By Bridget Zyka,Editor

Copyright dailymail

Given I’m now a happily married fortysomething mum of two, you’d be surprised at the mad lengths I’ve gone to in the pursuit of love over the years.

I’ve forked out four figures and flown halfway across the world just for a chance encounter with a crush. I’ve spent hours waiting in a pub in the hope of bumping into a former conquest.

I’ve even dropped a fortune on a new wardrobe because another told me he loved a woman in Ghost-style sheath dresses – which, let me tell you, don’t come cheap.

Think I’m mad? Probably. But ‘ordinary’ and ‘boring’ are not words you could have used to describe my approach to sex and love back in my single days.

You see, a wiser me looking back realises that I was hooked on the emotions I experienced with a new romantic interest. The prospect of kissing someone for the first time was intoxicating. I’d shake in anticipation of touching their bare skin.

Part of the fun was the expectation, the moulding myself to the vision I thought they’d want.

Some were married, some weren’t, but I didn’t give a hoot – I was intent on the high I associated with sex and romance. In other words, I was a love addict. And I probably still am.

Those feelings rose to the surface again with last week’s publication of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir, All The Way To The River. In it, the Eat, Pray, Love author recounts her love addiction and the lengths to which she has gone to feed it.

‘I have cheated on people and allowed myself to be cheated upon, I have tried to buy love with money. I have seduced people and discarded them, just as often as I have been seduced and discarded.’

She could just as easily have been describing me.

Like any other toxic dependency, my relentless pursuit of the high of new love has left a trail of destruction. I’ve been heartbroken more times than I care to mention – although more often than not I was the one doing the heartbreaking.

Once that excitement wore off – usually after three months – I’d back out, putting the blame on them. They’d be left heartbroken and baffled, but by then I’d have already begun plotting my next conquest.

I suppose I should feel guilty for the chaos I’ve caused – but I don’t. Maybe that’s proof I’m still in the clutches of addiction.

My standards were deliberately unattainable so I could justify continuing my search for this mythical dream man. I wanted an alpha male with beta male habits. I wanted brains and brawn, for him to be impulsive but only at the right times, to be artistic but level-headed. Impossible, I know.

I can trace the roots of my behaviour all the way back to my teens. I was in a five-year relationship from the age of 18, and I was never exactly faithful to him.

Yet even before that, from the first moment I was singled out and chatted up in the park as a teenager, I loved the feeling of being wanted, the heady excitement of wondering what could happen – and giving fate a helping hand to make sure it did.

After graduating from university with a degree in IT, I worked in technology and shared a flat with a friend in London.

Like Gilbert, I’m charming and erudite, sexually adventurous and extremely easy on the eye. You’d think, then, that I’d be spoilt for choice working in such a male (and let’s face it, nerd) dominated industry.

But that would have been too easy. Where’s the thrill of the chase when you’re asking Brian, the data geek, out for a drink after work?

No, I needed to make it a challenge. There was nothing like the rush of waiting for hours for a text back. The more unattainable, the better. After all, the thrill came almost entirely from the chase. I had no interest in a serious relationship. So at 26 I handed in my notice and moved to Canada for a year on a work visa.

There is something about boarding a flight and saying sayonara to your everyday life that means you get a free pass.

Socialising with new friends out there I’d go all out with my clothes, dressing to showcase my figure. I’m a curvy woman and am very feminine, which most guys adore. A dress which flatters the cleavage and a pair of heels will make most men come to, er, heel.

Girlfriends kept me at arm’s length during this period of my life – but I wasn’t hugely bothered. Friends were just useful companions to go scouting for men with – and I was comfortable enough doing that alone.

I have, on more than one occasion, found myself locking lips with a friend’s guy. I’d blame her, him, alcohol, the moon, the ‘serendipitous’ circumstances; anyone, anything, but me.

I would chat up men with lines like, ‘Would you like to be my first Canadian boyfriend?’ Corny, yes, but more often than not I’d wake up in my target’s arms.

I never gave much thought to an actual future with any of them. Doubtless there were some gems among the men I rejected.

But I was never invested enough to know. Typically I’d have one guy I was reeling in, one I was in some sort of relationship with and another I was letting go of.

So there wasn’t much space for deep connection. I needed the safety net of knowing that when I inevitably got bored, I had someone waiting in the wings.

Besides, the validation of three men at once meant I was far too busy to stop and examine my actions.

I was admirably skilled at it, but sometimes I got myself into trouble. One Canadian conquest’s girlfriend called me, screaming at me to get out of her country. It wasn’t pretty.

Another guy I cast a spell over also had a long-term partner. She was livid when she found out and made all sorts of threats. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that butting in on their relationship with my Jessica Rabbit figure and promises of mind-blowing sex actually wasn’t a very sisterly thing to do.

After a year of causing mayhem in Canada I recognised it was time to leave, not when my visa had expired but when one Liam Hemsworth lookalike mentioned he was flying to New Zealand.

We were both working for the same tech company and hadn’t so much as kissed, but the chemical pull whenever we saw one another was too much for me to ignore. I told myself he’d specifically let me know he was leaving because he wanted me to follow him. I booked my ticket within hours.

I tied up most loose ends in Canada, handing in my notice at work and giving up my flat . . . but I failed to conclude things with the guy I was seeing.

I half-heartedly kept in touch with him, while vigorously pursuing my new obsession. I succeeded – and we ended up living together for three months. But then I got a call that left me, for once, speechless.

My Canadian boyfriend told me he was flying across the world to see me. Of course, I met up with him and ended up back at his rental apartment.

I was shocked at how little guilt I felt, even when I got back to the man I’d been living with in the early hours to find him waiting for me.

The sex with my Canadian boyfriend was incredible – maybe that numbed my conscience a little. I ended things with Mr New Zealand soon after.

And when my Canadian flew out again, I simply didn’t turn up at the airport. Not my finest hour, I know.

After this whole saga, I returned to London and met my husband, Aldo, in a pub in Covent Garden. By this point I was 36, my biological clock was ticking and I craved a long-term relationship. The sexual attraction between us was so immense that we slept together on the first night and married within a year. We’ve now got two little boys.

And for the first time in a relationship I didn’t get itchy feet at three months. Aldo was a permanent fixture in my home and I liked it.

Still, I get my thrills where I can. I’m always flirty with other men, but the difference nowadays is I know where to draw the line. But I like to think the frisson of excitement with other men keeps my marriage exhilarating.

So no, I’ve got no desire to recover from this addiction.

Now that I’m older, I love my younger self for charging into relationships utterly shamelessly. Yes, things were messy, yes I was impulsive, but will I look back and wish I’d played it safe?

I think we all know the answer to that.

As told to Samantha Brick