Just once, and it was probably the most emotionally expensive fuck up of my dating life.

Back in my final year of college I had a failed one night stand. I met this girl, went back to hers and then drank a load of neat vodka before becoming a cocky arsehole who couldn't get it up. After 20 seconds of what can only be described as a sexual homage to mashed potato I gave up and left.

At the time I was a little out of control; I had a devil-may-care attitude and was searching for stories over simple sexual gratification, any form of emotional attachment being the furthest thing from my mind. And, admittedly, even prior to this point my emotional development when it came to women had been queried on more than one occasion. So, when I spent the next day lying in a bed of melancholic despair, replaying memories of my 2 hour dalliance with the stranger from the night before as if I were a star-crossed lover in a Tom Hardy novel (rather than a self-destructive sex-addict with a drinking problem) I was thoroughly confused.

My response to the situation was no more than could be expected from an emotionally stunted man-child living in denial: I went out 2 days later and rushed into an intense 'casual' fling with the first pretty girl I met. In hindsight it's readily apparent that I'd taken on a proxy for what could have been, but at the time I was on a mission to prove to myself that there was nothing special about the girl and was going to great lengths to prove it to myself.

And yet there was. A few weeks later I bumped into her in a night club, and experienced one of the rare occasions when an idealised memory is surpassed by the reality. And yet, when she invited me back to her house I turned her down. I'd love to say it was because I felt an emotional attachment to the girl I was seeing (not least because I went on to have a 1 year relationship with her), or because I was aware of her growing feelings for me, but really it was a self-destructive urge to write another story for myself.