My best friend Anna and I had done everything together by the time we were sixteen. We had gone through high school, GCSE's, holidays and boyfriends together and we were virtually inseparable.

Ten o’clock. I squinted at the face of my watch in the dim light, and sighed as I lifted my drink. Paul had promised me he would meet me at the bar of the ultra modern nightclub where I now stood, being jostled and pushed from all sides by beautiful laughing young people. It was twenty past ten, and the music, loud and rhythmic was beginning to do my head in. I drained my glass and looked around me, aware of how out of place I probably looked my short denim skirt and wondering what on earth I was going to do next.

We are on the beach. It’s hot, and we’ve had enough sun for one day. We pack up and head for the car. The car is stifling, but not long to endure this until we reach the coolness of the apartment. We get in and head straight for the fridge for some water. I then go for a shower to clean off the sand. The cool clean water against my skin feels good, and lathering the soap on my body makes me feel so sexy.

The first few weeks after finishing with Mrs Williams was wonderful, my head, heart and body slowly recovering from the ordeal, both mental and physical, self inflicted I know, of the previous eighteen months. It was the first time since I left South Africa that I really enjoyed myself – Harrod’s is a brilliant institute, designed for the idle and the wealthy, and I was both. Manicures, pedicures, facials and hairdressers: all catered to my capricious whim.

I am sitting in front of my laptop, attaching a photo of myself to an email. I have just cut my hair. Short. Very short. Dyky short. Ping, who has been cutting my hair for the past three years, went a little too far, but says that it will grow out and look ‘even better’. Whatever that means. My boyfriend, Stefan, asked me to get it cut. He said my long hair took away from my cheekbones. Somehow this isn’t what I think he meant. It’s a little severe. Still, I hit return and the jpeg is off.

I had known my friend Carla for over eighteen months, and while I had always acknowledged to myself that she was an exceptionally attractive person, I had never felt anything sexual towards her. We used to chat for ages about men, and although she enjoyed the relationship she had with her boyfriend, I felt as though the passion had sizzled out of my relationship, and briskly ended it.

The shopping mall was emptying rapidly as the snow fell from the December sky. I'd seen the crowd gather around Father Christmas earlier, but they had vanished into the night. I'd had feelings for women for a while so when I realised that Father Christmas was a cute blonde in a red satin santa outfit, who gave me a distinct thrill, I decided not to fight my urge.

I woke up with Milly lying next to me. Blurred memories of the previous evening flooded in to me and then I remembered it all. I was excited and scared and guilty all at the same time. Milly looked beautiful, the sheet covering only some of her gorgeous skin and body. She smelled wonderful and I began to have those feelings again.

There we were, as usual sat in front of the computer. My friend Sally and I had been emailing this bloke that we had been contacting through a chat room. He liked to talk dirty to us, and we loved it! We had great fun emailing him back, we could be just as filthy as him.

Rachel knew Sienna was nervous about whether she wanted to go through with it but Sienna pretended she was confident, arrogant even as she walked into the bedroom and sat down next Rachel. Sienna's brown hair was tousled and just the sight of her toned thighs made Rachel wet.

I am a 41 year old happily married women who loves sex with her husband but recently wanted to experience something more. At the time I didn't know what but I was soon going to find out!

I moved to London two years ago, and lived in a flat in Kilburn with a couple of friends from Uni, Tessa and Helen. Just last month Helen decided to move in with her boyfriend, while Tessa had got a job in Barcelona, so I had to find a new place. I began by emailing all my mates to see if they'd heard of any spare rooms going in house shares. A work colleague replied saying she had some mates in Queens Park and one of the girls was moving back to New Zealand. I said I was interested, and so my colleague gave me the email address of one of the girls living there, Monique. I fired off a quick message and she replied that afternoon saying that I could come round to see the room and meet the housemates in the evening, if I was free.

We had worked together for several years and one afternoon happened to be on the same teabreak together. Kate asked me what I was doing over the Christmas holidays.

"Nothing much, just having a nice quiet break."

She's 43 and single and I am 50, and recently divorced.

"Why don't you come round one evening," she asked, "for a meal and a chat?"

This is a story about an experience I had on Saturday night which makes me tremble every time I think about it. I was in London with a man I am seeing and he suggested we go to a lap dancing club. I was a bit worried that it would be cheap and tacky but I was also very curious. I'm not shy sexually and I have had one encounter with another girl which I enjoyed, so after a moment I agreed to go with him.

The Tuesday started like hundreds of others at the art centre where I worked as a model. I breezed in through the main door, walked down the corridor and into the office.

“Good morning all,” I greeted the office staff.

“G’morning they returned.”

I turned and was about to leave when the Secretary called out, “Oh, Sophie. Just a minute.”

It's a Friday night and we're out with people from work. Nobody knows about you and me so all night the frustration and sexual tension builds up. You keep looking over at me and your intense gaze makes me wet.

For as long as I can remember I’ve never really fitted in. At school in the changing rooms after Phys. Ed. the other girls would stare at me, confused by my large breasts and crazy coloured tights. I was always too shy to stare back; scared they might find out what I was thinking.

It was my first year of college. I was young and so very inexperienced in the ways of the world. I was creating a portfolio so I could apply to art school and was so cocky. I thought that I was shit-hot and better than everyone else. I soon found out otherwise. There was someone else in that class, just so different; so sexy, so beautiful, talented, perfect that when I saw her for the first time I gasped.

I am wearing your black and red flannel shirt and frying bacon. You call from the back bedroom to be careful and to remind me that I'm not to save the grease this time - I'm an old southern girl and old habits are hard to break. After it's all done I set the pieces to dry on a paper towel. My fingertips are oily and salty to the taste. I cut the burner off and begin to get out the coffee cups when you come from behind and throw your arms around my waist, your hair still wet and apple fragranced from the shower.

The day begins rather the same as they always do. Little did I know where I'd be by nightfall. I stretch in my bed, my cats cry for their breakfast, and I can hear the distinctive sounds of Saturday morning in the suburbs.

But I don't feel like I am from the suburbs.