I’ve written before about why I write, in the sense of what motivates me to hit the keys, and why I chose erotica over, say, horror.

I haven’t written about why I write about the boy.

I’m not sure what he thinks my motivation is. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m driven by fairly honourable intentions, because more than once he’s asked ‘Why can’t you just keep a diary?’

Why can’t I just keep a diary?

OK, so my motivations aren’t all honourable. Firstly, there’s a sense of ‘anything you can do, I can do too,’ and secondly, there’s my ego. No one’s going to comment on or retweet something that lives in the drawer of my bedside table. There’s the fact that I did, yes, start it with a bit of fury – when I set it up we were, as Ross Geller would put it, on a break – and then there’s the fact that I’ve tried keeping diaries before and my motivation has dried up pretty quick. I’m driven by all those things.

But I’m driven too by something deeper, something much more sentimental. I’m a magpie when it comes to boys – I hoard mementos like crazy, regardless of whether the guy they relate to was a fleeting crush or a longer-term project. I keep cards, photos, books, silly gifts…

I don’t have any of that with him.

I’m constantly braced for the end of our arrangement, to the point where I often try and bring that ending about myself, just so I can stop worrying about it. But when it does end, I want to remember the good bits. I want to remember that before him, I wouldn’t have contemplated making the first move, being on top, letting a guy go down on me …

Real affection for someone you’re just sleeping with isn’t really socially acceptable. Society, after all, teaches women to split guys into two categories: the ones who want to fuck you, and the ones who want to be with you. I think, I hope, it’s a little more nuanced than that in reality.

So his legacy won’t be a stack of silly gifts, it’ll be a level of body confidence I didn’t think I’d ever have, and a blog’s worth of memories. I’m probably not supposed to admit that I’m that sentimental, but I couldn’t give a damn. I’m glad I wrote it all down.