Having two men pleasuring me has always been one of my greatest fantasies, but with two men to worry about instead of one, my usual obsessive pre-date planning had gone into overdrive. In addition to my usual Hollywood wax and easily removable sexy little black dress, I found myself methodically scoping out my underwear.

The red teddy seemed too obvious, and my beige leather Agent Provocateur corset too fiddly. Would they expect me to play submissive damsel in distress, or should I break out the bullwhip?

We ordered room service, where I drank two Jack Daniels and a glass of champagne, which I hoped was enough to loosen my inhibitions without deadening everything below the waist.

They sat on either side of me on the sofa, and I started kissing James, then turning around to kiss the rugby player while James stroked my leg.

We moved to the bedroom and undressed each other. The rugby player had a stunning physique and was amazingly well endowed. So far, so fantastic as we kissed and fondled each other – until they started kissing for several minutes, and I started to feel like an extra pillow on the bed, rather than the primary object of desire.

Maybe this fantasy should have stayed a fantasy? Or perhaps, rather than doing this with someone I’m dating, I should have stuck to the rule of threesomes: always the guest star, never the main attraction.

In this case, I wasn’t the centre of attention, and I didn’t like it. I found myself craving one-on-one intimacy, not a sexual smorgasbord. I let them both head south, but when the condoms were produced I confessed that I was chickening out.

“Are you OK?” James asked.“I know it’s supposed to be the guy who gets jealous in this situation, but I’m getting a little weirded out,” I told him.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked me. “No,” I said, “I want to watch.”

At first, watching them on the bed reminded me of a BBC wildlife documentary, but I soon started to get turned on. It was hot. But at the same time, I knew at that moment that things could never go to the next level with James, because this is not something I want to do with a serious boyfriend.

So I left the boys to it and went out to meet my friend Mark, whose house parties routinely erupt into orgies. Which is how an evening that began in such luxury ended with us scoffing chips at the Burger King in South Kensington.

“Threesomes are tough,” he said, “but foursomes are a lot easier, because no one feels left out. Can’t you bring a friend next time?”

I suppose that, this time, my own inhibitions got in the way of my ultimate fantasy, of having two men at the same time. But all things considered, Whoppers at midnight were a close second.