I pop down to Brighton to see my twinkie ex Adam, and his new boyfriend/carer, Wouter. They have been in Brighton less than three months. And that is all the time they needed to shag it, bless 'em.
They sit in their flat, with two computers, harvesting boys off the internet in a way that's either thoroughly modern, or oddly chilling. Adam even keeps notes in Excel and has a set of standard replies.
"Ooh look, private pictures from the builder!" Wouter will coo.
Adam will nod, happily. "Great - ask him if he wants to double-fuck next Wednesday, will you, love?"
And then they'll laugh, and pour more gin.
I've always viewed Brighton as a quaintly genteel seaside resort with interesting clubbing and horrible gay bars. But, on the only sunny Saturday this summer, they plonk me on a terrace and explain, patiently, how wrong I am.
If it isn't an eyebrow-burning anecdote about their houseboy, it's the truly awful story about meeting their neighbours.
"Well, we were having a fight, and she knocked on the door, and she said 'Mark and I can hear everything - even when you have sex at 3am.' and we said oh, and she said 'But come down for a drink sometime' and so we did the next week, and got hammered, and she said 'I've always thought watching two guys would turn me on' and so we did, right there on the kitchen table, and then they did, which was odd, as he's really fit and i thought 'what a waste of a great cock', but they're really nice and we get on very well now, don't we?"
Then we walk into town, and there's a woman singing Carmen on a street corner. Wouter and Adam stand there, singing along for a bit, before going off to buy flowers and drugs.