Thankfully my parents didn’t have a webcam then as I am not entirely convinced I wouldn’t have done it.

Reclined in my father’s mottled leather armchair, bare feet on the desk, I knew knowing that no one could sneak up behind me and glimpse the screen before I had a chance to minimise the window. It was a gaming site where players negotiating over troops were interrupted by horny appeals to chat one on one. Gradually this started to excite me more than the game, though my screen name was never as dirty as some of the others, my underdeveloped pubescent imagination, too timid.

Picked up on the public thread I abandon my army as an unknown contact appears on my MSN. Someone is watching the Sunday football in the room next door. Each graphic promise is anonymous, safe, no shame, still tense. I am asked to send a picture. Agonising I choose one from a recent family holiday wearing a barely filled out bikini one arm around my little brother, heart racing as I wait.

I lie about having pubic hair, wondering if people really do shave it?