My high-school best friend – I’ll call him Nick – had just admitted that he was confused because he’d started thinking about me whenever he masturbated.
“Maybe we should kiss” I suggested.
“I think I should be going” he mumbled, before shooting of but not in the way I’d hoped. Apparently, my suggestion that we lock lips — at 8pm on a bench outside my mum’s house in glamorous Huddersield — was a step too far. Me making regular cameos in his wank bank was, however, perfectly acceptable. Don’t get me wrong, it was a major compliment, especially given that I had both braces and acne at the time.