Socks can be totally hot, obviously it helps when you look like that.

T.S. Elliot once said – “Words strain, crack, and sometime break, under the burden” Unfortunately, so does the back.

Thursday: The night to party and be papped. Sure, everybody’s anti-airbrush when it’s on national fatties like Kelly Clarkson, but when it’s us, we love it (#Gayrule). The night got messier and after a chance encounter with old friend Alan Carr, there was talk of an after party. Invite extended, invited accepted.
After camping it up in numerous neon wigs, stilettos longer than my neck and barbie jumpsuits, it became clear than some people were beginning to pair off. I was NOT in another sex party situation. So I caught up with the friends I hadn’t seen in ages before texting a guy I’d been flirting with and convincing him to come home for a lunch-time quickie.

Strutting down the road with a spring in my step, much like Dorothy (as if that bitch could pull off switch mixing pumps), a brief tryst was just what I needed. Somehow we’d got so caught up in it all that we’d stripped every thread and fibre from each others bodies but left on our socks? I only noticed when my knees were up by my ears.
“We don’t have to take our clothes off…” – Jermaine Stuart, (well, not all of them evidentally).
And after months of non-penetrative (or top only) sex it became clear, I may have been psychologically ready, but physically wasn’t even close.
It felt like I’d been revirginised and he was ‘popping my cherry’ all over again. Never had a term been so misused; ‘popping’ this was more like a fatal ‘combustion’. Still, at least he was only breaking my hymen and not my heart.
Once we got over that and I got under him, he sent me into overdrive licking my neck, my back (not my pussy and my crack).

But to further prove what a slow summer it had been, I was confronted with my first ever sexual injury. Cut to me hobbling down Wardour Street like Carrie Bradshaw with a sex sprain (from 1:11 was me)
“Fuck. I’ve broken my back” I whinged down the phone.
“What?! Are you in hospital?”
No. Not literally. I wasn’t used to bending over at the click of a finger, I wasn’t Amanda Holden looking for a job. This was serious, I needed a chiropodist, like immediately.
So not only had he broken my celibate summer (angels sing and heavens rejoice), he’d also broken my spine. Not only had he taken my new found ‘innocence’ – he’d also taken my ability to stand in the upright position. So bare in mind if you see someone shuffling uneasily in pain as they walk through the streets of Soho, it’s not Agnes Deyn with a urine infection, it’s just me with a fractured coccyx.

In light of all this medical chaos, I almost didn’t realise that we hadn’t even exchanged names. I’m gonna need that shit to claim my disability benefits.