THE SEX DIARIES: My date Victor the master flute player proposed sex in John Lewis for my first adventure post-divorce…

When I started dating again after my 13-year marriage ended, I wasn’t sure what sexual landscape awaited me. Had everything changed? I certainly did.

I was now a 47-year-old mother of three children and a recalcitrant dog. If I became naked again, would I have to change my body shape? Last time, thin was what was needed for successful pulling, but now it was rounder, or what millennials call “thick.” Luckily, I’ve always had a tendency to get fat, and that’s even more true these days, with my snack drawer filled with pastries (for the kids), so that was some consolation.

A gym membership was certainly an option, new underwear was a necessity. I had the underwear of the long-married: comfy pants with dog hair engraved on them, sagging bras, and a thong with Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here printed on the front, given as a joke by a friend.

But my first sexual encounter happened before I had even thought about mapping my way to Agent Provocateur via Google. I wasn’t planning on meeting anyone. My husband and I were still in the middle of a long and brutal unraveling, slowly and painfully learning not to rely on each other.

But that was before I went to a party in East London, an adult affair: lots of food, very little music. I was a little bored and turning red from the awkwardness of going to a party alone when I saw Victor across the room.

Annabel Bond (a pseudonym), a 47-year-old mother of three, met Victor at a party

Victor’s suit was made of silk and his vest fit tightly over his ample chest. He was sitting in the middle of a group of laughing women; when he noticed me looking at him, he smiled.

Later, after a few more wines, he held my gaze again. An electric current pulsed between us. I was amazed, amazed. Could such a flamboyant and popular man be interested in me? I was just a mother; I haven’t been attacked so openly in years. The flirts I had were short-lived. But now that I was single again, I realized with excitement and also fear that anything could happen.

When Victor came by, he seemed as surprised as I was. “You like me, don’t you?” he said. I smiled tipsily, too shy to acknowledge it. ‘Not you?’ he stood on it.

With a few vodka tonics in hand, Victor lured me to a corner of the couch. He told me he was a famous flute player. He played at the Albert Hall sometimes, he got me a ticket if I wanted one. I loved. He was cheerful, hilarious. Every cheesy sentence was underlined by a self-mockery.

We had only had a few drinks when Victor moved on to where and how we could have sex. Maybe, he suggested, he could take me to the bathroom right now? He was sure he could give me pleasure beyond my wildest dreams.

Victor saw my shocked face and laughed. “I think there might be a line outside,” I said primly, remembering the shameless walk past my rather tense host. Anyway, he was joking, right, unless a lot had changed since I was last single?

Victor leaned forward and let his lips tickle my ear. He smelled like lemons.

Victor said he was a famous flautist who sometimes played at the Royal Albert Hall (stock image)

Victor and Annabel’s flirting involved talk about going to a John Lewis dressing room together

“How about… we go shopping in John Lewis, and then I’ll take you to the changing rooms and give you a good look.” He blew softly in my ear. “I could…” and here he described in graphic detail exactly what he could do. My pleasure could be assured in many different ways and from many different angles.

I blushed and laughed again. Victor pulled back and laughed too, “They’re very roomy!”

The idea that my first post-husband sexual encounter would take place in the hallowed halls of John Lewis, where just last week I had been to choose my eldest daughter’s first bra, was hilarious. But the sexy talk… I have to admit, it was pretty hot. These types of conversations had long since dried up in my marriage. Nowadays my husband and I only spoke to each other through lawyers or through angry notes on the refrigerator. Was this the tonic I needed?

Victor was talkative and inventive. And flattering too: to him I wasn’t a mother of three going through a painful divorce, I was someone he couldn’t keep his hands off. And so, as he walked me to the train station, I decided: why not take an adventure ride with this master of the flute?

I arranged to meet him the following week, when his landlady was away. I arrived at the subway station as agreed, in the middle of a weekday afternoon.

I was shy, but Victor was businesslike and grabbed my elbow. At the apartment he pressed me against the corner of the sofa again, this time with more intent. I was still trying to tell myself that we were on a date, that undressing in front of a virtual stranger wasn’t really going to happen.

I waited for the return of the exciting conversation to get me in the mood, but instead he kissed me, and you can’t kiss and talk at the same time. It was fun, but also strange. My husband didn’t kiss like that, these were a completely different set of lips. After a while he suggested we go to the bedroom, and I anxiously agreed.

When Victor unpacked himself, his body was so extremely different from my husband’s that I had difficulty with it, but he, as promised, got to work enthusiastically, without thinking about himself.

It was all very purposeful, which should have been a good thing, after all, how many men prioritize women over themselves?

But it seemed a little too corporate. After all that talk, now that we were actually doing it, there was too much pressure on me to fulfill my side of the bargain, which seemed to be reaching a spectacular climax.

Pressure isn’t sexy, and I was too new to this to calm things down. Eventually, I managed a mediocre orgasm by letting my mind wander to another scenario, and – thank goodness – it was time to move on with him.

But despite Victor’s toil for many long minutes, it seemed he couldn’t get there. In fact, things seemed to be definitively deflating. Maybe it was me? Again, I didn’t know him well enough to ask. But luckily it was finally over. Victor may have faked it, but I didn’t care.

I put my clothes back on, but Victor was in no hurry. Naked, he served me a drink, after which he went to get his flute from the living room, sat down on a chair with his legs apart and started playing, keeping his eyes on me. I did my best to stare back…into his eyes.

The hilarity returned, but this time it was just mine – whatever connection we had was gone. There was no doubt that Victor was gifted and talented – on the flute. But for me there would be no repeat performance.

Annabel Bond is a pseudonym.