That time I paid for sex

It's amazing the lengths some of us will go to for a shag. Just probably not quite this far.

One Wednesday night I found myself at the Queen Victoria Night Markets with a new friend I'd made at a bar the week before. Well, I thought it was just going to be the two of us but she rocked up with her boyfriend and their uncomfortably attractive mate. Like, so attractive that when I saw him, my undies melted straight off my body.

When he opened his delicious mouth, a British accent came sliding out and I swear to Oprah that I passed out for a moment. He hugged me hello and the marble-statue-firmness of that body almost sent me into a full-blown cardiac arrest.

Like my underwear, any remote coolness I had vanished. I suddenly became desperate for this guy's attention. I decided being overtly sexual was the way to go. I was on a time limit here.

As we wandered through the market, I always made sure my body was close to his, giving off as much heat as possible. I only ordered dick-shaped foods that I chose to devour in his direct line of sight. His lingering eye contact and casual touches suggested it was working.

He asked me if I wanted to join him for a smoke so I channelled my inner Sandy, took the cigarette, had one drag, suppressed a violent cough, pretended tears weren't streaming down my face, and as sexily as possible, dropped it to the ground and stepped on it. It was ON.

Until it wasn't. His cock-blocking best mate had to get home for a call with his mum in London so they all had to go (they lived together) before I'd had the chance to proposition him. I was gutted and urgently needed a pole - no pun intended - to lean against as my head was still spinning from that one drag.

I had to see this guy again. Damien (yeah, I named my vagina once) had to see this guy again. In that moment, I was prepared to do anything. So I did.

I took my walk back to Flinders Street Station to brainstorm how I could guarantee I saw him again. I could've just suggested we hang out again/get his number from my new friend and ask him out, but that would've been the confident, well-adjusted person's choice.

It was squatting over a toilet at the station that I had my "great" idea.

Given this crew were a poor group of backpackers, I decided my best way to attract them was with the lure of free money. I sent a very excited message to the girl saying I had just found $100 in a cubicle at the station and that we should blow it on cocktails that weekend. In reality, the only thing I'd actually found in the cubicle at the station was a used pantyliner stuck to the wall.

As expected, they were keen and suggested Fargo & Co in Richmond that Friday night. It was official. I was a genius. *mic drop*

I rocked up fashionably late on Friday night and died inside when I saw he wasn't there. What an effing waste. I could've been home with a Dr Oetker pizza (a doctor of what though?) and the new season of Grand Designs. Still, I owed this disappointing turnout some drinks.

It wasn't until we were into our second round on my fake winnings and I'd started fantisising about getting home to Kevin McCloud that the girl casually turned to me and said, "[the subject of your desires] will be here in about ten." There went my underwear again.

I acted all cool and whatevs-like and madly dashed to the bathroom to freshen up. My over-excitement was palpable. So much so that I wasn't being careful and dropped my compact on the floor. Not only was I going to be shiny, but I'd just cost myself another hundred bucks. Fantastic.

As I attempted to clean up my mess de Dior, I composed myself and conducted my final checks. I arrived back at the table, warmly welcomed by his gorgeous face. The only stool free was the one next to him. All seemed right with the world again.

Before he'd even had the chance to bust out a token, "You 'right?" I was ready for us to be leaving. I'd leave a fifty on the table and we'd be gone. Back to my bed where we belonged. Instead, the hot Brit proceeded to talk to me for about an hour about his heavy obsession with Harry Potter. He was re-reading the books you see and couldn't wait to finish The Prisoner of Azkaban this weekend. Instead of the ten year age gap, it suddenly felt more like twenty.

As is often the case, half the appeal of a ridiculously attractive man is his air of mystery and once the mystery is gone, so is a lot of the attraction. As I continued to drink, it didn't make him more interesting. Don't get me wrong, I like Haz as much as the next person, but the way this guy was recounting the plots of each book could put someone on Speed to sleep.

I came to the very, very sad realisation that this guy was boring.

I started making my excuses to leave - Kevin was waiting - when he suggested he come with me. *sigh* My clit had recoiled so deep inside me during the Harry Potter gear that I wasn't sure I could get it up for this guy. Maybe he wasn't chatty during sex? Bingo! As long as I kept his mouth busy, I could make this work. I had already paid for the sex after all.