We were in my old neighbourhood of North London as we set about our catch up when talk led on to the fact that as I've been working out, a lot, my stomach is now back to semi firm; I proudly declared "I'm ready!"

The life of a freelancer is often paved with baked beans and feeling 'loaded' when something sells for £9.99 on eBay, plus postage, but as I sat eating a pork chop pizza, side salad, AND dessert on midday Monday with the beautiful and talented Paula Goldstein Di Principle, we agreed "YEAH, THIS IS ALRIGHT". The benefits of being free are endless, with only that minor overhead of earning, meh....we'll take it.

We were in my old neighbourhood of North London as we set about our catch up when talk led on to the fact that as I've been working out, a lot, my stomach is now back to semi firm; I proudly declared "I'm ready!" The waiter thinks I mean to order, but actually I'm talking about sex, doing it, getting off, hoping on, and rolling off. It's been a while, by choice, to not let anyone see my rump apart from the postman in error, who cares? The truth is, I have been a relationship for the past few years with my novel, and apart from a fling with a crazy Austrian, I've had no interest in playing find the sausage. And I love sex, oh yeah. My twenties would be a whole other book, but in utter honesty, I have been using my 10-kilo weight gain gifted to me while writing my novel, as a barrier not to get it on.

I was left devastated by the rejection of a man I met pre writing it, plus the subject matter had hacked me up emotionally, so I shut myself off sexually thinking I was just not good enough, and threw myself into the one thing that never rejects me - writing. Cue - weight gain. I just didn't give a shit what I ate, or the fact that my Levi cuts offs were more like a pair of tanga briefs. So the combination of the two factors made sex the last thing on my mind, for the first time in years. I know there isn't a man alive who really cares how much backdraft a woman's arse can make while riding, but for me, I don't feel remotely aroused with a revolving belly and hock of ham thighs flapping in a sexual wind, no. I need to feel firm, in charge, and damn right gorgeous before I climb the pole to heaven.

So thank god I'm feeling that way again, I mean I still have few kilos to shift, but while checking out my progress in the mirror I can see a lifted butt, boosted boobs, and a perfectly passable anti wobbling stomach with an 'ab' to boot. I hadn't truly given more than a passing moment of thought to getting back in the game, but with the joyful contrasting mix of discussing the future with Paula, whilst in my old stomping ground with that chapter of my life well and truly closed, I genuinely felt the words "I'm ready" soak into to my brain and mean it.

And my choice of man? My blue prints of current taste are Zac Efton or Jefferson Hack. Not the actuals, even with my semi firmness and sharp words, I'm not going to be on their radars, but my choice of playmate is either a twenty five year old spank bunny, or a dapper sort in his forties. I'm not quite ready for a relationship - easy does it, I only just decided to get naked again, so these two age ranges appeal to me for similar reasons. A Zac clone would be fun, constantly up for sex, impressed at himself for banging a cougar and not much else - ideal for me as a cannot bear clinging, interference, endless meaningless texts and generally hanging around my place too much - I have to write! While a Jefferson clone would: not be in my face - he's way too cool and busy with his own thing, have a story and interest me, no hang ups - annoying immature ones anyway, not send childlike texts (it really irrates me) have his own place, life, give me plenty of space, and of would of course - f**k like a train. I think these two options are win-win for me right now, although I am bending towards the forty plus option while writing this as I don't know how much patience I could actually have with Zac wondering around in his pants popping pills - been there, done that. And the Thirties I am steering clear of for now. I find men in their thirties are either still clinging to their twenties and have unrealistic expectations of a mate, outright shallow, or just generally blurring the lines between sex and relationship with a messy outcome for all. I would love to be proved wrong - yes please, particularly by Alexander Skarsgard (37, exception to the rule) but as I ease myself back into the swing of sweat and pleasure I am intrigued to see what awaits me as the winter nights roll in and weight continues to roll off, about f**king time - literally.