Lots of talk about policy/rules/guidelines for life/dating going on around Twitter this week. Like most girls, I have a few policies of my own. Never trust a guy who doesn’t like garlic. Wine is not a treat; it’s the drink that goes with dinner (hmm, these are all to do with food). A hot bath with Radox solves a lot of life’s problems. And finally, kind of linked to that, if you’re spending the evening with a guy, you need some time to get ready.

I have been known to turn down the chance to spend the evening with someone because I couldn’t see how I’d have time to go home, shower and change before heading to his. I like to know in advance how an evening is going to pan out. I rarely go off-diary, and I’m as susceptible as the next girl to the belief that you need to shave your legs before sex, although you wouldn’t necessarily know it – I recently found a hair of ridiculous length growing out of the back of my ankle. Clearly, you can have a policy and still implement it in an arse-about-tit way.

Anyway, focus. Sex blog, remember? My point is that when I started thinking about this, I remembered that one of the hottest evenings I’ve had with the boy went completely against this policy.

He’d been texting me on and off throughout the evening. He was roughly in the vicinity, but otherwise engaged. The texts were not racy – if I remember rightly he asked what I was doing with my evening and I told him I was planning to have dinner and then an early night.

A few more messages were exchanged, and then there was a knock on the door.

I knew it would be him – no one ever knocks on your door out of the blue when you live in a rented flat.

‘Did you bring dessert?’ I asked.

‘Depends what you call dessert,’ he replied, pushing me up against the wall, mouth on mine, hands already on his belt.

We kissed like that, hard and fierce, for a while, sending the stuff on the coat rack tumbling to the floor, and then I knelt in the pile of coats and sucked his cock, his hands in my hair and his trousers around his ankles.

Eventually, he drew back, pulled me to my feet and dragged me into the living room, bending me over the arm of the sofa, and yanking my tights and knickers down. The curtains were open, only the net blinds hiding us from the street, and the TV was still on. I braced myself against the cushions and he thrust hard, maintaining the angle with a firm hand on my lower back.

When we were done, he kissed me one last time, and let himself out. I righted my underwear, curled back up on the sofa and finished my wine, soaked and dishevelled, but only too happy to be so.