THE SEX DIARIES: ‘We can do it now, AND after dinner’: I’m obsessed with 27-year-old Eliot… he’s sleek, powerful and perfectly proportioned

On our way home from central London with my son Hector, 14, we passed lingerie shop La Perla. I stopped and peered through the window.

“What’s the point of getting that?” he said. “Who’s going to see you in your underwear?”

“Nobody!” I said, as I walked on. “It’s beautiful, that’s all.”

He looked at me suspiciously. Although our three children knew that their father and I were separated, the fact that he had moved back in to claim the family home had clouded things.

Now that we were living together again, the kids thought we were a family unit again, albeit a dysfunctional one: Nick and I had separate schedules and separate bedrooms.

Nick certainly wouldn’t have liked it if I kissed 27-year-old Eliot last Thursday. Not that I’ve texted him every hour of the day since then. I also felt guilty.

To be honest, I was obsessed with Eliot. It was a juggernaut that could not be turned, even by examining my naked body in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, surrounded by old dog beds, Legos and Barbies.

Barbie made an unwelcome comparison: unlike her, my stomach was plump and my thighs were covered in cellulite. I hadn’t been naked with anyone since my marriage ended (except for a horrible one-night stand after a friend’s party).

It seemed impossible to show my naked self to someone so much younger and fitter. But also impossible not to. I thought about Eliot every minute.

My breasts were still good, my cheekbones too. Eliot knew I had three children; he was (hopefully) less judgmental than I was about my physical imperfections. Men often are.

So I started browsing through the hotels and deciding which room Eliot and I would get our first assignment in.

I had bought new lingerie — not at La Perla after all, but at M&S: a silky black balconette bra and a pair of French knickers. They signaled a new daring version of myself, or so I hoped.

There were other heavy preparations to be made. I shaved, plucked, and trimmed. I couldn’t handle a Brazilian wax yet, even though I was afraid Eliot had never seen pubic hair on a woman. But still, the feeling of unreality remained.

Annabel didn’t end up buying new lingerie from La Perla (pictured), but instead bought one from M&S: a silk black balcony bra and a pair of knickers.

Was I really leaving my bickering kids to spend a sexy night in West London with someone I met in a bar?

When we met a week later, I was again startled by the freshness of Eliot’s face, the radiance of his beauty. His thighs in their pale jeans, spread out on the bar stool, radiated heat.

He was a different person in real life than in a text message. There were longer pauses between his questions and answers and he was less easy to understand.

As we walked to the hotel, I was so nervous I couldn’t talk. I was surprised that he could chat so easily. Did he do this often, or was he better at hiding his feelings?

The hotel appeared to be filled with bachelor parties. When we got to the room, it was empty, too close to reception and the window looked out onto a courtyard. Eliot unperturbed took off his shirt and then tried to take off mine.

“We don’t have to do it now!” I said, suddenly desperate to delay the moment. “We can wait until after dinner!”

“Or we can do it now, and after dinner,” Eliot said. He looked at me anxiously. “Does that sound good?” Unlike (some of) the men of my generation, he wanted to make sure he had my permission. I nodded and touched his bicep.

I had never been with someone so fit. But it was hard to have great sex when I was thinking so much about trying to be sexy, holding my stomach in, trying to show him my best sides.

I stayed resolutely on my back, not wanting my body parts to hang above him.

Eliot had no such problems: his body was slim, powerful and perfectly proportioned.

Even if we didn’t yet know what the other person liked (how different this was from the well-oiled sex groove of my marriage), just being with him turned me on. He could have done the chicken dance and I would have had an orgasm.

Then we went to Nando’s. It was the only place open. I didn’t care, I felt excited, full of nervous energy.

I talked too much to hide the fact that we were going to spend the night together. Then we went back to the hotel and had sex two more times. It was great, but I was still in performance mode. I was loud, too loud perhaps, given the proximity to the reception.

The next morning we were awkward with each other. I wondered how Eliot saw me now. At least the night before, when he saw that my stomach was free of stretch marks, he had said, “I can’t believe you have three children!” But he was clearly very aware of our age difference.

Neither of us had ever had a relationship like that. It wouldn’t, it couldn’t, last long. It would be a hot fling, and then we would move on.

■ Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. All names have been changed