Page 37 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Except... it’s not happening.
I try. I give it a decent effort—the sort of focused, practical approach that used to work without much fanfare. Eyes closed. Breath steady. I reach for the usual images: hands, heat, pressure. The murky but effective greatest hits reel.
But my brain has apparently gone freelance.
Instead of something slick and sexy, it keeps coughing up mental snapshots of Jasper—not even undressed. Just him, standing in my doorway, basket in hand, expression unreadable but steady. And the way he saidsocks, like it was the sexiest thing in the world.
Not arousing. Not explicitly. But still there. Lingering.
I switch tactics. Try a little more pressure. A bit faster.
Nothing. My clit is stubbornly semi-aroused but too tired to give me the release I am hoping for.
All I’m left with is the creeping frustration of trying to light a fire with damp matches. The longer I go, the more it starts to feel ridiculous—not sensual, not freeing, just... stubborn. Like my body’s rolled its eyes and goneNo, thanks; come back when you're actually in the mood.
I groan and give up. Hand flung across the pillow, legs tangled in the duvet, heart lightly irritated.
So now I’m under-stimulated and annoyed. Excellent. All I need is a cramp and a moth in the room and I’ll hit the bedtime hat trick.
I glance at the reindeer socks at the end of the bed. Snatch them up. Yank them on.
They’re cosy. Smug, almost. Like theyknowthey’re part of the problem.
I stare at the ceiling and let out the quiet, exasperated laugh of a woman fully betrayed by her own libido.
I donotfancy Jasper.
I donotwant anything complicated.
I just wanted a quick, efficient release and a bit of sleep. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently yes.
I sigh, sit up, and reach for my phone like a woman on a mission. If hands won’t do the job, throw technology at it. It’s practically modern self-care. Somewhere between moisturising and replacing your dish sponge.
I typevibratorinto the search bar, already regretting what the algorithm’s going to do with that later, and scroll past the pink monstrosities shaped like cartoon dolphins. I’m not after whimsy. I want results.
I find a nice-looking one. Slim, unthreatening. Quiet, allegedly. Rechargeable. £29.99. Sensible. Respectable.
I’m about to click buy when I spot another model on the side panel.
It hasfeatures.
Lips. Not metaphorical ones—actual soft silicone lips, apparently designed to “focus precision stimulation on the clitoral area”. There’s also a flicky bit, curved, promising to “target the G-spot with rhythmic pulses.”
I stare at it.
It looks... capable.
Seventy-five quid. Which, frankly, is a grocery shop and a half. Or a decent coat for SJ. Or many other much more practical and necessary items.
I add it to my basket anyway. Sit there staring at the total like it’s a moral test.
Then I remove it. Obviously.
I sigh again, open the group chat and type:
Me
