming my body was for hire, and whilst it is true there were men who were only interested in that, there were plenty who wanted more. My assumptions about men and their desires being suspect and superficial as a default were forever changed. My assumption that the transactional nature of escorting instantly eradicated connection was misguided. The experience was at times deeply uncomfortable, sometimes frightening. Do I regret it? No. Escorting challenged me, my beliefs about men and what factors influence connection. When humans meet, connection can flourish regardless of money exchanging hands.

Most importantly, I wasn't simply putting a price tag on my body. The mature men were paying for my company. Looking back, I feel I benefited from those relationships as much as they did. Absolutely no regrets.

I knew I shouldn't be there, a traditional pub in central Oxford called 'The Bear'. I was 4 months postpartum and for once I didn't feel it.

I had left 4 bottles of expressed breastmilk in the fridge with the baby's father.

I was early. I sat down with a glass of wine to calm my intrusive thoughts. What if someone sees you, who you know? Reputation decimated!

I noticed breastmilk was leaking onto my black dress; so unsexy (I thought). One breast was twice the size of the other and engorged. Why would a younger man want to date you? Why would any?!

I felt an urgency too. I needed to know I was still desirable to younger men. It felt immediate, worth risking everything for.

I sat back with my wine and looked up at the sky. I haven't lost myself, I thought; maybe I have not disappeared into motherhood after all!

Why did a 23-year-old postgraduate want to meet me? I never used to think like this; in my 20s I felt beautiful (not always, but often). This inner self-assurance now was fragile and needed externally feeding. How pathetic!

I had been sat for 10 minutes and my engorged breasts were throbbing. I went to the toilet to express. God, I hate this breastfeeding business. I understand why French women describe it as a form of slavery. Bad thought!

I returned and instantly recognised him. Curly long dark hair, glasses, a book in his hand; he was gangly and unsure of himself. Possibly a man used to being recognised as a brain first and a man after. I liked this, something highly seductive about taking an inexperienced and maybe repressed man and giving him permission to be seen as a sexual being first.

I had to be the confident one here. Ignore the leaking breasts, wobbly tummy, and complicated life situation. Life is exactly as it always was; you are a free person! Act it anyway.

'Hello, how are you? Fancy a drink?' I said. I knew I had to take the lead.

'Yes, yes thanks, just a pint.'

So different to the men I dated in my 20s; they never let me buy them anything, I thought. I didn't mind. He was mysterious to me in a way my typical men were not.

We sat with our drinks under the canopy. I noticed he had put his book on the table. It was about Genocide. Okay, he is intense, I thought! Excellent; he is curious and doesn't try and fit in.

The first hour was dominated by me asking him questions. I didn't want to disclose too much about my life; I was escaping my life really and reliving a previous existence.

'So what are you studying?' I asked.

'Mathematics at Merton.'

I could see he was nervous; his eyes were transfixed on the table rather than me. I started to doubt whether he even fancied me. Maybe I should just stay at home with my leaking tits?!

'I play classical music, piano.' He said.

The conversation focused on his accomplishments and academic interests. I started to see a man who is used to discussing himself through the lens of intellectual credentials. This defined him. In the same way I had been defined by my body and beauty in my youth, I wanted to see what was behind this persona.

Onto our third round of drinks and he finally made eye contact. I was disappointed he hadn't looked at my cleavage. You cannot have everything! We had spent 25 minutes discussing genocide; it didn't feel weird. He fascinated me.

I was tipsy enough to ask him:

'Would you like to sleep with me tonight or not? I don't mind.'

'Wow, very direct. Isn't that a red flag?'

I rolled my eyes. I wasn't used to men like this. Throughout my 20s the majority of my partners were from Latin countries, and being direct was sexy and efficient. What have we done to our men? I wondered!

'No, I want to know because I will either stay or leave. I have to plan my trip back. Yes or no? I don't mind.'

I did mind. I wanted to know he wanted me.

He paused and said:

'Let's get another drink and then go to mine.'

We arrived at his student house in Jericho. He had a bedroom, kitchen, and living room on the first floor. I looked around the room: a piano beside the window, hundreds of books on Quantum Physics, Mathematics, and history.

He started frantically rooting through his cupboards to give me more wine. It felt like I had entered his life like a whirlwind of chaos; he needed to control the situation, stay in his comfort zone, and distract both himself and me. Wine is good for that!

'Look, we don't have to do anything, I don't mind. Just relax,' I said.

He stopped as he was opening the bottle of wine:

'I would like to; I am just not used to this.'

A moment of honesty! I wanted him to be comfortable. I made a proposal:

'So I don't mind. I could take my clothes off and lie naked on your bed. How would you feel about that?'

To my surprise he smiled; not directly at me of course, but he did smile.

'That sounds good.'

We had a glass of wine before I did so and he told me about his background. He had an Israeli father and his mother was born in England. He managed to avoid the topic of sex; I wasn't bothered as I enjoyed his company. I was even treated to a piano recital.

It was 10:30 pm. I knew I had to be home in two hours. When time is so limited, as it is when you have babies, I knew I had to force a decision.

He had just finished his Chopin recital and time was running out. I made a joke:

'Okay, does your consciousness want my clothes off or on?'

He laughed and then looked at the floor.

'Up to you,' he said.

'Okay, I will take them off. I hate clothes anyway.'

I stood in front of him and removed my dress, conscious of my leaking breasts and slight overhang. I didn't feel at all confident. I knew I needed to pretend I did. He didn't, so one of us had to make things happen.

He seemed to be staring at my stomach, the worst place! I removed my bra and panties. I stood fully nude in front of him.

I was really scared. I thought he would reject me or be repulsed. No good reasons for it, but I was used to a flat stomach and breasts that didn't constantly fire out milk.

What was he used to? Possibly no attention at all!

He smirked. Wow, he likes me! Thank God! Thank God! It was his eyes; he looked down between my legs and at my breasts. I knew he was too polite to say anything; it didn't matter because his eyes told me his thoughts. I knew then he desired me. That is what I wanted to know all along.

I took his hand and we entered his bedroom.

He was nervous and his uncertainty fuelled mine. Yet, I felt I had to hide mine. I am the confident woman, not the insecure mother who desperately needs validation to know she isn't now sexually irrelevant!

He took his clothes off. Thank God his penis was erect. Okay, so I turn him on, I thought. Not totally repulsive.

He didn't speak. He just lay down on his bed as though he hadn't a clue what to do. He seemed so scared to make a wrong move. I sat on top of him.

'You can play with my breasts,' I told him.

He did. He squeezed my nipples and rubbed my breasts. I could see he wasn't confident. Some milk squirted out onto his face. Okay, laugh. He did too. So repulsive I am, I thought.

After ten minutes of him playing with my breasts as I sat on his penis, I needed to make him feel comfortable and prevent the entire evening from feeling like an awkward teenage fumble.

I asked him:

'Are you a virgin?'

His response:

'Yes, I am.'

I knew this anyway, instinctively. I knew because he had no instinct for sex. He was too restrained and I had to take the lead too much. I didn't find this a turn off; it was a challenge actually. I wanted to leave with him feeling like a man as much as a brain.

I asked him:

'How would you feel if I put myself over your lap with my legs spread and you can play with me or spank me?’

He liked this idea.

He sat at the edge of his bed and I positioned myself over his lap with my legs spread as wide as possible. I wanted him to feel no pressure; I just wanted him to enjoy feeling like a man without having to perform masculinity.

He slapped my arse 4 times and then his hands started to rub my labia. I knew he wanted to enter my vagina, but he was nervous because he didn't want to do anything embarrassing or wrong. He was a perfectionist. I didn't want perfection; I wanted passion.

He had started to lose his erection. I asked him:

'Are you not attracted to me or just nervous?'

'Nervous,' he said. I believed him. Phew!

'Okay, how about I show you how I touch myself? No pressure. I will show you what I do.’

His eyes were now focused in-between my legs. Good! I had some power here.

I opened my legs. I spread the top of my vagina so he could see my clitoris. I placed two fingers on my clitoris and gently rubbed it. I placed two other fingers inside my vagina. He watched intensely. I loved this; I felt he was so captivated that he was no longer just in his head, but maybe he was in the moment. Is that true? No idea; it felt true!

After 15 minutes he asked me to turn over. He actually directed me; I loved this so much. Why? I felt I had unlocked something primal within him which he repressed. He was now giving me instructions.

I bent over his bed and I felt him enter me. Five thrusts into my vagina and he came. Interestingly, despite being neurotic otherwise, he wasn't neurotic about cumming inside me. I loved the feeling of him cumming because I enjoy the rush of heat, and the vagina vibrates; it is a gorgeous feeling. His cum, it feels in that moment that he has owned me. That I belong to him. That excites me.

I had a shower afterwards. I needed to look respectable when I got home to my predictable and invisible life.

We never met again, yet it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was no longer just seen as a brain and I was not just a mother. We confirmed to each other that we are visible as sexual beings.

I got home and pretended I had been seeing friends. I knew another man had been inside me. I didn't for a moment regret it. It felt fundamentally important to me, this confirmation that I still existed as a sexual woman and a desirable woman. I would risk it again. I just hope he felt different too. In another time and without kids I would have loved to date this man. I hope he remembers it too.

An example of a female degenerate!

Apparently some of us are promoting female degeneracy, glorifying promiscuity and dismissing the consequences. We supposedly think that discussing our sex lives, desires and actions is a call to action: become a slut, just like us! Ruin society and your soul while you do it, please. Obviously this is what we think.

The arguments I have read about and listened to in person are as follows:

The first accusation: You are glorifying casual sex as empowering and ignoring the consequences to individuals and society.

Talking about our sexual selves and shame is not inherently about glorifying anything. It is about the truth. Who are we really? What does sex and desire tell us about who we really are? Therefore, it is not about empowerment or glorification, but about humanity and the truth. Not empowering, nor the opposite, just an observation. Maybe a reality of being human.

The second accusation: We are blindly sex-positive. For example, if we talk about sex work, then we can only say it is ‘empowering’ without being aware of trafficking or exploitation.

Not true. We can acknowledge that sex work can be exploitative, and this needs addressing. It exists on a spectrum of agency. It is not all equal. It is not about saying it is empowering, it is about finding the truth. Protection and agency are not inherently in conflict. We can acknowledge both. Stigma is a huge issue which needs addressing. To come to logical conclusions we cannot be dogmatic.

The third accusation: The sexual revolution was awful for women. You waste your youth and fertile years fucking random men, only to find in your late 30s that all the decent men are off the menu. You ruined your chances. You were sold a lie!
What if the truth is that regardless of whether I have casual sex or not, there is zero guarantee of finding a good partner? I have had hookups which have led to relationships, and endless dates which have led nowhere. I have also been in long-term sexless relationships. Nothing kills my desire for life like it. Terrible! This isn't about glorifying casual sex. I think what really matters is valuing ourselves. So much poor behaviour I put up with in my youth because I didn't see my own value. It wasn't about how quickly I slept with the man - it was about how I felt about myself.

Are women really glorifying casual sex? Not from what I have observed. There is no call to degeneracy. There is absolutely a discussion and an acknowledgement of human reality and complexity. Quite right. May it continue.

I was sitting alone in bed again, six months without sex or touch. I had even stopped touching myself; I no longer saw myself as desirable. Nothing kills sex drive like feeling unattractive! This followed the end of a year-long relationship with a man whom I regarded, intellectually, as a prodigy, yet we had zero sexual chemistry. We had simply become friends. He would follow me around his apartment as though I might make a sudden escape, or perhaps because he wanted affirmation of an intimacy between us that eluded reality. I couldn’t even pee without him by the door. I wanted it to be true, that attraction didn’t matter, yet without it, I felt dead.

We had split up the week before I went onto Tinder again, a site I had a bittersweet relationship with. Ugh, why am I back here again? I thought.

I was conflicted. On the one hand, I wanted to feel a man's desire for me, his lust, and to rediscover myself as a sexually attractive woman. On the other hand, my mind was transfixed on settling down and having a baby. It was like a disease of the brain, this baby obsession (I was 30). I woke up having had dreams of a swollen belly or little hands holding mine. It didn’t help that my younger sister was pregnant. My ovaries and brain were not in alignment!

Is this what monogamy is like? I thought. Just a sexless, passionless existence? Why do it? How do people cope? No wonder so many have affairs, I realised. I was trying to find a deeper meaning. Well, we had become friends, but I have plenty of those already.

I wanted a man to look at me as a woman, just a woman, and make me feel like his desire was too strong to resist taking me, overpowering me with his lust. I indulged in this fantasy. I took the plunge and signed up for Tinder. On my first night, I matched with him.

This man, in his late 40s, a retired banker, an ex-CEO. Oh, the status, such an aphrodisiac! You are so shallow, I thought. So what? It turns me on. Is that shallow, being turned on? It was certainly better than living a false and passionless existence.

I had assumed this man would be sleazy, if I am honest with you. I thought I would, on this occasion, be playing the ‘whore.’ Unlike my ex-boyfriend, where I played the role of the ‘respectable girl.’ God, I hated that more! His initial correspondence with me didn’t contradict my assumption. The first message after an introduction I received was as follows:

'Right, meet at the pub? Bookbinders in Jericho? Remember, no panties please. I want to see and play with that gorgeous cunt.’

You know, I didn't care. I wanted to be seen just as a woman. I wanted him to be captivated by my femininity, to feel that polarity between the masculine and feminine. Terrible, yet exactly how I felt. I absolutely wanted him to stare and play with my ‘cunt.’ I had started to feel over the past six months that owning one was useless. I wanted to restore its, or indeed ‘my,’ power.

On the day, I wore a short black dress. I loved it. For the first time in months, I felt sexy. Really sexy. I could visualise my curves, and I knew that if I just opened my legs even slightly, the ultimate prize was waiting to be conquered. I adored this feeling.

We met. He was an interesting character. On the one hand, I could see him as an academic. He had an earnest look - glasses and formal attire. There was a quiet confidence about him. The quiet bit is important. There was zero performance. He just seemed comfortable with himself. I was never like that. Wow, how relaxed I felt to be around someone who just makes me feel it is OK to be me.

He brought the wine, lots of it. Two bottles of Bollinger. I loved it! The contrast between this seemingly quite reserved man and his actions.

He asked me:

'So let’s see, did you remember not to wear panties?'

Even how he said it, so matter of fact.

I opened my legs under the table, eyes darting around to check we were actually alone. He said:

'Beautiful lips, can I touch them?'

'Of course.'

I felt his fingers caress my labia. He inserted one finger inside me. I wanted this moment to last because it was so rare, to be completely seen as a sexual being first, yet my humanity intact. I felt that. I sensed he respected me. I hadn't felt that before, not really. I was always playing a role. This scared and excited me. I could just be myself.

This intuition was confirmed. After he had played with me for five minutes, he began to talk about the economy, politics, and philosophy. I realised he didn’t expect me to play a role. He is relating to me as a complete person. Wow, I didn’t have to perform. I am free. I can be slutty and smart. He is giving me permission. I love this man!

After the date, we had a few hookups. I always felt tremendous excitement beforehand because I knew the sex would test my boundaries, in a good way, and he would challenge my intellect too.

I would meet him at my terrace cottage during the daytime. He would request acts such as:

'I want you to jog on the spot nude, whilst I slap your tits'.

Or:

'I want you to let me fuck you with this wooden spoon after I spank your arse and pussy with it.’

The sex was great. What was even better was that between the sex we could talk about anything. He treated me as his intellectual equal. He respected me. I didn't have to compartmentalise myself because he never did.

A month after meeting, we had arranged to meet at a hotel. He had an idea.

'Look, how would you feel about a threesome? Ever been spit-roasted before?'

Oh God, what do I say? On the one hand, I fantasised about being taken by two men, yet I also felt ashamed of that very fantasy, not respectable at all!

'Hmm, not sure,' I said. I was sure, actually. The idea turned me on. I was too concerned about the reputational damage of going through with it, even, frankly, my own reputation to myself. How absurd!

'Listen, you don't have to. It is fine. Just thought you might enjoy it.’

He was right. The idea of two men ravenously devouring every inch of me was exceedingly appealing!

'Ok, see you next Friday.’

I was so excited. For the first time, I could enter this kind of dynamic without any shame or performance. He gave me permission to just be myself. I would be lying if I didn't tell you that I was a little nervous. Sex always involves some level of performance. The shame or guilt that is so ingrained doesn't disappear just because someone respects you as a person. It certainly helps.

I arrived at the hotel. It was a hotel in Wolvercote, Oxford, complete with a swimming pool and bar. I sat at the bar sipping on some Prosecco, calming my nerves.

My friend arrived. He looked calm, as though this wasn't a big deal. He had a bottle of champagne. Does he do this often? He is so relaxed, I thought.

'Ok, let’s go to the room,' he said.

My nerves played up in the room. I was so anxious. Would I have to play the ‘porn star?’ What do I do?

He put my mind at ease. He knew me. He could intuitively sense my anxiety.

'Just enjoy it,' he said.

His friend arrived, straight to the hotel room. Jesus, he is old, I thought. He was around 70. The way he carried himself, this was a man who knew he had status!

I soon learned why he was like this. I sat down with my champagne, my head feeling woozy after four glasses. I weirdly wanted to keep talking, putting off the act in case I failed.

They discussed among themselves the stock market, politics, and the economy. It became apparent very quickly that this man was an ex-CEO of a major company, highly respected and wealthy. He was talking to us both - it was like I was privy to a secret men's dining club.

He then disclosed the fact he was married, and his secret folders on his phone. This is what he said:

'My wife, she is struggling with arthritis. I have been on that site again, picked up this amazing girl, gorgeous arse and tits. Only 26.'

Fuck! I'm never getting married, I thought. Between this and the ex-boyfriend, off the cards!

He continued:

'You must keep these secret folders on your phone. Mine looks like a game. It has all my other WhatsApp messages and sites. I really recommend it'.

My friend just said:

'Yah, no, absolutely, absolutely'.

Oh dear, I won't ask my friend his marital status,(I thought), Whatever...! Deary me. How interesting...

My time was up. I was to be their plaything for an hour. I was terrified and extremely excited.

My friend began:

'Ok, what shall we do first? Take off her panties? Spank her arse?'

His friend interjected:

'Let’s see her arse first.'

My friend inserted a finger inside me and said:

'She's extremely wet. Let’s get her bent over the bed. Rachel, take off your dress.’

I did. I took off my dress. I could feel the heat of their passion. They were going to own me. I wanted to be owned. I felt a bit dirty. I also felt so incredibly lucky.

I bent over the bed. My friend inserted his penis into my mouth. Ok, just suck, don't overthink it. For Christ's sake, don't accidentally bite it!

Whilst my mouth and throat were preoccupied, I felt the other man open my vagina with his hands.

'Nice fat pussy,' he said. Eww. Ok, go with it. Is it fat? Is that good?!

He entered me, not gently, very hard, his hand hitting my arse with every thrust. I enjoyed the feeling inside me, his cock hitting my cervix, his hand slapping me. I felt totally helpless. This turned me on.

I was trying to let my friend come in my mouth. My mouth was getting sore, my arse was sore, my pussy was sore. I loved the feeling psychologically of being the focus of their attention.

My friend came. Time to switch. I had a quick toilet break and we resumed.

His friend hadn't come yet. He asked me to bend over the table and let him fuck me.

I did it. It was honestly the best moment of the night. He entered me from behind. I felt completely possessed. Every part of me enjoyed it. I had, for once, managed to step outside my head and let my body lead. Nothing gave me so much happiness than leaving my thinking self behind- I wished it happened more often.

I put my clothes back on and we finished the copious amounts of wine. God, I was drunk. I was starting to see double. Don't speak, I thought, you will slur. Either way, I didn't feel shame. I felt it was one of the greatest sexual experiences of my life. If I could repeat it once a week, I would, with a variety of men. I had never felt my femininity could be so captivating. I didn't care if I was just one of many. I felt complete, powerful, most of all respected too.

We continued to discuss politics. They listened to me, to my opinions. I wasn't just a woman they fucked. My friend had established that I was a desirable woman and an equal. I had never experienced this, not having to fragment myself. It stayed with me. An occasion where I could indulge in my femininity but be a human too. I didn't realize how rare this was. Perhaps around integrated men it isn't rare?

I didn't know then that this would be the last crazy night I would have for a while. I found out I was pregnant two months later. I never forgot it. These men, for all their flaws, treated me as a person first. Sex is best when we are given permission to be our complete selves. What a fantastic night!

I haven't disclosed to anyone how I learned that I am- under the right conditions an enthusiastic exhibitionist, especially of the naked kind.

I recall it was around 2010; I had never sent a nude. I didn't know what I enjoyed in the bedroom - totally clueless about my sexual self, full stop!

One evening I was in central Oxford, at a famous pub (The King's Arms). I noticed them - this group of young undergraduates. They were easy to spot: sharp jawlines, Jack Wills blazers, voices so verbose and assertive it felt like I had walked into their private party rather than a pub. I knew - this is a rugby club, and they are most certainly pissed! Possibly not much more tolerable when sober.

I stepped outside for a cigarette, and one of these specimens spoke to me:

'Hey can I grab a cigarette?'

'No you can't.' I was feeling stroppy -I didn't like them!

I expected him to leave me alone. My tolerance for irritating men was somewhat compromised at this time; I had recently been dumped. I was more inclined to kick one in the balls than ride their cocks - for a short time, anyway!

His eyes lit up..

Christ -he likes difficult women! I thought.

'Can I buy you a drink?' he asked.

I looked at him - tall, dark floppy hair, a face that somehow screams: 'I went to an elite private school' -maybe it is the cheekbones?! I knew.

'Ok - thanks.' I rationalised that I couldn't spend the rest of my life angry with men. The desire for adventure was increasing in conjunction with my blood alcohol levels.

We finished our drinks, and eight of us (me and seven men) headed towards their college JCR.

The first ten minutes involved playing a computer game while one man kept saying: 'I love the word cunt' (on repeat).

During the middle of this game, one man said- in front of the others:

'Spread your legs.' Initially, I refused. I didn't want the judgment -yet there was a voice whispering: Do it - it might be fun. To have so many men enjoy your body at once. Is that so bad?

All seven, plus an additional two men who had left their rooms for drink - and possibly, well, the girl!

They crowded round.

'Can you show us your pussy? Just once - quickly,' one asked.

Instant dopamine hit to the brain! I have something they all want to see - I have a choice here and power.

Do I choose to give them a good time or not?

I don't have to see them ever again. Let's see how this feels.

I removed my panties - their eyes glued between my legs. I sat back and opened my legs. I didn't feel degraded, actually, it was hilarious!

They all leaned in; I was sure some had never had access to a vagina in real life before. Too fixated for comfort!

I spread the lips (briefly). One threw himself onto the pool table:

"Oh my God - I need to go and wank." He disappeared....

"He has cum in his pants!" one of the others bellowed.

I was enjoying it - the total destruction of their (semi) collective composure.

Something came over me - I freaked myself out. This is too much! They will judge you - I judge you, I thought. I quickly put my panties back on.

I left shortly after; I had enjoyed the power, the attention, and frankly, seeing civilized social norms disintegrate within seconds in that room. I couldn't quite get over the feeling of internal shame. I knew they would have judged me - yet the overwhelming feeling was pure joy! All co-existed!

Years later, when apps like Tinder hit the market, I was thrown back into this dynamic. I recall sending my first nude. Initially, the exchange of nude images was nothing but thrilling for me. The way I received instant gratification and feedback. Desirability confirmed - no guesswork! I knew exactly what these men I was dating wanted to do to me and see.

I would be a liar if I didn't tell you - sometimes I felt like a goddess!

I simply chose, of course, to ignore the other twenty women they were (likely) messaging simultaneously.

Yet, this buzz didn't last long. I recall the first man to break it. A handsome and academic man in his early 20s, a student of PPE at Oxford.

We discussed, prior to exchanging nudes, his poetry and his writing. I had hoped that maybe we would have a great connection as people first. I always craved the intense sexual chemistry too - I knew I would get distracted otherwise.

He asked me:

'Can you show me your vagina?'

Fine - I was used to this. I didn't worry about going too far at this point. I knew this was standard.

'Can you open it? I have never seen inside. Do you mind?'

I hesitated - this is what I disliked: never knowing if you were going too far and would be cast aside as a 'whore,'I reluctantly sent him the photo he requested. All seemed well.

Wow - never seen it like that before. So hot! Thanks.'

Twenty minutes later - I was blocked. Guess he got what he wanted!

Whether it was his own discomfort with himself or a judgment of me, it didn't matter. It ruined the thrill, and I was left feeling that enjoying showing my body to men was a shameful act.

Another more extreme incident involved a man I had dated. I recall sharing a video of myself sliding down a wall and opening my legs - no panties and totally exposed. I hadn't thought it through; I included my face. I trusted him.

A week later, male friends on social media told me they had received the video. One said:

'I didn't know you were that kind of woman.'

Wow! So on the one hand, we are judged as dull if we don't show them and ignored, or potentially vilified if we do - no woman can win this game, I thought. The judgment shifts depending on which way the wind blows and whether it suits. It is a gamble - always a gamble!

The friend who had expressed shock and judgment later asked for his own nudes! I ignored him.

I shut down all my social media for three months! The thrill of showing myself and enjoying the sexual anticipation it created turned to ashes. I was left feeling angry and shamed.

Yet, when I exposed myself to the men who didn't judge, it was liberating and exciting for me. Why? It enhanced the sexual build-up, the suspense - the nudes often fed our imagination and intensified our desires.

I now don't care if someone judges or ghosts after a nude. I do, however, call myself a reluctant exhibitionist. Not because I don't enjoy showing myself -I do! The pleasure can only exist when the act is free of judgment and shame. If the judgment and shame are eradicated I'm an enthusiastic exhibitionist.

I noticed him at the bar. He was different. He had an energy about him; he was a man who looked like he’d fit into the world of Wall Street rather than the dusty corridors of academia.

I was wearing a tight-fitting skirt and heels. I looked at the other men at the bar; they seemed more interested in looking at their shoes than my bottom. Pathetic. Maybe my friend was right- there really is a testosterone problem in England. Ridiculous thoughts... or maybe I just wasn’t very desirable?

I sat down with my pint. He was sitting at a table opposite me. I pretended to read. I was on page four and never got beyond it. It was a useful mask. I listened as the conversation between him and his friend unfolded. His friend, a more typical academic, sat with his legs crossed. He hardly said anything, simply laughing whenever his leader made a joke.

’She was wooden in bed,’ I heard him say. ‘You know, she literally just lay there, not moving.’

Wooden? I thought. Am I wooden in bed, too? I hoped I wasn't like that. What if men described me as ‘wooden?’ Christ. He really was an arsehole. Yet, he was the most exciting man in the room. Actually, the most enticing man I had been near in a long time.

I put my shield, my book, down on the table to sip my pint. Was he looking in my direction? Had he noticed my nipples poking through my top? I felt irritated by my own willingness to give myself so freely to a man who was clearly used to charming women into bed before critiquing their performance so publicly. You should shun him, I told myself. Yet, I couldn’t look away.

I left to go to the toilet, and then I heard it.

’Hey, you’re beautiful. Fancy a drink sometime?’

He saw me. He noticed. I wasn’t invisible.

’Yes. Shall we exchange numbers?’
You know he does this all the time, I thought. He was too slick, too sure of himself. But what did it matter? I could prove to him I wasn't wooden, and I wouldn't have to play the respectable girl. He didn't want that anyway. Maybe a fling with him would be liberating?

I left feeling smug. The thrill of anticipation. A man so rare in my world. It felt like he affirmed my femininity; screw the doubts.

We had arranged to meet at a rustic, country pub near my annex apartment. I had recently moved to a small Oxfordshire village. It was a place where time stood still: two pubs and one church. I had an annex apartment in the back garden of a TV producer's house. We had chickens, and a dog. Oh, how quaint! I thought I would love it, yet I spent most of my time in Oxford. A predictable life felt like the slow suffocation of my soul. I had no idea then that our first meeting would be so dramatically different to our last.

I had prepared. He wanted slutty? I can do that! I wanted him to feel I was the only woman that night he couldn't resist. I wore a long black plunge dress. It fit snugly around my bottom and hips. It revealed enough of my chest to draw his eyes downwards without risking raising eyebrows in the snobby pub we had arranged for our date. If we can call it that?! I want him to look at me and think: ‘I want to fuck her now, and she won't be wooden.’

I waited at the bar, two wines down. The waiter was shaking his head. Deary me! He thinks I'm a drunk! Never mind, own it! I propped myself up at the bar. How would your man behave? He wouldn't care. He would act like he had a right to be there! Copy.

As I finished my last glass, he walked through the door. No one needed to give this man permission to be in the room, or any room. There was no hesitation. He walked up to me without an ounce of anxiety.

’You look gorgeous. What are you having?’

’Just red wine, thanks.’

This is nice. He is paying. We both know our roles here. I noticed his eyes fixated on my breasts. He sat down, legs parted. He didn't mind taking up space! I loved it! A man who gave himself permission.

Within minutes I was given the lowdown of his CV. He was an academic supervisor at Oxford with connections to Ivy League schools in the US. A thought-leader in his field. He is well-rehearsed here, I thought! Yet, he asked me about myself. This surprised me. He isn't totally self-absorbed. He was interested in who I was. I could have listened to him for hours.

Onto our fourth glass, and the conversation took a turn.

’So tell me, have you ever been with a woman?’ Ah yes, I am playing the ‘slutty’ girl tonight.

’Yes, twice. Years ago.’

’Fancy doing it again?’

I didn't like him talking about other women. I wanted to be, for that night, the only one.

We arrived back at my annex. I sneaked him in via the back entrance. My landlady had previously made this comment over a cup of tea: ‘A lot of men come round.’Six in total so far, I thought. Really? Not a lot!

He sat on my bed. His chest is huge, I thought. I felt like he could completely overpower me. He asked me: ‘Ok, listen. I want you nude and bent over your bed. I'm going to fuck you really hard, ok?’

God! He is an arrogant twat, but he's hot! Such a teenager I am.

’I will watch you remove your clothes,’ he said.

I removed my dress and my panties. I could see his eyes darting from my breasts to my vagina. I felt so alive! I wanted to bend over the bed for him. I wanted to be taken. What does it matter if he is a politically incorrect arsehole? It serves a purpose in that moment.

I bent over the bed. Fully nude. I felt his hands spread my lips, and he spat into my hole. I felt a weird mix of unease and incredible arousal. I didn't know who he wanted me to be? Just be yourself. Don't be wooden!

He entered me. He was like a bull. I could feel his cock hitting my cervix. It hurt, but I felt owned and I loved that feeling. The sex was rough, very aggressive. The pleasure didn't come from the physical act. It came from the feeling that I was giving myself to him.

It was 2 am. I was exhausted. The wine was wearing off. I was sore because of the friction and the 40-minute sex session. He didn’t want to stop. He said: ‘I can keep going for hours.’ Oh good God, I'm not sure I can, I thought.

’Do you mind if I sleep?’I said.

’Sure, as long as you let me fuck you while you sleep.’

I should be offended. I found it attractive. The idea that I was irresistible.

He kept to his word. At 5 am I woke with a cock inside me. I was on my side as he entered me. Rather than feeling used, I felt like I was in that moment more visible than I had been for a long time. At least he had some bloody passion, unlike the men who look at their shoes. Maybe he was the authentic one here?! He didn't play the game. He didn't pretend. I knew exactly who he was.

He came inside me and fell back to sleep. I looked at him. He even takes up space when he sleeps! I was squished against the wall. I didn't mind. He was a novelty in my world.

We had a civilised breakfast. I fetched fresh eggs from the chickens and cooked an omelette. He was lovely. Fun, hilarious, and clever. His charisma overshadowed everything else.

Don't get attached, I thought. Don't obsess. You know he does this all the time. You know that.

He left and I honestly felt amazing. I put on my lipstick, a beautiful white dress, and headed into Oxford. Clearly the night had gone to my head. I was convinced men were staring at me. Maybe it was my confidence?! You admire him, don't you? I thought! The same way the friend who laughed at all his jokes did. We forgive his misgivings because he makes us feel important, even if we aren't!

I didn't hear from him for four weeks. I knew I couldn't expect to. I knew the deal. I thought about him a lot. No one had made me feel so desired. Bit pathetic really, I thought! You aren't special here. He is, to him.

One evening I was sat on my bed in my annex. The thrill of the encounter had dissipated. Life was tediously steady again. I was watching TV on my laptop. I received this text:

’Hey, what are you doing tonight? Shall I pick you up?’

It was 11 pm. Nothing ambiguous about this arrangement, I thought. I didn't mind. He interrupted the predictable and I welcomed that.

I ensured I was equipped for the occasion: high heels, a short skirt, a thong, and makeup. He liked me like this.

I remember it well. I was in his car. We got onto the topic of famous women we found beautiful. We both agreed on Rachel Weisz. Then he said it:

’Yes, she is the kind of woman I would marry. You are beautiful, but you are for short-term fun.’

I lost my voice in that moment. How do I react? Do I tell him to fuck off? What if he is right? Maybe he is just honest? I thought. The comment dulled the moment. The excitement started to feel diluted. I was maybe just an afterthought.

He drove me to a remote location in Oxfordshire, a place I recall extremely well. It is called Boars Hill. A remote road which is cut off from most of society, home to multimillionaires. Houses tucked behind alarmed gates, complete with gyms, tennis courts, and swimming pools.

He pulled up besides a woodland area. It was pitch black, except for the odd passing car. He had already taken his cock out. His fingers slid inside me as he took off my panties.

’You're wet. Sit on it,’he said.

I was nervous. What if someone sees us? I did as he asked. Don't be so goddamn dull, I thought. I felt his cock slide into me. I rode him. As I did, the car kept bouncing up and down, up and down. Shit! Someone will see us, and they will know we are fucking, I thought.

I asked him: ‘I'm not comfortable having sex here. Can we go to yours or mine?’

That is when it happened. The switch! I hadn't anticipated it. I saw it very clearly. The charm had gone. He was angry. His eyes narrowed. I felt scared.

’Give me your bag. Now,’ he said. I did. I couldn't not. I couldn't get home. He locked the car doors so I couldn't escape. Not that there was anywhere to escape to.

’Listen. You are going to bend over this car and let me fuck you up the arse. Otherwise, you aren't going home. Do you understand?’

I felt panicked. Sheer panic. I knew he was arrogant, but I hadn't seen this coming. I don't think he will hit me, I thought. Maybe I can negotiate?!

’Can we not have sex elsewhere? I am just not comfortable with the car bouncing around.’ Ok, that should do it, I thought. I flattered him.

’No. I told you. You are not going until you bend over this car and let me fuck your ass.’ He was so angry. I couldn't understand how I had triggered such anger? My issue wasn't even about him.

He let me out and I had to bend over the car bonnet. I knew I had no options left. I just wanted to be safe in my boring yet, at least, safe annex. I don't recall my thoughts well. It was a blur. I do remember him saying just before he was about to enter me:

’Ok. You can let me cum in your mouth. Then you can go.’

The relief. He wasn't going to have anal sex with me over the car bonnet. I would be released. He inserted himself into my mouth and within minutes he came.

That is what he thinks of me, I thought. I was shaking the entire time. I hadn't seen this coming.

Then he switched back to his original persona. He let me back into the car. My bag was handed back to me, and he started chatting normally, making jokes and telling me stories. As though I should perceive what had just happened between us as normal. It felt far from normal to me.

Am I meant to pretend that didn't just happen? I thought. Just go with it. Don't poke the bear again!

I laughed at his jokes. I felt dead inside. He dropped me back. I was disorientated. I was shaking. How did I not foresee that? Why did he do that?

I felt disgusting. I showered and I sat staring at the wall. I sat for hours thinking. The excitement, the validation, and the fun - all destroyed in 20 minutes in that car.

The months passed. I was fine, generally. Although I couldn't get in a car alone with a man unless I knew him well.

Years later I received a text from him:

’Hey, I'm in Oxford overnight. I'm staying at the Old Parsonage. I still want to fuck you with a monster dildo. Are you free? Am free after 9 pm.’

Wow! The cheek! Does he not know what he did?! I confronted him:

’You remember what you did to me in that car? I cannot meet you.’

His reply: ‘Yeah, sorry about that. It was a fantasy I had had.’

He admitted it even. Wow! I blocked him!

I will admit to you, I looked him up. There he was on a page: "The Best and Brightest." Urgh! A thought-leader in science. Oh, piss off!

I rolled my eyes. I didn't feel much emotion. No feeling of vengeance, nor hatred. Just a quiet resignation that his life would continue on an upward trajectory. Everyone was hoodwinked by him. Why? He makes you feel good.

Making you feel good isn't the same as being good, I thought.

I closed my laptop and tried to forget him. In a sense, he did me a favour. The next few times I was at a bar, I didn't dismiss the men who looked at their feet. Maybe I had been wrong about them? Possibly they had far more integrity than him.

He had told me in advance that he couldn’t have sex because he was too unwell.

I was nervous before we met. He had made it clear that this meant a lot to him, telling me: "I have hardly touched a woman; you will be the last. I just want to know that I matter to someone."

How do I live up to that? How do I do justice to something that means so much to someone? I wasn’t sure, and I worried that I might fail. This wasn't just about sex. This was a man who wanted to be recognized simply as a person. There was nothing egotistical about it. I felt an immense sense of responsibility.

Most of my clients had been married men who were no longer having sex with their wives. This was different; the stakes were higher. This was a final affirmation of humanity that would never be repeated. He was going to die, and my touch meant he wouldn't do so without a life-affirming connection.

He arrived at 1:00 p.m. He was tired and very clear about the fact that he didn't know if he could perform. I didn't want him to perform; I wanted to connect. I told him, "Listen, I will lie down nude. You can touch me anywhere. Just enjoy it. Don't feel the need to perform."

I stood in front of him and took off my clothes. I lay down on the sofa. He touched me, he sucked my breasts, and he played with me. He enjoyed me. I kissed him. It wasn't charity; it felt real. I thought he was an amazing person, and I still do. I wanted him to enjoy my body and feel that he mattered. I wanted him to have the agency that cancer had stripped him of.

It wasn't about me; it was about connection and the feeling of being visible to another human being. Nothing affirms this visibility quite like sex. He told me, "When I watch porn, it is the only time I am free of fear and free of sadness."

It is interesting how sex serves as an escape from the all-encompassing doom of death and finality. Sex affirms us. It tells us we matter and enhances our sense of connection to others. Therefore, sex is extremely valuable and important to us as humans.

I let him play with my body. I felt that my willingness to let him touch me provided a necessary affirmation. I wanted him to enjoy touching a woman for one last time. He kissed me all over, and I felt this was important. He was kissing me because this was likely the last time he could express passion. Passion is life-affirming.

We cannot judge sex like music, art, or literature in terms of quality. We can, however, say it matters enormously to us. It matters because it can bring us immense joy and ensures we do not simply disappear.

He left after two hours. He said to me, "I will never touch a woman again. I hope you don't forget me."

I cried when I closed my door. I didn't just cry a little; I cried a lot. I still think about him. Beyond that, he made me ask myself a question: we view sex as a base human desire because anyone can do it, but is it actually the highest and most important form of connection we have? I think so.

I had a male friend who was permanently single. He once told me, "I am too shy with women. I don't want to be a weirdo." He was lovely and wanted to be respectful. Much like my escorting clients, he longed to be seen, touched, and to enjoy sex.

He was 40 and had never had sex. I asked him, "How would you feel if I lie nude and let you touch me?" He liked the idea. There was no pressure and no need for him to perform. We would just go with our feelings, and either of us could opt out at any point. We respected each other immensely.

He told me how he longed for touch. He explained that he never told women his sexual fantasies because he feared they would call him a pervert. Yet, he just wanted to feel connected to another human and believe he mattered. Interestingly, among all these men, the pleasure of the woman mattered immensely to them. They wanted the woman to feel desired too. It is a mutually beneficial act where both people matter.

I took off my clothes in his college room and lay down on his bed. He played with my body. He didn't have sex with me, but it didn't matter. It wasn't about that. It was about being valued and having an intimate connection with another human.

There are monsters in this world, but there are none in this memoir. There are simply men who want to be seen, touched, and felt. Isn't this a right we all have?

Here we are again. I am with the man I have dumped four times within a year. My boyfriend? Or my captive? I am complicit in my own captivity -I keep coming back. Bloody idiot! Why? Why do you do it? You know it is a lie!

We sat in silence - always in silence; if we talk we argue. He looks angry. I hate that. I am uncomfortable around angry people.

'Why are you grumpy?' I ask.

'I'm not grumpy!' he says. He looks so utterly miserable. What am I to believe? He doesn't even like me - I irritate him. Everything about me annoys him. Why does he want me here? I am messy, I'm apparently 'pretentious' and vain. There we go -character assassination over. I just simply want to be in a different universe. Then again, he is always there. I know he will never leave, so I feel secure despite the immense irritation.

As I sit with him in his quaint cottage in Oxford I am distracted. I receive a text from a Syrian friend:

'Come tomorrow? London?'

Oh gosh -I know I shouldn't. We fancy each other - very bad! The thought of the encounter brings flickers of life back to my soul.

'Ok,' I say. Who do I want to spend my Saturday with?

A man who makes me feel dead inside but will always be there? For God knows what reason?! Or a man who makes me feel alive, seen and valued?

'Yes -see you outside Hyde Park,' I reply.

So excited! The dreariness of the room and my captive disintegrate when I think about my Syrian friend.

My friend is a journalist - Kurdish, from Rojava. A man who has been inside the prisons of Assad. A man whom I could listen to forever and never tire of. He fills every part of me with joy. He is catnip to me -sexually and intellectually.

My boyfriend and I depart - we go to bed in separate rooms. I am not drunk enough to give him a blow job tonight, nor sex. Thank goodness! I don't have to keep performing normality when everything between us is built on a lie.

I am on my way to London on a GWR train. I have had two glasses of wine. The freedom - the freedom of escaping my life means I want to indulge, unhealthily. I feel like being a hedonist. I want to feel alive again. I miss that feeling so much.

I arrive at Paddington - he is there to greet me. That cheeky look on his face. I love how he combines intensity with frivolity. So attractive.

'So let's go,' he says. He has, as he always does, brought me a pack of cheap Turkish cigarettes. I would chain smoke with him. It was like being with someone who understands you so well you don't need to ask - they just know what you like.

We arrived outside Hyde Park and sat at a café.

The feeling of relief washed over me. I don't have to fake affection, nor will he endlessly critique me - he likes me as I am. The thought passed my mind occasionally: don't get caught - you are cheating! Yet I never felt bad. Not really. I just needed to make sure I disposed of the tickets to London before coming home.

He sat back in his chair. We were both chain smoking. I loved watching him - he would sit back as though he was on a beach and then tell you the most insightful and intense story you had ever heard. He never bored me. He understood me better than I did, or at least exposed truths about me I wouldn't have dared to face.

He said to me:

'Listen - my friend is going through a divorce. He is a professor from Damascus. He would love it if you came over.'

'What do you mean? To counsel him?'

He smiled.

'You know exactly what I mean.'

I did. I knew he knew that I understood. Nothing bypassed this man.

'Ok - let's go.'

I was nervous. What will happen? Will I live up to expectations or fail? Will I fancy this man? What if he finds my body and face ugly?

So we arrived at his apartment. I cannot recall where in London it was. Just somewhere.

I was so nervous going up in that lift. I trusted my friend. My nerves were because I worried I wouldn't please him, and he was going to watch me. The reserved English woman was still embedded within me - the need to be discreet and not transgressive. Shut up! Just go with it. Go with your feelings. My feelings were complicated by my overthinking.

We arrived. There at the door stood his Syrian friend from Damascus. A quiet and serious man. He didn't have the same energy as my friend - more restrained and far less cheeky.

I sat on his sofa - the room was cold and sterile. A man in flux - he had just left the family home, so everything was chaos: books everywhere, cigarette butts and a feeling of loneliness. That is what it felt like.

We were smoking - I loved it! I loved the feeling of being free from puritanical British culture. Killing ourselves with joy!

They spoke in Arabic for half an hour - I didn't understand but I enjoyed my twelfth cigarette.

My friend took my hand and placed it on his erect penis - he was wearing clothes.

'Ok, take off your skirt and knickers.'

I felt nervous - what would his friend think of me? I didn't even know if he fancied me.

I took off both. He asked me to spread my legs, show myself, and lean against the wall. I did exactly that. I loved it when he told me these things - he knew who I was.

I was fully exposed from the waist down - his friend sat looking between my legs. My friend said:

'Beautiful pink pussy.'

He agreed.

He pinched my lips.

He started to play with my clitoris and inserted his fingers inside me. His friend said nothing - he just watched and smoked.

I could feel he was absorbing everything - every inch of my body was being consumed. I felt so self-conscious and yet beautiful too.

The man came closer - I could feel his breath on me -he was looking at me. He was enjoying me. I spread my legs further -I wanted to enhance the moment for all of us.

My friend was nude by this stage and the man had positioned himself on a chair to watch. I worried: what if he thinks I am bad at this? Get out of your head, woman! Just live in the moment.

I put my friend's penis in my mouth and ensured I was fully open for the other man to enjoy.

'Get on top of me,' my friend said.

I did. I rode him whilst his friend watched. I still couldn't quite get out of my head. I enjoyed his gaze. He started to twist my nipples as I rode my friend. My friend asked me to bend over the sofa - hands on the cushions, bottom in the air, fully exposed to both. He fucked me this way. His friend watched as though he was studying something important. My friend came.

Now it was his turn. I was here to make him happy, as a distraction. Should I feel exploited? I thought.

No - because my friend knew me well. He knew I would enjoy this. I did. I felt so desired.

My friend went to take a shower. The man guided me into his bedroom.

He was very quiet - he hardly spoke. He asked me to lie on my front with my legs parted. He entered me without any foreplay. It almost felt mechanical. He grabbed my hair as he entered me. Four hard thrusts and he was done.

'Thank you,' he said.

Was I providing a service? Some form of therapy? Anyway, it was fun - so stop overanalysing everything.

I put on my clothes and sat on the sofa, finishing my last cigarette - deary me! They spoke about Syria and the war. I looked at my friend; I wanted to bring him home. He made me feel complete. I didn't own him and I knew that.

He dropped me off at Paddington - back to my 'boyfriend'. I hugged him and he said:

'I love you.'

And I said: 'I love you too.' It didn't feel forced - it felt real. I knew it would just remain feelings and words between us. It didn't matter because I knew it was real.

I got on my train. My boyfriend texted:

'When are you home?'

I wished I had a reason to say: 'Never.'

I didn't -so back to the lie. Horrible woman! Yet I didn't honestly feel much guilt. I mainly felt free. I felt seen.

I disposed of the tickets at Oxford station. We all have reputations to maintain.

I got home and went to bed alone. For once I felt satisfied. I felt complete.

A week later I sent my fifth dumping email.

I was always trying to find ways to justify my sexual desires -to make them credible, legitimate, maybe even respectable.

For example, I recall trying to justify casual sex to a friend as "enriching." It was enriching because I found that it made me feel more alive; it provided me with insights and stories. This is true, and yes enriching. But so what? I simply enjoyed multiple men fucking me. Did it need a high-brow justification to be a legitimate pursuit? A seal of approval from the dead-inside?!

I felt I needed to know I wasn’t just being an agent of chaos and wasting my time. But it never felt like a waste of time to me. It felt like how I imagine a vampire needs blood - it fed my being.

I recall the first time I FaceTimed a man. It was my idea. He was younger than me and awkward. I told him, "I’m going to walk into the bathroom and spread my pussy for you." I did exactly that. I filmed myself sliding down a wall while pulling up my skirt to expose myself. I spread my lips for him.

He asked me, "Can you put something up it? I want to see you fill it." God forbid - I put a bloody, shitty Tesco shampoo bottle inside. It was fun. Nothing was justified or intellectualised. We acted on instinct and feeling. Totally spontaneous. I felt so free.

This created the greatest tension and desire. Nothing kills the erotic like over-intellectualizing.

I used to have to justify to myself why I enjoyed watching porn or touching myself. I had to find some credible reason for an imaginary outside audience. Now, I don't. If I want to watch porn, imagine a full-frontal spanking, masturbate, or invite a man over for sex, I can do so without any "higher order” reason.

Being unapologetically horny is reason enough. It doesn’t have to be intellectual; it can just be a feeling. That is what I embrace about lust: the feeling of being very alive.

I was meeting my friend again at an Oxford society. We were in our 20s. I was escorting at the time; no one knew. Just me.

The atmosphere was stern and oppressive. Men dressed in their tuxedos were all a carbon copy of each other, signalling their membership of the club and their respectability, their personality subdued behind the performance. I noticed several smirking at me as I entered. They didn't hide it - not from me, just from each other.

The talks commenced: serious men talking about "serious" stuff. You get the idea.

During the interval, I was approached by one of these men. He was religious and extremely restrained. No sex before marriage, and definitely no flirting. Yet every time we spoke, the conversation would veer towards who I was sleeping with. I was a specimen or a spectacle he could analyse like a case study without implicating himself. I shouldn't indulge him, I would think, and yet his deadpan, serious demeanor would collapse as I told him my stories. The more illicit they became, the more questions he would have. I couldn't help but enjoy watching the mask fall. Fall it did. He pressed his arm directly against mine while we stood against a wall, only to abruptly remove it after five minutes as though his body had betrayed his civility. After that incident, he avoided me. No eye contact - a mirror image that needed eradicating from the mind’s eye.

He wasn't alone. His friend, highly revered as the "intellectual" of the group whom I had tried to engage in conversation during the interval, had made his disdain unambiguous. He avoided talking to me full stop. He made this unequivocally clear by telling me he had to talk to his friends. I wondered: maybe I am just dull? Or does he think I am stupid? I felt hurt!

Yet five minutes after this incident, he smirked at me when no one was watching (just me). I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he made me feel desired, and I enjoyed the feeling that I was privy to another side of him no one else was. Yet I resented being relegated to the woman they could only acknowledge after dark, when the performance was over. I was aware that the rest of the time I was best avoided: a taboo indulgence that could never be publicly claimed.

It was midnight we had all had a few too many drinks. The friend who had spent the night dismissing me in front of the others, ensuring my position in the group was one of an "outsider," waited for me. The rest had gone home.

"Fancy another drink?"

I thought maybe I should slap him. That is what I am meant to do - isn't it?! That isn't what happened. I was curious where this was going. I rather fancied him too.

"Sure," I said. I hated myself sometimes!

The truth is, I found it exciting and fascinating.

It wasn't romantic. He took me down an alleyway. His persona transformed. The respectable intellectual had become transgressive - more than myself even. I wasn't comfortable with a hookup in public and down an alleyway. I knew he wasn't comfortable taking me back to his accommodation, (too exposing).

"Open your legs," he said, his hand around my neck. I wondered if he had watched a lot of porn. His fingers entered me; he wasn't gentle. He had gone from performing as austere to aggressive masculinity. I wasn't convinced either was the real him.

"Show me your tits," he demanded. It was as though he needed to rush the entire episode, to take what he wanted as quickly as possible, scratch the itch, and be done with it.

He grabbed my breasts like a teenager who has never touched a woman before. Aggressive fumbling.

I wasn't comfortable with the public nature of the encounter, yet I would be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying it too. I was  watching him the entire time.

Ten minutes into the encounter, which concluded with his penis in my mouth, I thought: nothing civil about this. I wondered how he would reconcile this encounter with his public image. I just found it amusing!

The weeks after, he avoided me like before. He wasn't alone. The repeated pattern persisted: private fascination and public avoidance. Worse than that, a partner of mine a little after that time disclosed this to me:

"You know what they used to call you?"

I didn't!

"The slut." Judgement confirmed!

They continued to avoid association, as though associating with a woman like me might hold up a mirror to their less respectable selves - the shadow self. I wondered if my perceived promiscuity threatened their own image. The fascination with the "available" woman could only be indulged in the shadows. I speculated if this was a shared secret; I suspect not. They were performing for each other first and foremost.

I received a Facebook email years later from the man who had treated me with disdain and the one who had allegedly referred to me as a "slut." The email, which was framed as a "catch up," mentioned: "I hope you don't mind me saying, but I found you one of the sexiest women."

I never replied. I looked down at my body, thinking about all those years I had felt I was "wrong" or "unacceptable," even when the men had initiated the encounters. Was I really in the wrong? I thought.

Or...

Did my openness about sex threaten a social code? Associating with a woman like this - would it make these men look "lowbrow"? Rather than continue to feel bad about myself, with age I reframed it. Maybe I was the lucky one because I was more free? Freedom that came with a cost (social exclusion) but satisfied a curiosity to see who people are when the mask drops.

I wasn't initially excited when I received the email from a new potential client regarding whether I would engage in his 'kink'. He described himself as a 60-year-old married father of two. His kink? Fisting and insertion play. I imagined him-this older man indulging in his fetish after hours - on his laptop whilst his wife slept. Eww!

Was I to allow myself to be his prop for expressing this fetish? I told myself that it was too degrading - I couldn't go there!

Anyway, I didn't think I needed to respond. I had been having a great time with another client for several weeks: a 36-year-old Oxford graduate - handsome and charming. Two-hour sex sessions interspersed with intense conversations about world affairs. It wouldn't be honest of me if I didn't admit that I rather fancied this man. He, like the majority, was married and a father. Similar to the other clients, he was paying for guaranteed sex and my discretion. An affair was always too messy and risky for these men. The need for sex was too intense to ignore. I was their secret release - they could maintain their high-powered jobs and respectable family life without the stress of being 'caught'. I got used to this dynamic after the first month of feeling like I was in on a secret I would rather not be privy to.

The work had dried up for a few weeks. I returned to my laptop - to the site. Do I take a risk with this man? With his kink? I recalled my handsome Oxford man had on one occasion spoken about inserting a bottle inside me - we never did it, but in my honest moments, the idea aroused me more than I was comfortable admitting. Why was I being such a hypocrite then? It was fine when I was attracted to the man!

I took the risk and responded. We arranged a phone chat a week later.

The first thing that struck me when I spoke to him was how matter-of-fact he was about his exact kink and what he wanted to do to me. There were no awkward pauses or tension - it felt as though we were indeed agreeing a respectful and adult business transaction.

He was Swedish - his English clipped, as though he had passed through the British public school system. I knew instantly: he is highly educated (like most of these men). I felt in the moment I could ask him anything. I didn't need to as he was nothing but transparent.

He said: "What I enjoy is fisting a woman. I have only done this once before. I would also love to insert objects inside you - you tell me what you want, girl? It is only fun for me if you enjoy it too."

I didn't know what to say. Do I tell him I am unsure how I feel? Why is he being more mature than me? He isn't confused -I am! He was modelling honest, direct, and respectful adult conversation. I was dithering...

"I haven't tried it before. I will give it a go."

I liked this man. He was straightforward. Yet I still couldn't get past the feeling that I was degrading myself by allowing him to use my body to satisfy his 'insertion' fetish. I argued with myself: Why is that worse than having a penis inside you? Let's be honest, those aren't often very clean! So inconsistent you are, I told myself.

As the day approached, I received multiple text messages from him. Photos of women with hands inside their vaginas. The photos didn't cause me discomfort - my reaction did. I felt a pang of excitement. I was going to allow this man to own my body for several hours - to test my limits. You shouldn't be excited by this. Indulging an old man in his fetish. I couldn't shift this thought: What if it is my fetish too? Let's not go there...!

Three hours before the session, he sent me a photo. Seven different vegetables of varying sizes were lined up.

"I've been shopping at Waitrose. I have three different sized courgettes, an aubergine, a calabash, and two carrots. I would love you on your back, and ideally if you can put your legs behind your head to leave your pussy fully exposed, that would be great." At least the vegetables are from Waitrose, I thought to myself!

As the hour approached for him to arrive, I was nervous. I was always like this before meeting a new client. On this occasion, I didn't worry about him turning into a murderous monster, but I was fretting over my performance. It is a strange thing to have to perform sexual acts with a complete, unknown stranger without building the rapport that makes you both at ease with the (often) ungainly and clunky act of sex. I went through my usual checklist: hair and makeup, low-cut top, no panties (his request), and I shaved ruthlessly. My body was as prepared as possible, even if my mind was not.

The doorbell rang. I was in performance mode. My nerves subdued. I just had to satisfy him (so I thought) - he was paying for two hours.

There he stood on my doorstep. It was winter, yet he was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. He possessed the most enormous smile - he looked like that grandfather who takes his grandchildren on trips out and lets them eat far more sweets than their parents would approve of. He certainly didn't look like he secretly spends his money fisting women.

"Hello Rachel I am so happy to meet you."

Gosh - so relaxed, I thought. Nothing awkward here! He was carrying his Waitrose bag.

I felt this was a big deal for him - a fantasy he had been consumed by and, based on the text messages, looking forward to all week.

I made him some coffee and we sat in my lounge. Initially, we discussed his move to England and compared British and Swedish politics and values. I loved his company and his mind. Twenty minutes in, and aware he was paying for my service, I said:

"Ok - what exactly do you want to do?"

"I would like to give you pleasure. I would like to play with your breasts and tweak your nipples whilst I put my fingers inside you. I would then enjoy inserting some of these vegetables. What would you like?"

His directness felt like it gave me permission to speak without any reticence. He wasn't weird about it, so neither should I be, I thought. Just a more exciting day than normal for him!

"I enjoy being spanked - over the lap."

"Ok, girl! We can do that."

He requested I be fully nude. My anxiety diminished as I took off my clothes (he asked to watch), and I didn't honestly mind. He made me feel beautiful.

I stood nude in front of him. His eyes transfixed on my breasts and between my legs. He requested I move towards him. I was to stand in front of him and let him play with my body. His mouth enclosed over my left nipple whilst his fingers entered me. I didn't feel dirty - I was enjoying myself I felt I shouldn't be. The truth is, I was.

"You are very wet, girl. Shall we put you over my lap?"

I positioned myself over his lap - legs apart for a spanking. Five whacks to my bottom and five on my vagina. He was gentle. I felt with him the sex was about the suspense and the pleasure of indulging in each other's kinks. I loved that! I hadn't had much sex like that. It felt liberating and novel for me. Just free to explore and find out what you both like without shame or disrespect.

We had an hour left. It was time to allow him to indulge in his kink.

He took out his vegetables from his Waitrose bag and carefully lined them up. In addition to this, he had lubricant and a vibrator. So well organised, I thought! I could see the thought he had put into this session. I believe in his mind it was an experience for both of us, rather than just something transactional.

"I washed them all, so don't worry. Have you given birth or been fisted before?" he asked in his matter-of-fact manner.

"Neither, and I don't know if they will fit."

"Ok - you can pick what you would like to try first, and if you are in pain, we stop."

I stood in front of him with my legs apart, looking down as he inserted a courgette. (Don't laugh, I told myself.) As I watched this vegetable partially disappear inside me, I felt (to my surprise) euphoric. Watching him inserting something into the most intimate area felt like the ultimate surrender of my body to a man. That excited me! It didn't disgust me; it didn't make me feel shame. It made me feel intensely feminine.

The vibe changed - I started to take charge. I felt he had given me permission to do so because he clearly saw me and him as equals. I felt that!

"I want you to fuck me from behind with the massive vegetable - whatever it is called."

"Yes the calabash. Ok, girl - if you think it will fit, we can try."

Try we did. Three times. I could feel my vagina stretching to accommodate it, but the pain was too intense, so we stopped. It wasn't awkward because nothing was with this man. He wasn't there for me to be perfect or a sex toy. He was there to explore with me as an equal.

We stopped for a coffee break, as I was feeling sore and needed to rejuvenate.

I felt with him I could ask him why he used escorts. I intuitively sensed he would give me an honest answer without it causing any tension. I asked him. This was his response:

"I've been married for 40 years. I love and adore my wife. Since the menopause, she hasn't wanted sex. I don't want an affair because I love her. If I didn't do this, I would be tempted." There we go! An honest answer, and probably the same reason most of my clients would have given. I sometimes wondered: Do these men feel using escorts saves their marriages? I don't know, but it was a recurring thought.

We had 20 minutes left. I lay on my back with my legs held up behind my head. A deeply uncomfortable position - I was useless at gymnastics at school! It left my vagina open for him to try his ultimate fantasy - fisting! I was nervous. Will it hurt? Will I disappoint him? He was so excited about this.

He lathered his right hand with lube and gradually entered more and more fingers. The stretching, which initially felt pleasurable, gave way to an intensely sharp pain. It felt like having my hymen broken all over again! He managed to make it as far as his knuckles - the pain was too much, and he could see that.

"It is hurting you - I will stop. Don't worry. Just tell me." We stopped! He was calm.

I finished by letting him cum inside my mouth. He had a rule about not having sex. I wondered if actual sexual intercourse felt too much like he was being unfaithful? My clients sometimes came up with bizarre rules like that.

Our last hour was up. He handed me the money in a little neat envelope. He counted out the exact amount to prove his transparency - he didn't have to. I liked and trusted him anyway.

We said our goodbyes. After the session, I felt conflicted. I should feel used and disgusted because I am not meant to be turned on by an old man using my body as a prop for his kink. I should feel degraded by allowing him to indulge in his fetish.

Yet the truth is, it didn't feel like that internally. Not even close. I had enjoyed it immensely - so much so I spent several weeks reliving it. I wasn't just a prop for his kink. He cared that I was enjoying myself; he often let me lead. Even though he was paying, I felt I could opt out at any time - we were equal participants in this game throughout.

I couldn't tell anyone I had thoroughly enjoyed myself. I wondered: When I feel dirty or ashamed, to what extent is it real, or is it about what I feel I have or have not got permission to enjoy? What seemed to actually matter was how the person made me feel. He made me feel free to explore my fantasies as well as his.

What other lies had I consumed regarding what I was meant to feel ashamed of versus aroused by? My own body, my fantasies, and how I was meant to feel were not aligned.

I decided to keep this encounter to myself. Until now....

He texted me one evening: 'Are you coming?' I told him: 'No, I have a headache.' He said: 'Come on baby. See you in an hour.'

I felt bad. We had met once before. He was from my village. He worked at the local Kurdish barbers. He had stopped me in the street when I was with my daughter to give me his number. I couldn't believe a young, good-looking man would want some irrelevant mother like me. I was flattered - too flattered. We had had sex. Yet something about him made me reluctant to meet him again. There was an aggression. A feeling that I wasn't safe with this man.

He had hardly talked the entire time we met. Did he just have nothing to say? Or was talking too feminine for him? I couldn't engage with him intellectually at all. It was impossible. I found myself indulging in a tedious monologue. Even when I asked him questions he wouldn't respond. Was I dull? Was he dumb, or just performing? Hell knows!

I felt bad. I had cancelled meeting him five times, so I agreed to meet him I couldn't be so mean as to cancel again. Maybe the sex would be good, and maybe he would open up?!

My heart sank - I didn't feel comfortable with this, but I told myself I might have a 'great' time. I got into a taxi to go to his place.

I arrived at his house. He lived on the bottom floor of a six-bedroom house. I felt extremely nervous. The way he had demanded that I meet him told me that my feelings were irrelevant, yet I ignored it. I didn't want to let him down again. God forbid he might feel bad about his bloody self!

I entered his bedroom complete with a sofa, kitchen and bed. Five lines of white powder were on the table. Shit! He was high. I sat next to him. He snorted the first line. His hair was non-existent, due to a hair transplant he'd had in Turkey.

This time he talked. He talked a lot.

'I had a rich family in Iraq. I had to leave because I was selling alcohol across the border to Iran.' Excellent - he takes these kinds of risks! What does he think I like? A bad boy? He just sounds stupid! I kept quiet, noticing his muscles and his aggression. Be civil and polite. He could really harm you. I believed he would if I didn't toe the line. I still think I was correct.

He took his second line of cocaine, boasting about his family's wealth and how he was always in trouble. Who does he think I am? Why does he think this would impress me? Yet for all my internal judgement of his character, I was utterly terrified. I just wanted to leave. He frightened me. He terrified me!

He asked me: 'Take off your clothes.' I needed the toilet, and I didn't want to. I wanted to get out as quickly as possible. I didn't trust this man.

I grabbed my bag, planning to make an escape for the door as soon as I was out of the bedroom. He stopped me and said: 'You can use the toilet, but you are not to take your belongings.'

Shit! He was holding me hostage. He knew he knew I wanted to escape. Look at the size of him. I was no match. Just comply and be nice. You will escape this situation.

I left my bag and headed for the toilet. A wonderful moment of freedom. Yet I knew I had to return to him to grab my belongings.

I returned. He was pissing into an empty bottle. He didn't seem to care. How far gone was he?!

'My headache is really bad. I must leave,' I said.

'No - you are not going anywhere. I love you baby. You love me?' No - I hated every single inch of him.

I felt I had to tell him I loved him so he wouldn't harm me. Let me be more specific - so he wouldn't hit me. I still think my judgement here was correct

'Take off your clothes - now,' he demanded. I did. I couldn't not. I knew that if I said no to any of his demands he might and probably would harm me. His eyes were bloodshot; he had snorted at least three lines of coke. He could overpower me in a millisecond. I had to be compliant.

I stood naked in front of him. My mind was racing:

-Will he kill me?

-Will I be held hostage?

-What is he going to do?

I looked up at him and smiled. I didn't smile because I felt any warmth. I smiled because I wanted to appease him. I wanted him to see some humanity in me. It was in vain.

'Spread your legs and lie down on my bed.' I did as he asked. Far too scared to do anything else.

He forced himself on top of me, holding my arms down. I hoped the session would end quickly. It didn't.

He stared at me - directly into my eyes whilst inside me.

'Tell me - do you love me?' he asked as he spat into my face. I wanted to slap his stupid face. I had to say 'yes.' I knew I did, because I had zero power in this situation.

'I will kill your daughter's father - you understand?'

'No, he is a nice man,' I said. He held my face.

'Shut up. Next time I will fuck your arse - you understand?'

I suggested at this point that we have sex from behind. I didn't want his hands near my neck.

Forty minutes in, with his spit all over my face, he eventually came. Thank God I was free! He relaxed, and so did I. He hadn't harmed me. Only scared me.A lot.

I needed the toilet again. This time I couldn't open his bedroom door. Shit! I was stuck. I couldn't escape. He laughed.

'Oh, you cannot get out. You will have to live with me.' I was too scared to cry. I just wanted to ask him to let me go. I couldn't. He would hurt me. I knew that.

He snorted another line of cocaine and kept my bag. I wasn't allowed to take anything except my dress to the toilet.

I returned for another forty-minute session of being spat at and forced to tell him I loved him. I really thought in those moments he would kill me. I really believed that.

After the last session we sat. I stayed very calm. I felt that being normal and calm would de-escalate the situation. He told me the following:

'When I left Iraq I had two houses in Birmingham. One my normal house, and one where I kept my class A drugs.'

What? Was I meant to congratulate him? Be impressed? He had some sort of anti-social personality disorder. Great. I was with an absolute psychopath! I had to smile and act like this was no big deal, because I had no power here.

It was 1am. He started to pass out. It was my opportunity to escape. I put on my clothes, grabbed my bag and just about managed to open his bedroom door. As I walked towards the front door I felt a terror I have never felt in my life. I was escaping a man who didn't want me to leave and didn't respect me. Would he harm me if he knew? I didn't even look over my shoulder - I wanted out as quickly as possible.

I entered the street. I have never felt such joy. The freedom. I was alive, unharmed, and he wasn't even behind me. I ran - I ran down his road as fast as I could. I knew I would grab the first taxi that passed me. I did exactly that. I wanted to kiss the trees, the plants, anyone passing - I was okay. Wow! I got out.

I arrived home. I looked at myself in the mirror. Was I traumatised? A bit. I felt so lucky to be there. To be okay. For the next six weeks I had calls from unknown numbers. I knew it was him. I blocked them all.

I have never shared this experience with anyone until now. It taught me one important lesson: trust your gut instinct. If he feels dangerous, he probably is. I wish I had listened.

Photo from my time escorting- in my 20s!

Was I contributing to the oppression of women by escorting?

This question haunted me throughout my time as an escort. I was in a constant state of mental gymnastics about what I was doing. The thought process was as follows:

I like sex and I need money. One is in my interest, the other circumstantial.

I enjoyed some of my experiences with clients. I really did. They sometimes made me feel sexy and desired. I also had a genuinely great connection as a person with some clients. To be clear - some I cared about as friends. Yet sometimes I felt dirty and ashamed. Was that shame intrinsic or due to the stigma? I now suspect a combination of the two.

I was aware that there were women who really had no other option, or at worst were trafficked. I did it for several months between jobs. I needed the money. I still had the freedom to choose my clients. I turned down so many - for example the man who wanted to fuck me bareback and snort cocaine off my arse. What if I couldn't have afforded to turn him down? Would I be traumatised without the freedom to turn the worst men down? I suspect so.

Am I legitimising the exploitation of women through my participation in this work? This was a real moral and emotional dilemma for me. I was fully aware that there were women doing this who had no other option, or had been forced to. For me, I was not an extreme case. I was in a relatively privileged position. I knew that. I had enough money to avoid accepting any request. Yet I couldn't shift the knowledge that some women didn't have this freedom. Don't ever glamorise this, I thought. I am in the best situation you can be in in this industry.

I can still ask my family for money if I need it, and I don't have to accept every client. Don't glamorise, because the truth is I had a level of autonomy that many don't. If I didn't have a supportive family, or really had no options, I would be in a far more vulnerable position. So the vulnerability exists on a spectrum - from total exploitation and human trafficking to people who choose to do it because they genuinely enjoy sex and connection. It isn't black and white. I was somewhere in between these extremes.

I could enjoy sex with men I wouldn't ever have sex with otherwise. Was this because I had emotionally detached? Or because I actually enjoyed sex? I concluded it was both. I enjoyed them desiring me, and even if I wasn't attracted to them I felt I was providing them with an enriching experience. Yet is that just emotional detachment? All I can say is I don't feel traumatised. Again, I avoided serious trauma due to my relatively privileged position, which meant I could afford to turn down clients I had a bad feeling about. I was also lucky.

I recall listening to debates around sex work at the time. Feminists were debating the Nordic Model, which meant criminalising the buyers but not the sellers. They discussed horrendous experiences of women in brothels. Women being treated like pieces of meat; lined up, evaluated and disrespected. I had the following thoughts:

Is this about legalisation or poor law enforcement? So no real checks on the practices in these brothels. Can you even outlaw brothels?

One concern I had with the Nordic Model was that the men left in the market would be more dangerous. Why? Because they would be willing to break the law. The men I met were often highly educated and respectful. I worry that under this model, the men who remained would be the most dangerous, essentially those comfortable with breaking the law.

I don't see any easy answers to this issue, except a hybrid model which doesn't benefit pimps or allow exploitative brothels. If there is more legalisation, then to protect sex workers the rules must be enforced. I am not convinced they always are.

I still struggle to reconcile what I did. To accept it. I still debate it endlessly in my head. I don't have trauma - I'm lucky,

and I enjoyed aspects of the work. I know I was lucky. I was very lucky!

I recall it well. I was 22. I was on a beach in southern France. I was wearing a bikini; my tummy was tiny back then, my waist slender and my hips huge. I felt so sexy. I was on a nudist beach.

The sun beamed down upon my body and the French boys flirted. 'Très belle,' they said. It was refreshing. So unlike the men at home in England. They flirted with charm, passion and integrity. I didn't care whether or not they were sincere; what mattered was how they made me feel. They made me feel desired. I loved them for it. I still do.

I observed older ladies, nude. I looked at my pink and perky breasts and at the men. Maybe I can show them my breasts? I might even enjoy it!

If they enjoy looking then I would enjoy showing them.

I wanted to show them my body. I wanted them to desire me. Every inch without apology. I felt guilty. I shouldn't want their gaze. I should feel ashamed of it. I didn't! I wanted to feel their passion and their desire.

I took off my top and exposed my breasts. I could see and feel their eyes fixated on my nipples. It felt like they were making love to me with their eyes. I didn't hide. I sat up showing myself, devouring their gaze. Enjoying their lust. Yet I felt bad. I need to pretend I don't enjoy the gaze; it makes me less respectable. The truth is I did. I wanted their eyes on me.

My friend went for a swim. It was getting cold. The gaze is addictive once you feel it. I really felt it. I removed my bikini bottoms. I could see their faces light up with excitement and novelty as I exposed my vagina. Of course nothing was novel to me; I saw it every day. I loved the effect I had on them. I knew I was safe. There were so many people about; they couldn't touch me, but they could look. I wanted them to look.

Look they did. I bent over my towel to expose my vulva; I knew this would drive them crazy. It did! I enjoyed it. Do they want to impale me with their sex? I hoped so!

I felt bad; I shouldn't enjoy this! In that moment I felt in charge of the gaze. I owned it and I enjoyed it.

After my friend and I had dressed I realised that moment on the beach had changed me. On the one hand I felt disgusted with myself. Why do you enjoy men looking at you?! On the other it had awakened a truth and desire within me; I loved these men enjoying me. Is enjoying being desired disrespecting yourself? I say no!

I'm in Sarajevo. On a bus; the bus is jolting from side to side. The driver seems drunk, his eyes bloodshot. He keeps shouting at other drivers. Why is no one reacting?! Everyone seems calm, except the neurotic English woman.

I feel nauseous and nervous. I'm 6 months pregnant. I'm managing to distract myself from my worries about suddenly going into labour, or having complications, through my online interactions with an older man.

He describes himself as a 'dom'. He is 53 and an ex-headmaster of a school.

I am unsure: why do I want to get into this dynamic? Do I fancy him? Then again there is something appealing about an older man being in charge of the entire interaction. I feel a total lack of control, and yet conversely safe and reassured.

What did he want?

We had initially agreed that he was going to spank me over his knee. Our imaginations had drifted to a more explicit encounter. Maybe because I felt comfortable with him I didn't worry about being judged for my desires. I felt safe in the knowledge I was respected. I didn't hold back!

'Would you like to try a role play?' he asked.

'I will give you a full medical. How about using a speculum?'

I stood reading his messages on my hotel balcony. The call to prayer echoed throughout the city; the summer heat engulfed my body. I felt faint. My mind drifted back to worrying about my pregnancy, and feeling unsafe in a city I wasn't familiar with. Why did I go on holiday when 6 months pregnant??

As I lay on the bed looking down at my swollen breasts and stomach I felt a pang of guilt: 'You shouldn't be thinking about your sexual fantasies, you are a mother.' It was a strange thought to have, yet acknowledging myself as still a sexual person somehow conflicted with my concept of being a mother, as though I should become desexualised by default, or repress it! Why can't you just be normal? I asked myself.

Yet I'm not good at repression! I tried to take a photo of my vagina in the bathroom to excite him. It was swollen, like my feet, like my tummy and breasts. Mission aborted! He would have to wait. God, I felt so unsexy. Ok, take a photo of your swollen breasts. The rest is to stay hidden and private. If I cannot look at them, neither can any man!

Thankfully it was time to go into Baščaršija with my friend for some Bosnian food. A nice distraction from my ridiculous thoughts.

We were to meet 5 months after I gave birth.

Something felt different with this man. I had engaged in casual BDSM with younger men; often they pushed my boundaries, or I felt unsafe. This time it felt different. I couldn't pass up on this opportunity. I relished the chance to fulfil my fantasies. I wanted him to surprise me too. I didn't want to be in charge. I just wanted to feel I could trust him.

5 months had passed. The baby was now in nursery. Our communication had become sporadic. Unsure of where I stood, I messaged:

Still want to meet?'

He replied:

'Of course, Thursday?'

Perfect! I had a free house. This was a welcome break. I had all but lost my sex drive for several months after giving birth to my daughter.

Each day had felt like a repetition of the previous one, with varying degrees of exhaustion thrown in. My body didn't belong to me, I felt. Hours were spent attached to a breast pump. The sheer anxiety and stress of trying to ensure I fed my daughter adequately. The erratic post birth periods, the painful scar from my second c-section, a reminder of what my body had undergone and become. I wanted this interaction to force me back into a role I had almost forgotten: a desirable woman. Maybe even a bit of a whore.

Thursday came. I was nervous. Would he be the same in person? Would I be repulsed? At him, or maybe even myself?

I let him in via a side gate. Eager to ensure this older man entering my house wouldn't be observed by the neighbours, in particular the curtain twitcher across the road. A lady who seemed to know exactly what times I entered and left the house each day.

The doorbell rang. Being British I had made us a pot of tea, which somehow clashed with the explicit nature of what he was coming for.

He stood in the doorway, an eccentric man, floppy white hair and thick oversized glasses. He held a little Tesco bag in his hand. I assumed his implements for our session were waiting inside.

'Would you like some tea?'

He stammered: 'Yes, yes, yes please.' I could envisage him when younger, an awkward, bumbling academic. I wondered how he became a dom? He had clearly engaged in this dynamic before.

'So how did you get into this?' I asked him.

'Well when I umm was younger I used to see how far I could push it. Mainly spanking women, and the women I spanked enjoyed it so much they came back for more.'

I couldn't imagine. He looked like the kind of man I would assume is more interested in analysing train timetables than spanking women's bottoms.

I felt so dull in comparison. My experiences were not so smooth. I didn't have the confidence he had, nor was I fully comfortable with pursuing all my fantasies with such ease. It was reassuring to know other women enjoyed this too. Maybe I wasn't so odd?!

He became very animated whilst recounting his stories, his tea dripping onto my carpet. I smile to myself; I could imagine him giving an enthusiastic lecture, hands and arms darting around erratically. Nothing about his words were erratic though. I immersed myself in his story. Funny to think of the double lives we lead, or maybe that was just me?!

I felt it best if we terminated the polite British tea drinking chit chat, as my carpet was now sodden with tea. I was keen to let the session commence; nervous and unsure of whether I was ready for such an experience.

His tone changed, the stammer subdued:

'Put your hands on your head,' he asked, calm and controlled.

He ran his hands over my breasts, squeezing the right breast whilst slapping the left.

'Did you ever get in trouble at school? If I was in charge of you, you wouldn't just get a spanking for your poor behaviour. I would need to ensure you were behaving with boys by doing an internal.'

I was feeling conflicted at this moment: I wanted this experience, yet I felt I wasn't supposed to. As the shame heightened, so too did the arousal.

He removes my knickers. As I stand with my hands on my head he whispers in my ear: 'Let's see if you have been behaving yourself. Spread your legs.' I feel him opening my lips; 3 fingers entered me. I feel a genuine flush of embarrassment. His fingers rotating side to side inside me, occasionally hitting my cervix.

'You've been a bit of a slut, haven't you?'

I nod! There is no hesitation with this man when he is in his role. He radiates a calm dominance; the serenity of his composure makes me feel I can give him absolute control over my body.

'Right young lady, take off this dress. I want you bent over the chair. You are going to spread your vagina for me. Do you understand?!'

I stand fully nude in front of him. I wonder what he thinks of my body? I haven't shown anyone since I gave birth. Does he notice the scar? The wobbly tummy? Maybe he is just focused on my breasts? I hope so!

I bend over the chair and reach back. This feels so exposing, and yet intoxicating. The psychological dimension even more powerful than the acts. Total submission to a relative stranger.

He enters 4 fingers into my vagina and two in my arse.

'You're wet, and you haven't been behaving, have you? Are you ready for your punishment? Do you want my belt, hand, or the ruler?'

I choose his hand. The first smack and I yelp: 'Too much.' He holds my lower torso and makes me count the whacks. My guilt has gone. I am absorbed in the moment. He alternates between the punishment and the inspection.

I count the whacks.

He pauses.

'I think we have to extend your inspection, as you clearly cannot behave. Be a good girl and fetch the speculum.'

I do as he demands. His controlled but calm demeanour enables me to put aside any doubts or nerves.

He requests I lie back with my legs held in the air.

For me the exposure and transgression fuse to create a heightened state of arousal.

I feel the cold speculum stretching me. I gasp; the stretching exposing me completely, to him and to the cold air. It hurts. I hope he knows what he is doing! His face is between my legs. My face is flushed.

He tuts.

'You really haven't been behaving, have you? You're swollen down here.'

'Beautiful cervix though.'

He releases the speculum. There are spots of blood on his fingers. Not profuse bleeding, but enough that we need to break.

I look at myself in my bathroom mirror as I clean the small drops of blood. My bottom is red, as are my breasts from my punishment. Now the encounter has passed I don't know whether that was the best sexual experience of my life, or the most shameful? I still don't know.

We finish our now cold tea. The conversation moves onto our shared interest in history. There is no guilt within him. Where does that ease come from?

I see him out and get ready to collect the baby from nursery. To the world I am now just a normal mother again.

To me my identity is fractured. I am a mother, but I just did something I thought I was incapable of seeing through, something I assumed would just stay in the realms of fantasy, until it didn't.

Thank God no one knows! The curtain twitcher smiles at me as I walk past her like normal. I'm ok. I am viewed the same as before by the rest of society. My daughter stares into my eyes and coos. I haven't changed in her eyes either.

Do I feel like the same person myself? I alternate between feeling proud I took a risk and fulfilled a fantasy, and yet I feel shame. Still unresolved of course. I guess that is just the messy emotional reality of our sex lives.

I was looking over nudes of myself in my 20s earlier this week. Partly wishing to go back to that time-the tiny waist and perky breasts. I was left pondering on what that body represented to me then and now.

At the time I took my body for granted- blissfully unaware how pregnancy and ageing would change it. I enjoyed showing my body to men. I had no hesitation taking my clothes off during sex. I was rewarded for it too. Men would often remark: "incredible figure" or "great hips". It was a source of pride and confidence - even power.

At the same time I used that body for short term gratification. Often casual sex. There were chapters of my life when I felt frustrated. My mind told me: "use this body to invest in a long term partner". My body disagreed - I wanted the experience of being intimate with lots of men. I loved the unpredictability of who I would meet. I most of all had an insatiable curiosity, as well as an arguably insatiable sexual appetite.

I look back now at this body and feel:

Gratitude for those experiences. I don't, surprisingly, feel any regret. I feel it gave me an extraordinary wealth of sexual experiences, stories and connections I wouldn't have had otherwise. Many of those personal connections have remained years later. I was recently invited to the wedding of one of my first hookups.

Sex was really about connection as much as pleasure.

I do also feel some grief. I look back and miss that body in its best form. The pleasure it gave me, and the social status. At the time I took it for granted. Now I see it as a privilege. A fleeting one.

Rather than indulging in grief, I try to reframe it as appreciating that the body I had in my 20s enriched my life. It was fleeting but still valuable.

I can finally smile when looking back at these photos.