She walked into that bar dressed like a fantasy, and three strangers on a stag do decided she was exactly the fantasy they'd paid for. She didn't correct them.

I've done a lot of stupid things in my twenty-four years, but this one still makes me laugh out loud on the train. I'd spent all day getting photographed in an outfit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and when the shoot overran, I ended up checking into a budget hotel still wearing it. No coat. No change of clothes. Just fishnets, a skirt that barely qualified as fabric, and six-inch heels that made every man in that bar stop talking mid-sentence.

That's when Barry found me. Fifty-eight, widowed, loud as a foghorn, and utterly convinced I was the stripper he'd booked for his son's stag do. He asked if I was "here for Colin." I had exactly three seconds to tell him the truth.

I didn't take them.

What followed was one of the filthiest, funniest, most deliciously wrong nights of my entire sexual education, and trust me, that's a very long syllabus. A groom eight weeks from his wedding. A best man who needed this more than he'd ever admit. A father who hadn't felt wanted in four years and wasn't about to waste the chance. By the time that Travelodge door locked behind us, I'd decided exactly how far this was going, and it was considerably further than any of them expected when they walked in.

I'm Lily Corbett. I write these confessions because they actually happened, or close enough that it shouldn't matter to you. This is the tenth one. If you've read the others, you know I don't do half measures. If this is your first, welcome. Buckle up. This is the night a father and son both found out exactly what I'm capable of, and neither of them has looked at a Travelodge the same way since.