Confessions of a rogue

We don't need to say it, we both know. And yet we are tangled by lingering desire and the unspoken issues of the uncommitted. Ella picks at my reluctance to seduce her sister Sam. The truth is, I had another girl in my head. It was unprecedented that I fall for someone so uniquely wrong and rare to be distracted by someone on my mind, not before me in a little black dress.

Could I cured of my curse and become a man capable of fidelity and lasting love? No, as it turns out, as I was overcome at the weekend, not by more sisters, but by an equally exciting multiple girl challenge: flatmates.

Saved, I was. Saved from the torment of unrequited love by two funny Waterloo girls, one a saucy chef with a penchant for sharing more than recipes.

"You're living together? How exciting," I told Katie.
"Yep. Two li'l blonde girls," she laughed. "In their pants."

I was instantly cured as this new vision entered my mind and decided to squat there. It would take a very special bailiff to remove it. Twin nurses, perhaps.

We crossed the river to go to a delightful, empty bar. Finding brilliant empty bars on a Friday night in London is a skill, not as hard to grasp as astrophysics, but more so than accounting. And much more useful than both.

As an annex of a restaurant in a prime location that had just been panned by every critic in town, it was left devoid of custom, leaving the bar for the private use of me, Katie and Amy, whose modest outfit fought a vain battle to conceal her fabulous boobature.

A couple of bottles later and I was planning to move in with the girls in their pants. Amy suggested I alternate whose bed I slept in. I suggested we had a bespoke bed for three made. A huge one that filled the room, with me in the middle, a girl under each arm and a butler pouring champagne. Do they do lady butlers?

With Amy in the bathroom, Katie and I kissed as my fingers explored the possibility of stockings. When Katie excused herself, I sunk my lips onto Amy's. When Katie came back I kissed them both and we strolled out into the square, hand in hand in hand.

Strange, deserted bars are fabulous, but lovely, lively girls need a bit more action, so we went underground to somewhere more happening. The girls had ridiculous cocktails and we all tried our hands at snuff; the Victorian smokeless tobacco, not the fatal porn films, though I would later beg for death in a compromising position.

While Katie texted the jukebox her selection, she received a very rude message from your humble servant inviting her and Amy to their own home, where I would fashion Clingfilm boob tubes and indulge in all manner of marinading, basting, roasting, garnishing, grinding, kneading and paddling before energetically tucking into our dish on the kitchen table. Bon appetit indeed.

Last week's confession.