We all have secrets. Some of them are just little confidential thoughts, but others are vast conspiracies in our heads, of huge import, and guiding everything we think and do. And in no area do we keep more secrets than in sex. Everyone has a sex secret, and most people have many more than one.

I’m writing this sitting in a café in Canary Wharf. All around me are people getting ready for the business day, and right here in the café there are other people tapping away at their mobiles and laptops, all engaged in serious activity.

Sitting to my left is a suited-and-booted banker: he doesn’t realise it, but I can see the diagrams on his screen, and he’s rather foolishly left his notes on the table between us, so I can easily see his secret: he’s arranging financing for a company with offices in Tampa, Florida.

Diagonally opposite me is another banker, a slim Indian guy. His secret arrives as I watch: a tall red-headed girl. From the quick check of the café before they kiss, I guess I’m looking at an illicit office affair.

And sitting directly opposite me is the cutest of the bunch: early 20s, mousy hair, good skin, nicely muscled in a brown T-shirt. I’d certainly be interested, if he would ever look up from his iPad.

He’s got the full gamut of Apple accessories – iPhone, iPod, iEarpieces, and, for all I know, might even have an iCockring somewhere under his jeans. Sadly, he’s not looking at me, but I know his secret anyway: he likes being dominated by Steve Jobs.

In fact, nobody is looking at me. Eyes slide over me, but I’m completely anonymous. I suppose they look at me tapping away at my keyboard, and they think – if they think at all – “Oh, another banker with a laptop.”

Because that’s what I look like: a banker with a laptop. They don’t know that I’m writing a sex column: it’s my little secret. The other day a colleague asked me, as I left the office, what my plans were for the coming weekend, and as usual I replied, “Nothing much.

Just catch up on my sleep, I suppose,” even though I already knew that there was a club and a sauna on the agenda, and an excellent possibility of blowjobs and hot fucks in one of London’s more dubious back-rooms. I keep my secrets, just like everyone else.

Well, Saturday rolled around, and, just as planned, I headed off to one of London’s sleazier dance clubs. I danced, of course, and enjoyed a beer or two, but the real reason for my being there was the club’s large, friendly dark room.

I struck lucky virtually the moment I walked in: right by the door was a short, rather well-muscled bear. All I had to do was stand opposite him and rub my balls through my jogging pants (much easier to slip down than jeans), and in a few seconds he was pulling his dick out and motioning for me to come over.

We played with each other for a couple of minutes, but it was soon obvious that he was much less of an exhibitionist than me, so I left him and carried on wandering. Just as I was about to head back to the dance floor I saw a striking blond come in through the other door.

He was in just white tennis shorts and white trainers, and had a Teutonic, almost military air. I instantly reversed direction, and in a moment we were heading towards each other. As he passed me he slowed down, and so did I.

We stopped just past each other, and, realising my opportunity, I reached out and teased a nipple. He moaned in an encouraging sort of way, so I got a little more personal, and ran my hand down to his shorts. Hmmm, nice bulge.

He pulled me to one side, out of the main flow of silent cruisers, and our hands started exploring. After a minute he pulled me close and started kissing me. He tasted curiously like wintergreen and beer, and I guessed he’d been chewing gum earlier.

One thing led to another, and soon his shorts were down below his knees, and my trackie bottoms were on the floor. He didn’t get fully hard immediately, but when he did it was a full 8-incher, surrounded by a thick bush and supported by two large, hairy balls.

We were soon sucking each other, taking turns to bend down and swallow deep. He was an exceptionally talented sucker, paying particular attention to the head, where the nerve cells are most concentrated, and although I hadn’t planned to do it quite so soon after arriving in the club, it didn’t take us long before we were both shooting our loads onto the floor.

After we’d both wiped down and pulled up, I asked him his name. “Fritz,” he said. I didn’t ask, but from his accent I assumed that he was German. I congratulated him on his blowjob and asked if he wanted a name-check in QXMen as one of the best cock-suckers in London.

“Oh no,” he said, “Nobody knows I’m gay; it’s a secret.” “How about if I change your name?” “OK,” he said. “Just keep my identity secret.” So his name’s not Fritz, of course, but everything else is true, and, ‘Fritz’, if you’re reading this I just want to say that I had a great evening, and you can suck me anytime!

Of course, there are some secrets that should remain secret. Just after I’d cleaned myself up from Fritz, I found myself talking to a guy from Hillingdon, who’d made the long trek into central London for a few beers and (presumably) a shag in the dark-room.

“Everyone has a sex secret, and most people have many more than one.”

In chatting, I told him I was writing a column on ‘Secrets’, and, quite unprompted, he told me his: he writes poetry. Remembering Heinlein’s dictum that people who write poetry may have other unsavoury habits, I tried to change the subject, but it was too late, he’d already started reciting his works. It took me twenty minutes to escape!

Sometimes, though, keeping something secret can be a bad idea: if we’re so embarrassed by sex that we don’t even mention our preferences to our own partners. A few months ago I was at a sauna, watching a particularly hot scene being acted out: a slim bottle-blond was down on the floor, grovelling on his hands and knees as a slightly older Italianate guy worked his ass with fist and cock.

He was clearly loving it, and I could immediately see that humiliation, or at least the imagined humiliation that some scenes provide, was his particular kink. This was his little secret, and he was acting it out in front of a room full of hard-fucking men.

And then he looked up, and I saw his face. It was Paul, my ex- from years before. Paul, the cute little twink from Mottingham I’d dated after he picked me out as the butchest guy in a West End bar (and, oh, how my friends laughed at that one!).

After he’d had his fun, I went over to chat to him. It took him a moment to recognise me.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you here either. You always seemed so innocent.”

“I used to keep my sleazy side secret,” he replied. “I never wanted to say what I really liked, in case it made you lose interest in me. I was embarrassed.”

“Oh.” There wasn’t much else I could say, because I didn’t want to say what was going through my head, which was “But the reason I broke up with you is because you were too vanilla in bed.” I kept that thought secret.