Full link: https://www.gq.com/story/6-sexy-christmas-songs-for-setting-the-mood?utm_source=nl&utm_brand=gq&utm_mailing=gq_daily_122519&utm_medium=email&bxid=5c5cba14283d8e788b2c6f8c&cndid=56356405&hasha=b357a3f7d7c5d1ec57c25e9b6231f8b6&hashb=aeff271f8ff4a7fd8fe495e655c0eb7b5e4fe7ac&hashc=1f8ce695fd760fb4d65e389189e83ccceb06e601bec24bb9c826250bee570416&esrc=bounceX&utm_campaign=gq_daily_122519&utm_term=GQ_Daily_Active
Everybody knows the best part of Christmas is cozying up with your loved one as they absolutely rail you from all angles, your body heat rising up like steam off the hottest toddy and fogging your single apartment window while winter descends over the city.
It’s all sexy fun and reindeer games until: “Babe, put some music on?”
An impossible request. For one, you’re a little busy! And two: because there are so many Christmas songs and secular winter tunes, but so few that are appropriate for carnal encounters.
But—oh! What’s this, under the sex tree? Why, it’s your first gift of the season! A handy soundtrack for your, his, her, and their pleasure: the best Christmas songs to fuck, pound, and make love to.
What’s the mood? Drinking in the azure irises of your lover, like an Olympic diver gazing out at the pool beneath them.
What are we saying to each other? Nothing! Just mouthing the lyrics to “Winter Prayers” by Iron & Wine.
What am I buying my partner for Christmas? An Air Fryer that they did not ask for but that you did read about online.
What’s the mood? Your harlot mother is cheating on your father—who has been working such long hours lately, all so he could buy her the new Pandora charms she wanted—with the jolly specter of winter, Kris Kringle. It is unclear how long the affair has been going on, but eyewitness reports seem to recur every year during the Christmas season.
What’s your sign? Statistically, the most popular astrological signs in the United States are Scorpio and Virgo, each making up nearly 10 percent of our nation’s population. Virgo season begins nine months after Christmas ends. Were you conceived on Christmas? Is Santa your father?
What’s the mood? Oh, you like this, you dirty little trash pig? Do I hear the pathetic little squeal of an insolent swine, requiring punishment?
Sorry sir, I— What did you just say? Did you just say sorry, you king of the pussyface hobgoblins?
What’s our safe word? Fruitcake.
What’s the mood? “Wanna try something?” she asks. A warm chill floods through your body—you nod feebly. Her skin, candlelight-kissed, melts into the satin duvet beneath you. The light is moving, illuminating the contours of her waist, her sloping clavicle, her poison eyes. What is that light? It’s the candle, suspended in her hands. She tips it over—you see a clear drop of wax fall in slow motion. There it goes. Falling…falling. It meets your skin and a chord bursts into a symphony.
Happy Christmas, Harry: Happy Christmas, Ron.
What’s the mood? You call him Daddy; he doesn’t call you at all.
Where are we doing it? Room 114 of the Motel 8, whose picture window frames the Interstate Friendly’s like some kind of painting, its yellow light diffused by a passing snowstorm.
(Is this a Christmas song?) (Del Rey’s moody, lovesick Santa Monica sunset ballad is, no, not a Christmas song, nor a secular winter tune, but there are jingle bells sprinkled beneath the melody, which qualifies it for this category.)
(Does Lana Del Rey like to fuck on Christmas?) (While the singer has not disclosed her fondness for festive fornication, the presence of the lyric “Do I make you feel like Christmas time?” on Del Rey’s first studio album, in the romantic-erotic context of the song in which it appears, does not foreclose the possibility.)
What’s the mood? If there is a mood, it is only white-hot, wordless passion, and the percussion of two pelvises smashing together to the tune of “Christmas / Sarajevo 12/24.”
And then? Your partner’s body is a soft, snowy tundra and your tongue is a mighty, beating sleigh, bounding along the plains, discovering each hill anew.
After that? You are a ferocious Mrs. Claus swollen with passion, descending on your husband—whose workload lately has caused him to physically neglect you—on Christmas morning. Like a terrifying sex beast, you tear the red velvet from his body with your teeth, claiming what has always belonged to you.