If you’ve ever wondered what it might feel like to stop being sensible for an evening, start here.......

THE MESSAGE YOU NEARLY DIDN'T SEND

It probably starts with you reading this when you should be doing something else.

Maybe you have five quiet minutes with a coffee. Maybe you're lying in bed scrolling because you can't quite be bothered to sleep yet. Or perhaps you've simply reached that point in the evening where you've done everything expected of you and, for once, you're allowing yourself to think about something you actually want.

You find my profile.

You look at the pictures.

You read a few lines.

Then you close it.

A minute later, you open it again.

That part makes me smile.

Because I suspect you're curious, but you're also sensible. You've spent years being sensible. Work. Family. Responsibilities. Other people's needs. Plans made weeks in advance. The same conversations, the same routines, the same version of yourself that everybody expects to turn up each morning.

And perhaps somewhere amongst all of that, a part of you has gone a little quiet.

Not disappeared.

Just quiet.

The part that likes being flirted with.

The part that enjoys someone noticing when you've made an effort.

The part that remembers how good it feels when a man looks at you for half a second longer than politeness requires.

That's the woman I'm interested in meeting.

Not because there's anything wrong with the rest of your life. There doesn't need to be.

Sometimes you simply want to feel something different.

So imagine you send the message.

Nothing dramatic.

Just:

"Hi. I liked your profile."

That's enough.

You immediately wonder whether it sounded ridiculous.

It didn't.

I reply.

Something warm, probably slightly cheeky, because I can already imagine you smiling at your phone while pretending you're not particularly invested in the conversation.

We talk.

And, importantly, I don't immediately turn everything sexual.

That would spoil it.

I'd rather find out what makes you laugh. What you drink. The places you like. Whether you're naturally confident or whether you're far better at pretending to be than anybody realises.

I'd want to know what made you message me in the first place.

You might tell me.

You might not.

Either is fine.

There is something incredibly attractive about getting to know somebody without having to rush towards an outcome.

The anticipation is half the fun.

Eventually, perhaps we decide to meet.

Somewhere comfortable.

Nothing intimidating.

You arrive slightly early because that's what sensible people do when they're doing something that feels wonderfully unsensible.

And you're nervous.

Of course you are.

So am I, probably.

People imagine confidence means never feeling nervous. I think it's almost the opposite. The butterflies are part of what makes meeting somebody new exciting.

Then you see me.

Hopefully the first thing you notice is the smile.

I suspect the second thing you notice is that within about thirty seconds everything feels much easier than you expected.

That's what I'd want.

No performance.

No pressure.

Just two people sitting opposite each other with drinks, talking.

At first, the conversation is completely ordinary.

Then gradually it isn't.

Perhaps you catch me looking at you.

Not staring.

Just noticing.

Your eyes. Your smile when you forget to be self-conscious. The dress you nearly changed out of before leaving home because you wondered whether it was a little too much.

It wasn't.

I tell you that you look lovely.

You dismiss the compliment instinctively.

So I tell you again.

Slower this time.

"You really do."

And something about the way I say it means you actually believe me.

That's the bit I like imagining.

Because I don't think women stop wanting compliments as they get older.

I think they simply get fewer genuine ones.

And there is a tremendous difference between somebody automatically saying you look nice and somebody making you feel that they've actually looked.

I would look.

I'd notice.

Eventually we finish our drinks, but neither of us seems particularly keen to leave.

The conversation has changed now.

We're sitting slightly closer.

You're telling me something that probably wasn't part of your plan when you left the house.

I'm listening.

Actually listening.

And every so often there's a pause where neither of us says anything.

Those pauses are important.

Because suddenly you're aware of the distance between us.

Or rather, the lack of it.

My hand is resting close to yours.

Not touching.

Almost.

And you're wondering whether I'm going to.

I'm wondering whether you want me to.

That tiny uncertainty is delicious.

I could remove it immediately.

But why would I?

Anticipation deserves to be enjoyed.

So perhaps my fingers brush yours while I'm talking.

Nothing more.

Yet somehow you're suddenly very aware of it.

You look at me.

I smile.

And neither of us mentions what just happened.

A few minutes later it happens again.

Only this time, neither of us moves away.

There are moments where attraction seems almost embarrassingly complicated.

And then there are moments where it becomes wonderfully simple.

This would be one of those.

Perhaps we decide to go somewhere quieter.

That doesn't have to mean anything.

Except, of course, we both know it might.

Walking beside you, I'd probably place my hand lightly against your back as we pass through a doorway.

Such a small thing.

But suddenly you've become conscious of me in a completely different way.

You might wonder whether I'm doing it deliberately.

I am.

Not because I'm trying to hurry you.

Quite the opposite.

I want you to notice.

I want you to enjoy noticing.

Somewhere along the way, the woman who nearly didn't send that first message has started to disappear.

In her place is somebody smiling more easily.

Somebody who's stopped checking the time.

Somebody enjoying the fact that for the next few hours she doesn't have to organise anything, solve anything or look after anybody.

She can simply be wanted.

That, to me, is where intimacy really starts.

Long before bedrooms.

Long before clothes disappear.

It begins when somebody feels safe enough to stop thinking about everything else.

When we're finally alone, I wouldn't rush towards you.

I think I'd look at you first.

Properly.

Because there is something intensely intimate about standing close to somebody when both of you know exactly what's about to happen, but neither of you has quite started it yet.

Perhaps you make a joke because you're nervous.

I'd probably laugh.

Then step a little closer.

My hand might find your waist.

Yours might rest against my chest.

And suddenly the conversation we've been having all evening becomes unnecessary.

I'd look into your eyes.

Close enough now that you can feel my breath.

Still giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

You don't.

So I kiss you.

Softly at first.

No hurry.

No dramatic grabbing.

Just that first slow kiss that answers the question we've both been asking for the last hour.

And perhaps you surprise yourself by kissing me back with considerably less restraint.

I'd like that.

My arm moves around you.

You relax into me.

And for a little while there is absolutely nowhere else either of us needs to be.

Maybe that's what you've really been missing.

Not sex.

Not even necessarily romance.

Just that feeling.

Being held by someone who genuinely wants to hold you.

A hand around your waist.

A kiss against your neck.

Somebody pulling you a little closer simply because closer still doesn't quite seem close enough.

Someone giving you their full attention.

Because being desired isn't about somebody telling you they want you.

It's about feeling it.

The way they look at you.

The way they touch you.

The way they slow down rather than rush.

The way, for those few hours, there is absolutely no doubt where their attention is.

I'd want you to feel that.

I'd want you to forget whatever number happens to be attached to your age.

Forget whether your stomach is perfectly flat.

Forget the tiny imperfections you notice in the mirror that nobody else sees.

Forget all the reasons you nearly talked yourself out of coming.

Because I'm not standing there mentally comparing you with somebody twenty years younger.

I'm standing there wanting you.

And there is a very good chance you'll be able to tell.

What happens after that?

I could write it.

In considerably more detail.

But where would be the fun in giving everything away?

Some fantasies are better when somebody else starts them and your imagination finishes the job.

So I'll leave you there.

Close enough to feel my arms around you.

Close enough to remember what that first kiss felt like.

Wondering what happens when I kiss you again.

And perhaps you'll return to the top of this page and recognise yourself as the woman who almost didn't send the message.

If you do, don't worry about finding something clever to say.

You already know the opening line.

"Hi. I liked your profile."

I'll take it from there.