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teenagers, standing on the doorstep of my flat in this passionate embrace. “I want to make love to you,” he whispered. “Not yet,” I whispered back. Not because I didn’t want to, you understand, but because I hadn’t had my legs waxed in weeks and I was wearing a pair of my oldest knickers, where the lycra had turned blue.
    “Can I see you again?” he said, when we finally pulled apart, and we arranged another date, a week later. I went to his flat this time, legs shining like a newborn baby’s bottom, and black lace underwear hidden beneath my suede trousers. I knew I was going to sleep with him, and I also knew it would never be anything more. I brought condoms with me, and then he said he was allergic to rubber, that this whole AIDS thing was a myth, that he’d never used one.
    You don’t have to tell me that I should have got out of there faster than my legs could carry me but I was too far down the line. By that time I didn’t even want to sleep with him, but I’d talked myself into a situation, and I felt I needed to see it through.
    “We can just play though, and not have sex,” he said, when I told him no glove, no love. So we played, or rather I played with him. The fucker had about an hour of foreplay, complete with a full massage with baby oil that just happened to be on his bedside table. I had about a minute of clumsy fumbling at my crotch. And then he climbed on top of me, pinned my arms down and started thrusting between my legs.
    I twisted and turned, terrified he was going to enter me, and when I looked into his eyes I saw nothing, just an empty space. I don’t know how I managed to stop him, but I did, and I cried all the way home. I trusted him because I liked his friend. I thought he was safe and I nearly got raped. How do you know? You only know as much as they want you to know.
    And then the last to arrive is Andy, long straight blond hair hanging down her back, big Jackie O sunglasses, a shining open smile.
    However much Andy pisses me off, and she does, frequently, when it’s just the girls, I love her. I love her excitement at life, her humor, her willingness to see the funny side in everything. I love the fact that she’s single and she genuinely loves it. She sees all men as being adventures, and every fling as being an experience, something she has to learn from, that there’s a lesson in everything that happens to us.
    “Oh my God, I’ve met the most amazing man,” are the first words she says, the first words she usually says. “Go on,” we all sigh in unison, although we’re smiling, and Mel adds, “Who is it this time?”
    “He’s a client of mine, and we’ve been flirting on the phone for weeks, and then yesterday he rang and said we ought to go out for a drink, and why didn’t we meet later on.” Andy works in advertising sales, and flirts with all her clients on the phone. Even the women.
    “I walked into Kettners in Soho and there was this gorgeous man at the bar. I thought, it couldn’t be, but it was, and he was amazing, he looked like a model.”
    A ghost of a smile brushes over my and Mel’s faces as we catch one another’s eye across the table. All the men Andy meets look like models. Until the rare occasions we meet them, when they look like mechanics.
    “I know what you’re thinking, that he wasn’t that good-looking, but I swear, he was divine. Tall—well, maybe five feet, ten inches—black hair and bright green eyes. He looked like Pierce Brosnan. We got on so well, we didn’t stop talking all night and he’s asked to see me again.”
    “Did you shag him?” Sorry for being so crude but I couldn’t help myself.
    “No!” she says in horror. “He dropped me off and we kissed in the car. He’s the best kisser, I was so tempted but I’d really like something to happen here. I’m going to wait. This feels really different, I can’t explain it but this feels good. This could be it.”
    Yeah really, Andy, even I’m not that naive. Men