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How I Sext a.k.a. Hygge Porn

[hit play then read]

Hello?

I woke up thinking about you.

It was the storm, I think.

I know how much you like violent thunderstorms.

This kind of weather has always put you in a certain…mood.

Me too, for that matter.

It has a way of making a person feel isolated from the rest of the world.

Which allows a kind of freedom to do the sort of things they may not necessarily do normally.

In the bright light of responsible, respectable day, I mean.

Are you thinking of me there with you now?

I want to watch you.

I want to watch you enjoying yourself. Just be quietly in your presence.

While the storm rages away.

Have you already lit some candles?

A fire is probably going too, huh?

And you’re down on the floor right in front of the hearth like you like to do on nights like tonight.

On that nest of soft blankets and pillows you take such care in building.

Because you know that on nights like this everything has to be just right.

A person has to savour nights like tonight—we don’t get storms this violent very often.

Storms that knock out the power so a person can’t be guilty about not working.

No. Nights like this allow us to do exactly what we’d like.

To take our time and luxuriate in our deepest desires—the things we daren’t allow ourselves normally.

We must seize these moments and recognise them for the gifts they are.

Can you feel the heat of the fire on your face, or are you on your side?

What position are you in? Are you on your back? Your stomach? With your weight on your elbows the way you like?

I want to sit in that overstuffed chair in the darkened corner—and watch you as you stop telling yourself what ‘you should be doing’ and instead…

Being utterly yourself. So unguarded.

Your attention isn’t on me—I’m not here for that anyway. You’re in your own mind—somewhere else.

But you let me watch.

Are you drinking tea? No… not on a night like this.

Tonight’s hot chocolate—made properly in a saucepan with a bit of cinnamon in.

And whipped cream on top. mmm Your favourite part.

In that giant mug you can barely hold in one hand.

Wouldn’t want to run out.

Sip it for me. Taste it.

What book are you reading?

Don’t lie… don’t behave as if that’s not the first thing that came to your mind when this storm raged up.

I know you’re reading… Just tell me what it is.

Don’t be shy—if it makes you happy then there must be something good about it.

You know I’d never judge your reading choices.

Is the book speaking to you?

I bet it is. Oh, I just bet it is.

And here you are, with nowhere to go.

Just you and your book and your favourite woolly jumper.

What socks are you wearing? Those ridiculous-looking yet crazy comfortable ones you got for your birthday?

Those socks… mmm So comfy. I can feel them in my hands now.

I put those socks on your feet and make sure you’re cozy, pulling the blanket up over your legs where it’s fallen as you’ve moved to take a biscuit from a nearby plate.

You placed it just a bit too far out of reach went settling down—silly you—and when you reached for it the blanket fell away to reveal your warmest pair of jog pants.

Those jog pants… So warm.

They match neither your favourite woolly jumper or those socks, but it doesn’t matter—it’s all about you tonight. Nothing is wrong or right—just what makes you feel good.

The chocolate that’s most definitely not on your diet…

And you’re going to finish an entire packet of biscuits with no shame.

No, you have nothing to be ashamed of.

It’s only a pity these sorts of nights are so rare.

But that makes them precious.

Between the fire, the blankets and your clothing it’s a wonder you’re not too hot.

Just sweltering.

But you’re not. You’re right where you want to be.

By a crackling fire with the rain like pebbles on the window.

The wind pressing in like a physical force, as though it’s trying to hold you down, keep you inside.

‘Stay where you are,’ it says, ‘No fretting about responsibilities now—just give in.’

‘Stay in,’ it says.

And that’s just what you’re going to do. Aren’t you?

Deep down, you know. You know there’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing.

You know you need this. Need it with an intensity the storm outside couldn’t match.

That’s right. Sip more of that cocoa. Lick the whipped cream from the corner of your mouth.

That mouth that has tasted so many cups of cocoa before.

But they’ve never been like this.

You’d swear none of them have ever been this good.

This rich and creamy. It’s heavy in your mouth and silky on your tongue.

With just that hint of cinnamon.

Yes. Taking the time to make it in the saucepan was well worth it.

Turn a page in your book.

The pages are heavy. Pulpy. You can’t stop yourself smelling them every few minutes, placing your face right in the gutter, feeling the pages slightly rough against either cheek, and inhaling deeply—you could never breathe in enough of the scent.

It reminds you of other books you’ve read with the same paper—lovely experiences in their own ways, but not the same.

No, this is a singular experience.

The paper hasn’t been treated to last as long as that used in some books, but you don’t care.

This is about right now.

And right now it’s just you and this book.

This book. Oh…this book.

It’s as though it was written just for you–every page introduces another character, another plot turn that thrills and delights you. The author’s command of language and symbolism and understanding of human nature… This person is a gift to the world.

You can’t wait to finish. But! You don’t want to finish.

No, no. Never let this experience end.

You want to share it with everyone—and keep it for yourself.

Holding it close to feel its reassuring solidity against your chest. You want to take it everywhere to remind you of this evening.

No one could feel the way you do about this book—they wouldn’t understand.

Their experience would be cheap in comparison to yours.

But nothing could cheapen your experience. This perfect evening of letting go.

Though you try to savour and remain in control—you’re reading fast and the night is long—the book will be finished soon.

Soon this will be a memory of a few magic hours.

You push the thought away—re-reads will re-capture some of this bliss—though nothing can be like the first time.

You only hope the author has more work available.

More more more.

You only want more.

More of this intellectual, soul connection. More of this sweet, hot cocoa. More of this woolly jumper, nestled in front of a fire during a storm feeling.

Cut off from the entire world. It’s just you and the words and the world the words bring to life.

A world you feel so at home in.

Why does morning have to come?

Your mind is made up on the existence of a Creator.

For no kind, loving being would be so cruel as to allow a person a glimpse of paradise only to snatch it away so quickly.

Alas, we wouldn’t appreciate heaven if we lived there every day.

You finish the book–the ending unpredictable but entirely satisfying and lie on your back, pressing it close, running your fingers over the cover–not ready to let go just yet.

Just one moment longer. You bask, staring up at the ceiling, allowing yourself to re-experience the more memorable events of the night.

The ones you know will be with you forever.

But it has been a full evening–many hours have passed since you began–and the emotional whirlwind has taken its toll.

Your eyelids grow heavy, the warmth of the fire and your clothing finally makes itself known, and nudges you towards rest.

You fight it–just one remembrance more… please. Please.

[This writing also appeared on Medium. If you are a member there and you enjoyed it, please give it some love.]

[An audio recording of this writing is available to all supporters of the Patreon.]