None of these came close.

I lay in bed, replaying it over and over in my head, dying a little more inside each time. Fraser had dropped me home without saying much, apart from an occasional, agonised ‘Fuck’. I hadn’t said much, apart from an occasional ‘Fuck’ in reply. His mum had said nothing at all, just walked very slowly back into the house, shutting the door carefully behind her. I’d heard the key turn in the lock, like the neck of a bird being broken very precisely.

Very very very sorry x

I typed it four times, and deleted every one.

Hot sex

On my bed, laptop open. No more googling the bad stuff.

Hot sex threesome

Laying low seemed like the best course of action. I finally helped Lottie with her website and watched the rolling news with Tyger as a pillow – suddenly finding East European civil unrest and the stock market incredibly interesting while I chewed my nails to obliteration. My phone kept shtum. Another friend lost, in record time. I was such a dick.

Hot sex threesome boy girl girl

Boy boy girl

The videos were always the same. Dead-eyed girls seeming unfazed by alarmingly cocked, hairless men. This one was at a swimming pool – hopefully one with a lot of chlorine. And the girl pretended to love every skin-slapping minute of it and made sounds like the presenters did on Great British Bake Off when they tasted gossamery cream cheese icing on a courgette and lime cake.

Still, it got me off.

Lottie knew I was down, though with the saintly conviction that I was stuck on my work – I carried round a pen indented with teeth marks as a handy prop – rather than because I’d been caught in a scenario that you’d get berated by Jeremy Kyle for, in addition to being a potential tourist-killer.

She put a hand on my forehead and I tipped the pen in my mouth up at her like it was a thermometer under my tongue. ‘Come to the bar. Let’s have roasts. I’m buying.’ She always bought.

Oh God, who cared. If I was down south, I’d march up to Stef’s door and fucking make him talk to me. If Fraser was at the hotel, then he could punch me in the face or whatever he needed to do, and I could feel very noble and bruised and martyr-like while eating crunchy brussels and salty gravy, holding my chin very high. It was nothing.

I rolled off the sofa.

Fraser was rubbing the rim of a glass with a tea towel when we came in. He rubbed it more intently when he saw me.

I put my palms flat on the bar. ‘Hello.’

There must have been a lot of lipstick on that glass. ‘Hiya.’

‘How are you?’

He didn’t look up. ‘I’m all right.’

Great. I’d ruined everything. Back to a possible fuck-count of zero and nothing more to do than research epilepsy comas and shred my arms with stones. ‘How’s … your mum?’