"What about that guy? He definitely looks like he would let you ride him hard."

I stifle a frustrated sigh as I follow the direction of Abby's gaze. My older sister has completely misunderstood my current dilemma and is now - rather crudely by her standards - desperately trying to find me a "cure".

Sure, the guy propped faux-casually on a stool a few tables away is handsome. In fact, allow me to take that observation and upgrade it to "gorgeous". Actually, he's so absurdly good-looking that I can only assume he's been specifically created in a laboratory and brought in as a test subject to prove once and for all just how dead my libido seems to be right now.

Does anyone know if there's a hotline you can call when your sex drive just . . . ghosts you? Because mine just packed its shit up one day and left without a goodbye, a note, or even a forwarding address.

The dude across the bar (shall we name him Hot Guy Prototype #1 for the purposes of this experiment?) is currently continuing in his quest to smoulder right at me; he's definitely giving me the eye. And, in the past, Lou Watson (that's me, by the way) would be launching herself at him like a horny guided missile. Shooting my shot, climbing him like a tree. And - yes - ultimately "riding him hard".

Attempting to channel some of my sibling's annoyingly ever-present optimism, I study him impassively as I wait for that spark of attraction. That telling twitch down below which would normally be present. I mean, he's definitely on brand for me. He somehow radiates red flags - my favourite type of man. I know that probably sounds crazy but I've always preferred an obvious bad boy. It's harder to be disappointed by their behaviour when you know they're a prick from the start. The ones who pretend to be nice until they've sucked you in? They're far worse and definitely more likely to decimate your heart piece by broken piece.

With this dude, though, I already know exactly what I'd be getting. Flirty words dripping in double entendres, leading to heated kisses followed by amazing no-strings sex . . . And waking up the next morning with an empty space beside me in bed. I'd be satisfied, smiling, and glad he was gone.

Past Lou would have loved that: I find myself thinking wistfully. But the Lou of just a few weeks ago seems to have left the building, with her love of casual sex with hot men tucked demurely under her arm.

"Earth to Louisa!" Abby snaps her fingers in front of my face, pulling my attention away from Little Lord Red Flags. I've been continuing to stare at him while lost in thought and, by the smile curling at the edges of his beautifully shaped mouth, I'm pretty sure I've already given him the wrong idea. "Have you finished eye-fucking him yet, or should I go to the quiz without you?"

I shake my head vigorously. "You don't understand, Abby. I'm feeling nothing. Nothing."

Her eyebrows pull together in a brief frown. "Wait. Not even . . ." Her voice lowers considerably. ". . . Fanny flutters?"

"The crotch butterflies have officially vacated the premises," I confirm, immediately regretting my choice of words the second they leave my mouth. I often like to imagine that I'm the smart-talking, unbelievably witty star of a hit sitcom, but out-of-context, that one-liner sounds like I've just recovered from a rare STD.

To her credit, my sister clearly now realises the severity of my words and wisely chooses to overlook the decidely crass way in which I delivered them. "This is bad," she breathes. "What's wrong with you, Lou?"

"I don't know!" I throw up my hands in despair. "I never thought I'd get to this point in life so soon."

And it is weird. Because I've always loved sex. Pretty much as soon as I discovered it, I was like: Okay, this is fun, I'm going to do this some more. I've never really needed the emotional connection as long as the physical fireworks are present. But suddenly - apparently overnight - I just lost my mojo. "I thought my libido would have to calm down at some point as I got older . . . But I'm barely 28, for goodness sake! I'm still like twenty years away from hitting my sexual peak, right?"

"Apparently." Abby nods thoughtfully. "I've been seriously worried about any men in your vicinity once you reach that milestone," she adds under her breath, although clearly making sure it's just loud enough for me to hear. I shoot her a look of disdain, and she laughs delightedly.

I absolutely love my sister to pieces, but we're like chalk and cheese. Her metaphorical glass is three quarters full; mine is virtually drained dry. She sees the good in people who don't always deserve it; I'm a lifelong subscriber to the "guilty until proven innocent" school of thought. She's pure light, and I'm murky darkness. Right now,  for example, she's the poster child for wholesome beauty in her pretty purple tea dress, auburn hair perfectly straightened, and subtle make-up impeccable even after a long day in the office . . . Meanwhile, I'm rocking several layers of dry shampoo, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a wardrobe blacker than my soul.

"Are you actually enjoying this?" I growl at her. "Is this amusing to you?" She shrugs, her apparent nonchalance infuriating me even more.

"Just a tad?" She tips a little bit more of her drink into her mouth, making a face as it hits her taste buds. (The bar we're currently frequenting is one of the more pretentious ones in Glasgow's West End - the cocktails here will take an eye-watering chunk out of your monthly salary while falling to deliver on either quality or alcohol content.) "You've always been this super confident babe who basically just has to look at a man and snap her fingers, and he'll fall into line with you, so it's interesting to see you struggling."

"Let's get one thing straight." I'm speaking through virtually gritted teeth now. "I'm not struggling in any way. I could 100 per cent get that dude if I wanted. I've not lost my confidence." My gaze falls on the guy again, as if for reassurance, and he's still watching me. In fact, he goes as far as to wink at me. Normally, I'd find the cockiness hot. Tonight, it leaves me cold. "I just don't want him."

I find myself glaring at him slightly confrontationally now. As if it's his fault. Maybe it is. If he'd turned up a month ago, I wouldn't have hesitated in approaching him. So yeah, he's too late, and he's missed out on an amazing opportunity as a result.

(Does that sound braggy? It's justified, honestly. I'm pretty damn good at sex. You're probably not going to get to ever have the chance, though, so you're just going to have to take my word for it. Although I'm sure I could round up some glowing testimonials from former flings if you're still doubting me.)

Abby nods emphatically, holding her hands up as if in defence. "Okay, calm down. I didn't mean to imply all men are suddenly repulsed by you! So what's the plan then?  How are you going to get over the hump?" She sniggers.  "No pun intended, obviously."

Cheeky cow. 

"What can I do?" I slump dejectedly, slurping up the end of my drink. "I guess I just have to hope that it fixes itself somehow?"

"Hmm. It might not be that easy, you know: you might need to identify the root of the problem first," Abby muses, and I roll my eyes. I'm not quite ready for that level of introspection yet.

"Okay, Dr. Freud!" Reaching for my suede biker jacket, I slither down from my stool, eager to make my escape now. "How about we put the psychobabble on hold right now and go win the quiz instead?" But as soon as my feet hit solid ground, I feel a tap on my shoulder. 

It's him, of course.

He's even better-looking close-up, although he emanates arrogance so strong that it almost masks the subtler smell of his cologne. He grins once again, this time flashing even white teeth (so perfect that they were likely acquired via a trip to Turkey), but I can't even force my usual Evil-Vixen smile in return. Seriously, what is wrong with me? If anything, I'm just thoroughly infuriated by his audacity in assuming I'm actually into him!

"So I couldn't help noticing you noticing me," he begins. Jesus, it's a good thing he's pretty, with a terrible pick-up line like that! "I'm Pete, and you are?"

"Not interested," I reply bluntly, swirling away from him abruptly.

And as I blaze a hasty path towards the exit, Abby's nervous giggle trailing awkwardly behind me, I can't help but wonder if I'm ever going to get the old Lou Watson back.

Can't believe I'm finally/already posting chapter one! Hope you enjoyed it! 

*backs away nervously and hides*