India is twenty-three and she’s been telling the same story for five years now.

The story goes like this – she might be sensible and settled now, but she hasn’t always been, don’t you know – once upon a time India was on her gap yah and during that year she met a man, and that man taught her everything she knows about sex. When she talks about him, she varies the focus – sometimes it’s his rippling abs she mentions, other times his piercing green eyes, occasionally the fact that my god, the guy was hung. The amount of details she gives might vary according to how much wine she’s drunk, but regardless, she never, ever mentions his name.

After these evenings of drinks with the girls, India goes home to her boyfriend who fucks her – missionary position, obviously – as he does twice a week, three if his libido is demanding more attention than the consultancy projects he gets paid a small fortune to work on. India doesn’t come. Nothing unusual about that, either.

After, he gets in the shower. And that’s when India comes.

She comes to the thought of the man she talks about. The man she met in Thailand, who did have, sure, rippling abs, because he spent more time in the gym than he did studying for his A-levels, who did have nice green eyes, although piercing might be over-stating it, and who, yes, had a nicely proportioned dick.

She comes to the thought of the thing he taught her that she’s never had the chance to try again since: he taught her that sometimes it might be fun if she went on top.