Winter is Coming

I have light red hair and light blue eyes. My skin is pale and freckled. The hair on my arms and legs is fine and soft. I hail from good, solid, Anglo-Saxon and Celtic stock, and it’s evident in every aspect of my appearance, from ginger tip to flour-white toe. My ancestors were sailors, dockers and fishermen; coal-miners, tin-miners and factory-workers. Between them, they ensured that I’m built for cold, biting winds, and the sort of rain that kisses you softly at the start of the day and tucks you into bed at the end of it, without leaving your side in-between.

My last serious relationship was with a Spaniard. We argued about all the usual things – religion, football, Gibraltar (mainly Gibraltar) – but the most heated and vicious rows always circled back to the same divisive issue: the weather. She would come to England in June and shiver as we walked down the street, bundled up in coat and scarf while I gave her side-eyes in my shorts and t-shirt. I would visit Madrid in October and sweat my way through the city centre, darting from one pool of shade to another. I slept with the windows open in December. She slept with them closed in July. Neither of us could imagine living in the other’s crazy country, with its crazy climate. An irreconcilable difference, in the end.

Because as far as I’m concerned, heat is not fun. Heat is certainly not sexy. The cold – the cold is sexy. The cold makes me feel sexy. I have skinny-dipped in a waterfall on Skye in October. I’ve stood naked in the snow in the Sierra Nevada mountains, my cock hard as iron while the rest of me burned with an icy, metallic fire. I’ve fucked in frost-flecked fields under clear, starry January skies, and I’ve fucked in dark alleyways at 2 in the morning with our breath billowing around us in big white clouds.

The cold is sexy because when the rest of the world feels stripped of heat, it’s still possible for another person to come along and set fire to your blood. Everyone knows that power is an aphrodisiac: well what could be more powerful than someone who can banish the bitter, howling wind with one touch of their finger or brush of their lips? Physical contact in the cold means something. Like penguins, we draw closer together as the temperature drops; we hug, kiss, and rub each other’s skin to encourage sluggish arteries and sleepy veins. We find the best ways to move our bodies, and to raise our heart rates. We draw heat from each other, and create it together, in whatever way we know will make us feel good.

It’s not that I don’t like the sun. Give me a warm August afternoon, an ice-cold beer, and the opportunity to doze off on a rug in the park, and I’ll be a very happy man. I just won’t want to fuck you. I’ll still be horny, so fine, maybe we can exchange lazy kisses for a few minutes, or you can sink down onto my cock and feel it twitch inside you. You’ll look beautiful in your summer dress, and I’ll shade my eyes against the sun so I can see your face glowing above me. It’ll be great – we just won’t fuck. Fucking is hot, sweaty, sticky business, and that’s absolutely fine by me, but when I’m already hot, sweaty and sticky, the last thing I want to do is make that worse. What I want is to eat an ice cream, or drink a glass of white wine, or have a nice lie-down in a cool room.

It’s been hot this week in Warsaw. High 20s (low 80s for those of you reading in ‘merica), with only a bit of a drop-off once the sun goes down. I’ve spent a lot of time on my balcony, reading, drinking, and generally taking in the view. It’s been glorious, in a quiet, soporific sort of way, but for the most part I’m glad I haven’t had to share it. When the weather’s like this, I want to be quiet and still. I want to avoid excessive movement – walking is fine, but anything more feels like a luxury. I want to sleep naked and alone, duvet thrown onto the floor and sweat-soaked pillows pushed to one side. I want to take cold showers, not because I’m frustrated, but because I’m fucking hot.

There are always things you can do to warm up in winter, and most of those things are very enjoyable. Running around. Sitting by the fire. Taking a bath. Drinking tea. Eating big meals. Holding someone close and kissing them. Getting into bed together and rolling the duvet around you, then feeling for each other in the darkness. Fucking. Fucking hard. Fucking often. Fucking to keep the heat in and the cold out, and damn everything and everyone else. You can’t do that in summer. Summer is more civilised. Summer is about keeping cool – literally and metaphorically. Summer isn’t sexy, which is a terrible irony given how amazing women look in their sundresses and beach clothes. Summer isn’t sexy…until the storm breaks.

When it comes to sex, I’m a Celt and a Saxon. I’m a Stark of Winterfell. Winter is coming? Fucking bring it on.