This year, Valentine’s Day was cold. Really cold. Not just because I was alone (which I was), but temperature wise, it was negative five degrees Fahrenheit in Providence. In order to ring in yet another year of solitude, I will describe how my fantasy encounter would go down on an eve like this, if I had a willing participant to my de-robing, besides my mirror. (My mirror recently issued me a cease and desist, mentioning specifically that I stop practicing my poorly choreographed stripping in front of it). Things are about to get hypothetically naked.
First, the music must be dealt with. Normally, people choose one track to which they can seduce their partner. I prefer to keep it classic, and cue Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On. Unfortunately, I am wearing so many layers of clothing today, that I would have to secure an entire Marvin Gaye album or playlist in order to allot the appropriate amount of time to unearth my knickers. *For the sake of argument, let’s say I hired a Bar Mitzvah DJ just for this special occasion, and he will take care of all of the music.*
I walk in, dim the lights, and the gloves come off. I make sure to stuff one inside the other, so I don’t lose them for when I have to go back outside. Then slowly, and erotically, I start to take my hat off. I try to get rid of all the static hat hair by vigorously patting my head. Next, I remove my scarf. Of course, it is snuggly wrapped around me, so this takes a decent amount of spinning and untucking. I probably mess up my hair again, and might need to refer to a mirror to muss with it (sorry mirror, I know you hate me). Things start to get hot.
No seriously, I am still wearing my coat, and now I am overheating. I fan myself, and then unzip my jacket. The zipper gets stuck on my fuzzy sweater, but it is still really, really sexy. I toss my jacket aside. Crap, I left my phone in my front pocket. I go retrieve my phone, place it gently on the coffee table, and go back to being the impeccable seductress that I am. I smoothly bend down, and start to unlace my snow boots. I lose my balance a couple of times, and stumble. You reach over, like, “Hey, Caitlin, do you want me to help?” And I’m all “No, jeez, I can take off my own shoes.”
The fuzzy sweater comes off. It was holding a lot of static, and my undershirt comes up with it – like halfway. Just enough where my skin is definitely showing, but it’s not cute. The sweater is discarded, and the undershirt is pulled back down. Next, I strip off my business socks. I ball them up, and toss them far across the room, just in case they smell bad. Time for my fleece lined leggings. These come off with ease, because they were baggy, and rather unflattering anyway.
Behold, you have me in just my shirt, and my long john-heat tech-inner leggings from Uniqlo. “Aren’t long underpants for kids?” you ask. No, they are also for sensual adults. Like me. I take them off, because you are remembering ski trips from your childhood, and it’s starting to get weird.
My very pale, white butt is sticking out from under my shirt, and I feel like I probably should’ve taken off the shirt first, and then the pants, but whatever – I go with it. I remove my shirt, and throw it in your face. It is way sexier in the movies than it is in real life. You take my shirt off your face, taste a weird blend of rayon and polyester, and let it fall to the floor.
I am standing in my bra and underwear. My bra is tan colored, and has absolutely no lace. It is a T-shirt bra, built for pure function, and not seduction. Honestly, I didn’t expect to be getting ass tonight, so you can’t blame me. I fumble around with my hands behind my back, trying to unhook it, while you wonder if any deodorant can stand the test of that many layers. I slip off my underwear. It has an old period stain on it that I tried to scrub out, but the discoloration remained. Panties are expensive. All you can manage is a breathless, “Thank you.” We commence the baby making. It is short, and lackluster.
With that vision, I leave you, my imaginary lover, and bid you a fond, “You’re welcome.”
P.S. So weird that I’m still single, right?
Image via, and via Caitlin Dorman ’16.