When the sun extends its long arms toward verdant plants and trees, and the earth breathes with birth and growth, I’m eager to jump out of bed in the morning, naked as the day I was born, and play for hours out in the open.
But days like today – when it’s far below freezing – I want to burrow. Weather has a definite impact on the type of sex I’m in the mood for, and winter is meant for wrapping my legs tight around and pressing my body flat against a partner. For cuddling for lengthy periods, desperate to warm ourselves by clinging to each other; for making love by candlelight; for diving under the duvet in the mornings and breathing in the stale heat of each other’s carbon dioxide until we literally need to come up for air. For drinking steaming cups of tea and coffee in bed and running baths so hot that we sink in centimeter by centimeter to get used to it and come out flushed and wrinkled.
I’m at my least kinky in winter, unless there’s central heating – but winter is when I feel most connected, communal, and rooted. I get this overwhelming feeling when sitting on a hearth and staring into a fire – my past and future meet and I can see all of the possibilities of the new year lying ahead, and I feel the interconnectedness of all things for a fleeting moment.
For me, spring and fall are for starting over and letting go; summer is for spontaneity and relishing new experiences. Winter is for reflection, for deep love and compassion, and for holding tight to the people we hold most dear.
I run cold, so winter is also for asking nicely to be warmed up by any means necessary. When we come home to each other, it gives me the opportunity to say, “I’m freezing; can you make me sweat?”