I lied. I knew he'd come round on valentine's day. The casually keen text sent late on sunday evening from the Ex-Boyfriend. The one I loved, the one I felt so safe in his arms, the one who finally silenced the hatred and let me finally get undressed without shuddering and numbing myself with alcohol first. So I dumped him. It's only now I can see the cruelty. My casual invitation to drop round (only after my legs were shaved and my silkiest lace was on), followed by the banal chat at 1am. The casual suggestion he stay the night as it was so late and he seemed so tired. Oh where are my pajamas? Oh well nothing you haven't seen before...

I miss you, he says, forlornly. I kiss him.

And then we have the best sex of my entire life. The sort of sex they write about in cosmo with the bland promise that if only you communicate with your partner and buy the right lingerie you too will have mind-blowing simultaneous orgasms. Lies. All you need is one emotionally raw dumpee and a lover with voracious desire to prove you're still alive, desperate for bruised bones and you have an unbeatable recipe for the sort of sex that leaves your body shuddering in waves of ectasy and exhaustion, heightened by a sense of emotional betrayal and the imminent danger of heart-break. Oh well... I think he enjoyed it too.