Dirty Talk. Jane O'Reilly

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      ‘I think that…I think that the problem is that I can’t picture the male character. Every time I try to write something, that’s where I get stuck. And I think that if…if I had someone I could base him on, I’d be able to do it.’

      ‘Like a muse?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say, clinging onto that word, because it makes it sound like something arty and serious, instead of kinky and weird. ‘Exactly like that. I need a muse.’

      ‘I could do that,’ he says, his tone thoughtful. ‘Shall I come round tomorrow, after work?’

      ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yes. Fine. See you then.’

      And then I end the call. I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at it, my hands pressed against my cheeks like a real life version of The Scream. What have I done? When did I become the sort of person that does this sort of thing?

      And when did I start to like it?