Even though I'd always suspected that he harboured a secret crush on me, I couldn't believe that I was considering getting naked with my childhood friend Roger. I had been very excited to get the call that he was in London on business. We were always on the same wavelength mentally, and he's still cute, super fit and has a razor-sharp sense of humour. But when he stood up to kiss me on the cheek I remembered why we never took things further: He's a mere five-foot-six, and I'm five 10 flat-footed.
Still, the conversation flowed as quickly as the vodka martinis, and the next thing I knew it was 4am and we were sitting on the floor of his luxury hotel, draining his minibar of booze.
I've dated lots of shorter men, but have never had to handle a serious, Sophie Dahl and Jamie Cullum-style height discrepancy. When I'm out with a man I want to feel like Cinderella at the ball, not a circus freak. Maybe there are evolutionary reasons for my tall-man fetish. Apparently cavewomen picked larger men because they needed to feel protected. But for me, it's more practical: my ultimate fantasy is to be carried to bed and ravished, and I can't see that happening with someone so vertically challenged.
My girlfriend Victoria always says "height doesn't matter once you're horizontal", so I decided there was only one way to find out. I kissed Roger and we rolled around on the floor. I wound my legs around him and could feel that not everything on his body was petite. So far, so good.
"Should we take this into the bedroom?" he whispered. We stood up. I leaned down to kiss him, which was a bit weird. The bed in his suite was up some wooden stairs, so he picked me up. That's when his romantic gesture started to backfire. I could see the veins bulging in his neck, and feel his arms shaking. I started to panic.
"Honey, put me down," I protested as he staggered toward the bed, still laughing. "You're light as a feather," he insisted, but I felt compelled to make some lame joke about my muscle-to-fat ratio.
As we started stripping each other off, I tried to lose myself in the moment. Once I had my shirt off, he lavished attention on my breasts (not difficult, since he only measured up at chest height!) then excused himself to head for the loo, where I could hear him brushing his teeth.
Feeling chilly, I headed over to his wardrobe and grabbed one of his shirts. What I saw in the full-length mirror killed my libido entirely. His shirt was tiny, the buttons bulged over my breasts, and the sleeves ended just below my elbows, making me look like the Incredible Hulk.
I felt horrible admitting it, but it wasn't working for me. I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances: faked being asleep. In the morning, I told him I'd had an amazing time but thought it would be best if we stayed friends. I guess I'll have to continue to shop around for the right physical match. But I can't do it in the little boys' department.