Tired of sensitive, considerate men, British women are paying to date bad boys who'll treat 'em mean to keep 'em keen. Laura Millar signs up with the dating agency where tears before bedtime guaranteed.

When it comes to dating, I am my own worst enemy. Well-meaning friends have set me up with plenty of caring, sensitive guys who shared their problems and aspirations, asked me questions about myself, paid for dinner and didn't lunge at me afterwards, but every encounter left me strangely dissatisfied.

Pleasant and polite is one thing, but what I really want is passion: smouldering glances, a heady rush of hormones, and the prospect of stubble rash the morning after from a man who looks like he knows how to steer an Aston Martin with one hand while mixing the perfect martini with the other. I want to be waiting by the phone, longing for it to ring, and consoling myself with flashbacks from a night of pure, sensual sin. You don't really get that from a bloke who works in accounting. But you do get it from a cad.

So when London bon vivant and man-about-town David Piper, 25, launched the International Cadogram Service in April this year, I couldn't call him fast enough. His agency offers eight assorted rogues, dandies and bounders to choose from; you simply let them know what you'd like to hire them for - from accompanying you on a shopping trip to squiring you at dinner - and where to meet. So far, more than 50 high-powered working women have signed up, and David plans to launch in the US later this year.

Cads aren't cheap; one date is $1200. But, as the website says: "What would you rather - another dreary date wit an inelegant, selfish, boring and boorish dullard, complaining of his sensitivities and problems at work, telling the same stories while checking his BlackBerry? Or a zest-filled, lightning encounter with a masterly raconteur, a rakish man of the world, someone who will hold doors open for you, take command of the situation, pay you undivided attention in the most stylish manner?" No contest. I set up a date with David himself.

The Date

We've arranged to meet at 8pm at Sketch, a stylish Mayfair bar, and I get there 10 minutes early so I can arm myself with a little Dutch courage. Forty minutes later, he's still not arrived, and I'm starting to think I've been stood up.

But all of a sudden, David flounces in - a slim, dandyish figure clad in a beige suit jacket, accessorised with a silk scarf and alligator-skin shoes. He strides over, clutches my hand, kisses it, and proceeds to apologise profusely. It transpires a friend just announced his engagement so he stopped off for "a few" glasses of champagne.

I'm all set to be huffy, but when he sits down opposite me, pulls me towards him and fixes me with the bluest, most penetrating stare I've ever been, well, penetrated with, I'm sorry to say I melt. "Darling, I'll make it up to you," he says smoothly, and proceeds to look around for a barman. "There's a waitress just there," I tell him, pointing out the attractive blonde hovering nearby. "Why would I want her when I've got a beautiful woman sitting right here?" he purrs, and I'm starting to feel a little unnerved by how seductive one man's full attention can be.

To find out more about our writer's date with a cad, see the October issue of marie claire.