#thames link

Like I said, you’re gorgeous. My favourite kind of gorgeous. Filthy gorgeous.

He’s a creep, he’s a sleaze, he’s a perv. He’s my kind of guy.

I sing the praise of the sleazy man.

He’ll speak fluent innuendo. He’ll sit too close to you on the bus. He’ll walk behind you in the park, watching the sway of your backside. In the ultraviolet light of the disco, he’ll try to get a hand up your skirt.

I am conscious of the midday sun scorching down. If Shaun is an Englishman, does that make me a mad dog?

Shaun has proved to have the very best kind of dirty mind – an endlessly inventive one – and he has led me down some very peculiar paths indeed since that tree-lined one at the side of the church.

I know, I sound insane. Who on earth likes men like this? I suppose it’s his honesty that appeals to me. No “I really like you as a person”. No discussion of mutually admired bands and comedians. No number swaps or long waits for the phone to beep. Better than the man who moves in with you before revealing his wardrobe of skintight latex. Better than the man that waits until you have his ring on your finger before asking you if you fancy a pint down the swingers’ club. This is a man who wears his cock on his sleeve, and quite rightly so.

There aren’t enough sluts in the world,” says Shaun wistfully.