Creaming Spires: 3rd week Michaelmas

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In a city that never sleeps (because of essay deadlines) I couldn’t help but wonder why it’s been a few months since I last wore my favourite lace corset. It’s been gathering dust in my wardrobe all summer, when the students were gone and locals came out to play. It’s been lying unused since Michaelmas started. I’ve been getting through my days and nights in simple bra and knickers combinations; simple, to an easily bored woman, is only good for so long. My first instinct was to lace up, find my (similarly dusty by now) stockings, and go to Park End. You know the rest. Find a suitable — insert non-objectifying sexy word here — dance a bit, get into The Tab for overt PDA, call a taxi, go to his room, and then… And then I remembered the reason why I don’t often wear fancy lingerie any more.

It was roughly the third time I was going to sleep with this particular male and the routine was already starting to kill me. I wanted to spice it up a little, and a black see-through babydoll seemed like just the right touch. I love lingerie. It makes me feel sexy, I look damn good in it, and the more complicated it is to put on, the more exciting it is to take off… So I went to see my guy with all the confidence in the world that I’m in for a good, good night. Except that when he realised that what he’s dealing with here requires more attention than a standard bra, he panicked. What was hard in my hand before suddenly acquired the consistency of a jellyfish. Goodbye long sensuous lovin’ and hello disappointment. He mumbled something awkwardly and I lost all interest.

What I didn’t expect to lose, however, was confidence. After all I am the girl who puts Agent Provocateur on the Christmas list every year (yes mummy of course I am still a virgin why do you ask?) Yeah, we don’t live in Samantha Jones land, but that doesn’t mean we can’t play with lace and leather, right? Before coming up to Oxford I had a fantasy of sophisticated eroticism. A classy old room in a tower somewhere, champagne in a bucket of ice, me slowly pulling off my burlesque gloves… Yet more often than not, reality is more like, “Hey babe want a quick shag? My tute’s in fifteen minutes.” Hot. Not. But I haven’t kissed Mr Big goodbye just yet. I believe he’s hiding somewhere, drunk,  in one of Wahoo’s corners, and this corset isn’t going to unlace itself… No honey, I don’t dress like that just for Halloween.

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