More than just a pretty face

This was not a rhetorical question, I really needed to know the answer. Because I know it sounds ridiculous as I'm an antiquated youth but I've never really been able to have one. Everyone I liked thought I was a freak, and everyone who liked me really was one.

But now, over this brunch in Notting Hill, I'm with my two best gay friends who have broken off arguing in front of a stall on Portobello Road to answer my questions, to give me relationship advice. Except no one really knows the answers to these questions, not even my friends who are gay sluts and are always dating. "Never, never ask," says Anthony, "you just slip into being exclusive." "What you can do is tell them you're not seeing anyone else? Um, maybe, suggests Tom. "No, no, no," interjects Tony.

Anyway, it's too early to be discussing this all, really. Arthur, that's the guy I like, has only been back in the UK for a week, having landed back from his home town of New York last weekend in time for his art school term to begin. He had cancelled on me the day he landed. And I had still been in a rage about that all Sunday. Because I like him, I guess - and I was sort of quite annoyed with myself for feeling that way. But by Monday I had got over myself.

And it was Monday that kicked-off a week of firsts. The first time I'd got high off kissing was a good one. This was like a real drug-fuelled high not dissimilar to the one I got in the middle of Ledbury Road during the Notting Hill Carnival.

Except this was legal, and on the Millennium Bridge, and after drinks (I had a pint, he had dry white wine, then I ordered champagne) at the Founder's Arms (that's the one on the river next to Tate Modern).

Later that week was the first time I'd walked down Portobello Road hand in hand, after dinner at Thai Rice, with a guy and I surprisingly didn't feel as mortified as I'd thought I might.

And on Saturday night I went to a party in some Mexican dive bar in Waterloo - apart from the odd dash to the Tate, it was the first time I'd been south of the river since visiting my dying Nanny in the late Eighties - with loads of Arthur's art school friends.

"Wow, Waterloo," cackled Tony, "you must really like him."