Speaking to a perpetually single friend drunk on the dancefloor on the brink of her first relationship, she asks me: “How does it feel to be tied down?” Drunken, horny me of course did not construe this to mean tied down in a relationship. “Oh I’ve never been tied up”, I slur into her drinksmattered shoulder, “I’ve only ever tied people up. But that can be hot.”

Birmingham Tom was nothing special. I’d felt the need to satiate my undying need for cocktails one evening and wandered along to a local bar with a few friends. When I went to order my poison of choice, I was greeted by a group of men in suits about a decade older than myself. Leaning across the bar in the most graceful manner I could muster after a few whiskey sours, I caught his eye. I was a little drunk and feeling flirty so took a painfully obvious elongated route back to my table through his party.

My subtle seduction of carefully cast looks was going so well; until I tripped and knocked my entire drink down his three-piece. Apologies pouring out of my mouth somewhat more liberally than the spirit measures of the bar, I abandon my seducing. However, Tom touches the cuff of my shirt. He takes the blame and offers to replace my drink. In need of something to quell my nerves I agree, making small talk in the meantime. He explains he’s a postgrad studying for his doctorate. I attempt to look interested, and after a few exchanges of sweet nothings and numbers, I leave.

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Back in bed and with my room spinning round me, I check my phone. It seems Birmingham Tom is at the same point of blissful drunkenness. Or at least that’s what I understood by the typos and subsequent flurry of nudes I received at 1am.

Horny and drunk, I invite this guy round. Not because he was aesthetically pleasing. I mean, he wasn’t bad looking or out of shape. I mainly invite him over because I’d never been with someone born a decade earlier than myself. The mystique and taboo of age intrigued me. Plus, when someone sends you a messages saying they are “looking to experiment a bit, and for the other person to take control”, the dom within this small masculine frame quivered with excitement. Being asked to shave his genitals was somewhat less arousing and something I utterly refused. But being told how much he wanted me to handcuff him, spread his legs apart and work my magic made up for that.

Arriving bleary eyed, his frumpy fleece kills the slight boner I had. But as soon as we enter my room and I begin to undress him, it soon returns. Lying naked on the bed, he tells me to tie him up and clamp his mouth shut. Inexperienced, I grab the joke red furry handcuffs an ex bought me and set to work. Running around my room to find things to tie this tall man up with, all I have to hand is a couple of dressing gown cords. I feel I can never praise my Gran’s excellent choice in M&S’s festive loungewear again.

I now have a thirty-year-old man trussed up and blindfolded on my bed. I decide I really could do this dominatrix lark. However disaster strikes. At my height of arousal, his undisclosed allergy to strawberry-flavoured lube kick in. Trying to untie all knots made in my horny haste and sobering up, the night ends. But at least I got a free drink out of it.