THE SEX DIARIES: French Louis was the hottest dad at the school gates. He pressed me against the wall of a bar… and we couldn’t control our lust

School has started again and, as luck would have it, I immediately bumped into Louis, the handsome French dad, kissing his two well-dressed and adorable kids goodbye.

After my five-year-old daughter Emi made her own reluctant and slightly dishevelled way through the playground, I looked at Louis ­awkwardly. The last time I had spoken to him properly was when I kissed him goodbye . . . in his bed.

That was several months ago now, when my boyfriend Eliot and I had been in an off period of our then on-off romance.

The fact Louis, who is divorced, had children of his own was an advantage.

I needed someone who could take the hurly-burly of family life in his stride; Eliot struggled with me having three children, the eldest of whom, 15-year-old Hector, is nearer his age than mine.

Louis was a kind father and a known Dilf. He touched my arm. ‘Good to see you ­Annabel,’ he said, in his hot French accent.

I threw up a silent prayer of thanks that I’d pulled a brush through my hair that morning and bothered to put on actual trousers rather than my usual dog-hairy leggings. Louis was well-dressed as always: chic taupe shorts, an expensive-looking hoodie and a pair of Adidas Sambas. His beard was carefully unkempt.

‘What have you been up to over the summer?’ I asked. I was glad I had the dog to stroke, my heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

‘I’ve been working non-stop,’ he said. ‘The kids were wizz zairre mother ze whole time.’

As the other parents drifted off, Louis and I stayed on, sticking strictly to small talk. He was a lighting technician, but the money was not enough as a freelance, he said, to pay rent and feed his kids.

I scanned his face for signs of awkwardness, but there were none. Perhaps there had been many other women this summer.

I knew he’d made a pass at least one other single mum. At the same time, I was calculating whether I should ask him for a dog walk, or a drink. Was he boyfriend material? Louis was hot, even if not as hot as Eliot. He was younger than me, but only by seven or eight years, rather than ­Eliot’s 21, which would please my children, who were struggling with the age gap.

(Hector had recently asked me: ‘What’s wrong with Eliot that he only dates old people? Isn’t he ashamed of you in front of his mates?)

During the summer term, after lessons finished Louis and I had often sat together with other parents in the park while the kids played.

We talked about the benefits of stoicism as well as the usual parent chat. I was impressed by his vocabulary, especially given he was French. And unlike me, he’d managed to have a ‘good’ divorce.

There had been no vibe there, though – until I bumped into Louis in a local bar a week later.

I was with my friends when I spotted him downstairs in the dancefloor area. He seemed out of context in his preppy jacket and chinos. I was pleased to see him. I’d had a few drinks already; the music was too loud for ­philosophical discussions.

‘I didn’t know you came here!’ I shouted. He shrugged. It was the first French gesture I’d seen him make. ‘Me too,’ he said. Meeting in a dive bar changed everything. It was as if we were both in on the same joke, and we spent the evening wheeling around together, his arm around my shoulders.

We drank quite a lot, and we didn’t talk about our children. No more than an hour later we were kissing, pressed up against the wall. When the bar closed it was obvious I was going back to his. I was still tipsy when Louis threw his children’s toys and clothes off his bed to make way for me.

He was surprisingly messy, and his two rented rooms were a bit gloomy, but who was I to judge?

I’d managed to keep hold of my house only with my mother’s financial help.

We fell down on the bed together, and he lay on top of me and kissed me. His hands roamed under my shirt, squeezing my breasts.

The hilarity I’d felt at the bar was draining away now things were getting real. But Louis’s hands on my nipples felt good, and I could feel how excited he was as he rotated his hips.

He didn’t feel as good to kiss as Eliot — I don’t love facial hair — and his biceps were definitely not as big.

He wasn’t lacking in other areas though . . . I had to stop comparing! I was here now, and Eliot wasn’t. Louis was charming and kind and raring to go, so I let him pull off my tights and unzip my skirt.

We got onto the main act quickly; I wasn’t up to swinging from the chandeliers, even if there had been any. Louis was considerate and gentle, he waited for me to orgasm before he finished.

He should have been perfect for me. But now, stood at the school gates three months later, I was falling in love with Eliot.

Was Louis boyfriend material? Probably. Just not for me, right now. I’d have to walk the dog alone.

Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.