Sitting in the coffee shop in the park last Sunday morning, nursing a well-deserved hangover, I picked idly at a flake of skin on my leg. Then I realised it wasn’t skin at all, but dried semen.

Wryly, I recalled the events of the night before. It had been after a party, in another part of London. I’d been drunk, and so had he. Waiting for separate night buses, we’d snogged in the shelter, kisses getting rougher as our drink-fuelled desires got the better of us. He’d groped my bottom, pulling up my dress and squeezing my cheeks. Pushing my panties out of the way, his hands had eased into my crack, finding my bum-hole. Wedged into the corner of the bus shelter, I’d fumbled for his dick, pulling it out of his trousers, hard and hot. I’d frotted it against my bare leg, then held it there as he ejaculated copiously, shooting warm coils of thick sticky semen all the way up my thigh.

Then my bus had arrived. While he’d tucked his wilting, goo-coated dick back into his trousers, I’d jumped on. As I fumbled for my travel pass, I’d avoided the driver’s eye, aware with red-faced shame that my hand was still sticky with creamy ejaculate. Bleeping my Oyster, trying not to get semen on the card reader, I’d stumbled upstairs. Heart beating, head spinning, I’d found an empty seat and flopped down.

Finding a tissue, I’d wiped the spunk off my card and then my hand.

Sitting there as the bus ambled its way through the streets of London suburbia, still busy even in the early hours of Sunday morning, I’d felt his semen cooling on my leg, running down my thigh underneath my dress. I’d caught its scent as well, that distinctive sharp muskiness. I’d glanced at the other passengers. If any of them had been able to smell it too, they’d pretended not to.

Back home, after a few hours of drunken slumber, I’d woken naked in bed, head throbbing. Too hung-over to feel like either breakfast or a shower, I’d thrown on a clean dress and walked over to the park, where I knew I’d find fresh strong coffee, all I’d felt able to face for the moment. And here I was.

I looked at the flake of dried semen on my finger. I put it on my tongue and it dissolved, not really tasting of much anymore. I discreetly eased up my skirt, and saw more flakes on my thighs. One by one I scraped them off and dropped them into my coffee, watching them disintegrate before drinking them down.

I racked my brain to recall his name: after all I had (slightly belatedly) just swallowed his semen. No, it was gone. But now I’d think of him every time I came here for coffee. And maybe he’d remember me.