But in the end, it wasn't Will Turner who would be my last in this city. It was none other than TA.

And I actually rather liked it, I think.

Lying in bed with Will Turner after making the beast for the second time, I was stroking his hair as his hands drifted over my body. I felt better than the morning before, even though there were still bloodstains that needed to be hidden, because things had gone much better the third time round.

'I wish I could have met you earlier,' I whispered. He nodded. Then we would have had more time together.

But then, perhaps things would be different - as I said to RM, perhaps I'd become neurotic about whether our relationship had just become based on sex alone, as so many of my relationships often are, or dreading having to meet his friends and engage in existentialist discussion. Non, merci.

It's these nights and mornings in bed that I hold out for.

And I do like to play with fire. The excitement: unmatchable. It is only when something catches alight and the flames grow out of control that I leave the scene, and someone else has to clear the debris.

Message received from Will Turner at Metropolis, 23:47:

About to go to sleep. My bed is a lot less welcoming without your sexy body in it. x

My reply - time unknown.

Oh shame, I thought you were coming out? All the while I was away, I kept thinking back to that night and checking my bite marks. x

*Edit:
And then his message the next evening:

I wish I had. I would have loved to have given you more bite marks, especially in that particular place. x

So, not so shy anymore, perhaps...

Fuck, I feel stressed. It almost makes me want to take up smoking again.

In one of Sex and the City's episodes, Carrie says something along the lines of 'A girl will always remember the first time she has sex; the first time she has good sex...' - and I don't remember the rest.

But I think last night was it, with Will Turner. Good sex, I mean. Or at least, the best I've had so far. Sure, it took a while to actually get to - he went on and on about postmodernism to the extent that I came very close to whacking him about the head with an art house cinema DVD, but I finally grabbed the bull by the horns and we ended up getting very heated on the couch.

Things started off slow and slightly awkwardly, and I remember thinking, 'Oh brilliant, he's so shy that he's probably going to stop after he's undone my top button,' but suddenly my bra was on the floor and we were heading upstairs.

After shooing the cat off the bed, he quickly finished making the bed while I casually examined his CD collection, then stroked my arm and murmured, 'Now didn't I leave you more undressed than you are now?' And woah.

I quickly discovered that we have very similar preferences in terms of where we like to be touched - ears and neck. Only Boy #2 has ever gone for the ear thing, but he was never so responsive as Will Turner. Even stroking his ears and running my fingers along his neck - never mind touching below the waistline - was enough to seriously distract him from any discussion of surrealist sculpture. 'So it's the ears and neck that do it for you, then?' I whispered. 'Would you not agree?' he asked. 'Yes,' I replied, 'Oh, yes.'

The way he touched me was marvellous too - happy to go down on me for ages and ages, although disconcertingly, very into his 69s. And he'd do those little kisses along the length of my arms, on the base of my wrists where my pulse beat, on the skin of my thighs, all those touches that I realised I've taught myself not to expect from boys anymore.

There was that moment where I asked him if he had protection and he looked at me apologetically, and said, 'Ah... I don't think so. It's just that I haven't had a girlfriend in a long time.' Which implies that he either sleeps around without protection (sound familiar, Boy #3?) or is fairly discerning about who he gets with. Hard to guess these things, I suppose. Anyhow, I had slipped one in my purse just in case, so we were alright.

Possibly the most surprising moment was when I was waiting for him to just jump in there like most boys have done in the past, usually with minimal concern for my own comfort or pleasure, but he continued to touch me. When I pressed him to go, he told me gently, 'No, no, you can't rush these things.' Oh my God - a man who finally 'takes his time and does everything right', as Salt 'n' Pepa would say. Hallelujah.

When he did, it was pretty good. The only thing stopping me enjoying myself was myself, really, but nothing I can help at the moment. Size wise, near perfect - not too massive, not microscopically small. Even when I started crying, as I often do, he proved himself to be the only boy who has ever asked me - with genuine concern, too - 'I'm not hurting you, am I?'

Amazing night. Amazing. I can't stop feeling like I want to tell every single person (parents and relatives excluded, of course) just how fucking fantastic we are in bed together. Perhaps it will wear off - I hope not - but for now, I'm beaming.


N.B. After quite a lot of searching, I finally found the specific SATC quote: 'In a single gal's life, there are three important firsts. The first time you have sex; the first time you have good sex; and the first time you see a guy-you-just-started-dating's apartment.' (Carrie, The Perfect Present) I personally don't know about the third 'first time' being that important at all, but then again, apart from Boy #2's apartment - or rather, his parents' apartment, but it was still so unbelievably amazing that when we broke up, I was more upset about not being able to go back than the death of the relationship - it has mainly been a rented student room.

Funny how a day can pivot on its axis and do a complete turnaround. I was feeling so down in the early afternoon that I was listening to Billie Holiday and weeping a bit. It was grey and dreary, and it seemed that summer was well and truly gone.

Then I started watching the French Open, and was trying to stop hyperventilating when I suddenly noticed that TA - of all people! - had tried to Facebook chat with me fifteen minutes ago. So, I picked up the thread, and we had a decent conversation, albeit a fairly distracted one:

TA
what u doing over summer?

Cherry

going back home

it's the end of my course now, so i'm moving out of the UK

TA

when u going?

Cherry

very soon :(

TA

gotta make sure i see u before u go

Oh, TA. I swore I wouldn't. I was thinking of texting you goodbye, but even that seemed like a bad idea. I don't know if you know how much I love you. I reckon you certainly have no idea that knowing you has enabled me to write two of my most important pieces of writing. And no boy has ever given me that same thrill, that rush that I felt when our eyes met the second time round. I count myself lucky to have been able to experience that.

And I promised myself the third time would be the last time. But if you want it, I think I do too. Sleeping with Boy #20 means nothing in this light. But with you, it can never be so easily dismissed.

And Will Turner has invited me round to dinner again tonight. Time to primp, I suppose.

Today (or rather, looking at the time, yesterday), I did two things I never thought I'd do.

The first was at a pole class, where I rather half-heartedly attempted to do a Shoulder Mount - not thinking that there was much point as I have never really managed to get it - and actually did it! It was a really weird moment where I felt completely out of control of my own body, but in a good way - as in, 'You mean I can do that?!?' Such an exhilarating feeling, to realise my body is more powerful than I thought it was. Capable of almost infinite possibilities. And yet limited - as I shall proceed to explain.

Because the second unbelievable thing I did was to fuck on the first date. Oh yes. Remember Boy #20? After a hell of a lot of fussing about, during which I thought he'd basically unloaded a heap of bullshit about re-enacting the lake scene of The Notebook - actually, in retrospect, I really should have seen that one coming, but I was plastered when I met him - we finally managed to meet up for a drink.

By a drink, I mean two double gin and cranberrys on an empty stomach, and apparently that is all it takes to get me into bed. One minute, we were making jokes about skinny dipping and I was laughing coyly when he said, 'Ah, you've got all night. So have I. Perhaps we'll sleep together?', and then we really were.

But... I just couldn't enjoy it somehow. Yes, he was good looking, tall, strong, could carry me and fuck me at the same time, but it didn't work for me. Because the lights were out, I could sob and sob silently, and the tears kept coming, and I just kept wondering when he'd finish. I think I might have hated it.

I liked him better once he'd finished and the light was on. I saw he had a tattoo of a dragon on his left shoulder - a sign? Although, perhaps, whether it was a good sign or not is certainly debatable. I told him he didn't have to feel obligated to call me. A stupid thing to say, but I was tired - tired from the day, from the fucking, from the goodbyes, from not knowing what I'm doing with myself, and from those boys who say they will but never do.

Once he left, I thought - TA is not the last boy to have fucked me now. And then, the moment that nearly made me cry again: Will Turner texts, 'Hey, what are you up to? x'