Touchdown!

OK. So here I am, tired as hell but I have to admit I'm pretty psyched.

I had a good night. A very good night. And I am pleased to announce that James is definitely NOT gay.

We met up at the Walmer Castle in Notting Hill - the best place for Thai food in West London. It felt as if I hadn't seen him for ages but in reality it's only been a week. But then I guess a week is a long time when you're buzzing with sexual frustration.

Last night felt different from the moment James kissed me hello. The other times we've been out he's been a little distant; charming, funny and attentive, but definitely physically remote. Last night he was making contact from the outset, doing all those little things that really make an impact when you're wondering if someone is truly attracted to you; stuff like touching my hand, lighting my cigarette, feeding me from his plate, brushing a stray strand of hair out of my eyes, touching me in the small of the back when we go upstairs. I'm not sure what's happened the past week but I have the feeling that he suddenly decided that it's OK to be into me. For whatever reason, he's stopped holding back.

Hey, I'm not complaining.

We settle the bill and he tells me that he's got a great bottle of wine back at his place and would I like to share it? I go, well... Like I have to think about it, like it's a tricky decision to make, but since he's made me wait for longer than is truly necessary I'm thinking that the least I can do is play hard to get for all of, oh, three seconds.

So we head over to his place (which fortunately is close by since I took TJ's advice and pulled the out the va-va-voom stops, which for me always means the highest and most impractical shoes I own). His flat is gorgeous, in fact it's so gorgeous that I start wondering about his sexuality again as soon as I see it. It's about a million light years away from the hovel I live in. We settle down on his sofa, he puts the stereo on on (Transglobal Underground, not a bad choice) and we demolish a kick-ass bottle of red wine (can't remember what it was apart from Margeux, Chateau de something, French), and the flirt factor starts revving up more than a few notches.

One spliff, most of the wine and lots of conversation later, and James gives me this really intense look. I'm like, OK, what's happening here? He reaches over, takes the glass from my hand, his eyes still fixed on mine, and places it on the floor. Then he pulls me to him.

I thought that the last kiss was pretty good but this... this is incredible. It’s a showstopper. A truly Technicolour vaseline-lensed Hollywood moment. I smell his shampoo and something else, deliciously peppery-sweet. I melt.

Yep, we did it right there, on the sofa.

Maybe because it's been a while, maybe because I'd almost forgotten what sex is like, but this was truly amazing.

Throughout, I felt shrink-wrapped, insulated, my mind numb, all energy diverted to the senses, knife-sharp, crystal-refracted, like the moment before the parachute opens, before bare feet leave the warm edge of the highest diving board, when pure impulse and adrenaline kicks in and everything else shuts down.

Yeah, it was that good.

And afterwards, he holds me close and says, promise me you'll want to do that again.

I promise.

And as you'll know if you're a regular to my blog, I very rarely break my promises.

BUT, I like this guy and that really freaks me out. Whatever, I've got to keep a grip on this; I've just been shagged stupid by a hot piece of ass which means I'm hormonal soup right now.

It’ll end up being just another experience for me to notch in my memory, on my bedpost, another story for my friends to laugh over, another layer on my history, another chapter, another verse, another stanza in The Saga of Sara.

I have not undergone some strange seismic shift in the past couple of hours.

And the important thing to remember is that I never, ever, allow myself to believe the hype.