Fully aware that my heart could feel as if it had been pummelled with a rain of bullets, I called the Spanish Inquisition from my hotel room in Madrid.

Here I was, on business, wondering after all of our intense conversation over the super-romantic medium that is a Skype webcam, and only after rumbling in the hay once before, whether it would be a good idea to see this person in the flesh.

For one, both of us wouldn't be intoxicated to the eyeballs by copious amounts of sangria. For two, would it not break my heart to be with this man, only to have him leave afterwards without even turning to glance at me over his shoulder?

To come or to go?

I have already determined that the man couldn't care if I come or go, therefore having a hasty, Spanish shag on the vast expanse of the queen size bed of my Intercontinental Hotel, could well be a grave mistake.

I made the call.

We'd had such fun together during the week we actually met, running around like pre-pubescent teenagers, openly kissing in alleyways and scampering through open-air markets giggling, my hand clasped in his.

However, during that time there was no expectation. It was one night, filled with sweaty bedroom activities and juvenile public displays of saliva swapping.

We all know when sex goes wrong: the woman hopes that the man doesn't just discard her after he has intricately explored her inner orifices. It's always the woman who wants some sort of reassuring rebuttal afterwards, of that I'm aware.

So it was with some trepidation I met Juan. You can prepare yourself for possible heartbreak only so much. A pep talk and firm disposition will take you a long way. However, after familiarising myself with his burly and Mediterranean-style chest hair, my heart may develop a mind of its own — as it tends to do…

High heels and dashed hopes

He pulled up at the train station, as I waited outside with a freshly powdered nose and wearing a pair of my higher stilettos. Red patent leather, in the hope that he went for them like the bulls in his hometown of Pamplona tend to do.

He stepped off, sporting a shaggy beard and a backwards cap. I don't remember thinking to myself, 'Maybe I should phone that Spanish e-boyfriend of mine up when I'm there. I've always wanted to sleep with someone who mirrors Fred Durst, after all.'

Of course, it was suddenly over-the-top awkward. I was tottering in my spike heels, on the uneven cobbles, which usually look romantic in films like 'After the Sunset', but now only posed a potential hazard. All while he leered at me with his unkempt facial hair hoping for a kiss, I presume, like the many we shared on that Sangria-filled evening.

Where was the usually confident and enchanting Spanish humanoid that I'd grown accustomed to on the other side of my computer screen?

I know people have been telling me that it's always different once they step out from beyond the video conference, and that I should be a forewarned, but in those first 20 seconds, all my well-formed illusions had come crashing down.

The romantic Spanish villa that had become the architectural icon of our future was teetering on the brink of destruction, much like my ankles in my ridiculously impractical heels.

I pushed it to the back of my mind; after all I'd psyched myself up to this point and had even had a last minute bikini wax, which hurt like hell. So there was no turning back now.

Perhaps we just had to get used to each other in real life, as opposed to e-reality?

Not such an oil painting

We stiffly undressed, and he made the grand faux of folding his trousers whiles doing so. This made me wince openly, where was the reckless abandon? What followed was a session of seismically sweat less and detached semi-copulation.

'Semi', because I'm not certain what really occurred as my eyes were closed the whole time, so that my brain could recapture what it had experienced the first evening.

Perhaps what was missing were the alcoholic fruity concoctions, or maybe, just my slippery grip on reality.

I'd conjured up a picture, and suddenly it wasn't an oil painting.

After a somewhat staid dinner involving a bottle of wine that neither touched sides nor softened his backwards cap or our generally stiff demeanour towards each other, I made the 'I need to catch up on some work' excuse.

And the Spanish Inquisition was over as soon as it started. What a relief. I'd plucked up the courage to see him, and thank goodness. It was just the cure I'd needed from an intense e-relationship.