A mind-blowing orgasm. Sorry Mariah, it’s nothing personal. Honestly. I love love love this time of year. The air is so cool you can practically drink it. The bright sunshine contrasted against the deep blue sky highlights the beauty of the changing colours. The nights draw in, and the smell of autumn dominates, covering the London smog. The misty fog rolls across the fields as we yawn our way into the city.
The current trend for luxe, baroque and Trans-Siberian fashion fill my head with Anna Karenina-esque fantasies of pre-Bolshevik Russia and gentlemen. Nights spent dancing and quaffing champanskiy, wandering along Nevsky Prospekt with my current squeeze. Granted shagging in the doorway of the Winter Palace isn’t exactly historically accurate, not to mention somewhat difficult in those meringue dresses but hey it’s my fantasy.
The bright lights of the city shine. We are bathed in their glow, basking in the exciting night-life Hollywood feel. It’s getting cooler, so we wrap up snug and warm with the breeze on our faces. We feel the excitement of the seasons changing, from the heady summer hedonism to the tingle of autumn and the promise it holds. Birthdays, Halloween, guy Fawkes night, festive festivities and the exploding butterflies as your summer suitor becomes more than that. You go on dates, the spark ignited by him taking your hand and you feel a pull down there. Or you go online dating and find that actually, there could be something in this. The new York, sex and the city-savvy men ARE out there, waiting to sweep you off their feet with their dazzling dancing, intimate intellectual interests, and ability to blow your mind in every sense. It whispers promise as his cool whisper curls around your eardrum, setting off a sensuous shiver down your spine as somehow his words translate to a siren call to your clit. You pulse at the thought of him, and your emotions pulse too.
There is something oh so exciting about this time of year. The days get shorter but the nights, oooooh those nights get longer. Which is good – except for when you want to hibernate. I like my sleep. I don’t like it interrupted. Once the party is over, and the wild child has stumbled back under her stale-smoke smelling rock ready to snore herself into oblivious stupor, I like my space. My privacy and my bed to myself. So how does one turn a sweaty sleep under a super-high tog duvet into a seduction scene worthy of Sharon Stone?
Alas (used purely for literary purposes and without a hint of regret) I had no summer suitor. Thus, I have no potential honey to spoon and shag by the fire, radiating smug warmth and inner contentment. Suits me – more money for my Christmas present to myself. But I do want some pleasure – as a lapsed hedonist, I need it. So I’m enlisting the help of old faithful – Santa. Last year I thanked His Royal Awesomeness for my peace. This year I am asking him for one night of pure pleasure. I don’t want a boyfriend, nor a relationship with emotional investment, but I want this. I’ve been ‘informed’ that I have been damaged by my precious relationship. I have also been ‘informed’ that I am a modern feminist taking a stand and bucking the trend of settling (THAT was a fun debate held over my head).
Dear Santa, I am writing early because mummy taught me to plan ahead and be organised. Plus my wish is a little more complicated than a Barbie or a house,a brother and a dad. This year I would like a night of perfect sex, with a stunningly sculptured selfless and skilled lover, who will take me to kingdom come – repeatedly. I want it on the perfect night, when I’m not so cold as to be hibernating, nor too warm to feel uncomfortable. I want the stamina and the sex drive to satiate me, until I can take no more.
And in return, I promise to be a good girl and not get so drunk at the office Christmas do that I wake up next to the tubby twat from finance, with broken memories of playing strip poker and dancing on the bar/table/CEO’s lap.
And I’ll leave you an extra mince pie and carrot for Rudolph too.