I know you will consider me calling you a rapist to be entirely unfair. You may be hurt by it, or puzzled. You do not think of yourself as a rapist. Let me tell you why you are.

You are thirty years my senior. You have a daughter around my age. Your daughter is a professional woman, an architect. You showed me photos of her. You were proud of her. You paid for your daughter to go through university. You always helped her out financially. I know that you think that’s what you did for me also. You will possibly think me ungrateful.

The truth of the matter is that your money killed a little bit of me. You were a regular client, visiting once a week, like clockwork. I used to dread your visits. You said we were ‘friends’. We never were. Without your money, I’d not have wanted to know you. I’d never have wanted to take you into my bed.

You liked me to fellate you endlessly, even though you always smelt faintly of urine. Is it too much to ask that you wash yourself before asking me to do that to you? You liked to hold my wrists down as you fucked me – and you always fucked me hard.

Afterwards, you would get dressed again into your sensible grey trousers, straighten your tie, smooth down your comb over. You would always be jolly, in a good mood. You always thanked me, told me how much you looked forward to ‘our sexy time’, how the thought of it kept you going through a bad week at work. You perhaps had an inkling I didn’t enjoy ‘our sexy time’ as much as you did and so you wanted me to feel obliged to carry on with it, wanted me to feel some sort of responsibility for your happiness.

One time, I was stupid enough to let you know my email address. Now that I no longer make myself available to be raped by you, you email me from time to time. You persist in doing this even though you never receive a response from me. You tell me how much you miss our friendship, how much you miss ‘our sexy time’. You ask after my welfare. You ask after my family. What you really want to ask is: ‘when can I fuck you again?’

The answer is ‘never’. I never want you near me again. Every time I receive an email from you, my heart sinks to my toes and the old feelings of dread wash over me like an unstoppable tidal wave.

So this is to tell you that I am closing that email account. I am consigning it (and you) to a virtual rubbish bin. I am doing this today, right now. You will have no means of contacting me. I feel only relief that the ties will finally be severed.

And, for the record, I hated ‘our sexy time’. Every last minute of it.