A slim package dropped onto my doormat.
It was my 2018 calendar, and it was filled with gorgeous male models.
I flicked through its pages. This year’s boys were fit as fuck. I froze.
I recognised the sculpted, oiled body, flexing in December. It was Johnno.
Johnno and I had met one Friday night in a low-key north London bar.
“Alright, that’s some sick garms you’re wearing.”
He was fascinated by my neon orange coat.
I was taken by his height, confidence and fiery hair.
He talked about the gym and flashed his abs.
His jeans sat low on his hips. I ran my finger down his stomach and watched as his trail of soft, ginger hair stood on end.
I poured nightcaps as he glanced around the room. He spotted Mr April hanging on the wall.
“Whoa, who’s that.”
I showed him my archive of calendars – all featuring nude redheads.
He stopped flicking and stared back at me.
“So, I’m guessing I tick all of your boxes.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I shamelessly objectify your body.”
“Take your time.”
He grabbed one of the calendars and threw it onto the bed.
“You might as well pretend that I’m one of them, while you’re at it.”
I took all his clothes off. I didn’t need to pretend – he could have been chiselled from white marble.
Freckled white marble.
We stood facing each other. He flexed his biceps. I bounced my boobs. He twitched his pecs. I jiggled my bum. He took a step closer. I jiggled harder.
He massaged each knuckle and they cracked in turn. I bent myself backwards.
He caught me with one hand and trailed the other down my neck, between my breasts and across my hips.
He pulled my head back and took another step closer. His knee was between my legs.
He stroked his lips across mine and I kissed him back.
He picked me up, clean off the ground, and threw me onto the bed.
We looked at the calendar in between us, and then at each other.
We were both breathing hard.
This story was inspired by Thomas Knights, a British photographer, whose ongoing project – Red Hot – is turning the ginger stereotype on its head.