When a fizz and a bang is actually a ‘ptht’ and a ‘pssh’

Corks are popping, fireworks fizzing and banging, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture is booming out and you are joyfully revelling in the atmosphere, either on the banks of the River Thames or in Edinburgh city centre. Or maybe you are surrounded by good friends in a cosy old country house you have hired for the night, your insides warmed by whisky and the glow of relaxed camaraderie…

Oh, how wonderful New Year’s Eve is! If you are a living the life of someone in a film, perhaps starring Emma Thompson or Stephen Fry.

In actual fact, or in DSM’s world, it always ends up a disappointing damp squib – the rockets are lit to go, but end up making a “ptht” sound and going out.

I can probably count on one hand, perhaps even two fingers, the number of New Year’s Eves which haven’t been a complete and utter let-down.

I’ve done drunken nightclub tickets-only bashes, house parties, given myself a makeover to raise my chances of getting a ‘happy New Year’ snog with the object of my desire, even engineered a date with someone I didn’t really fancy just so I didn’t have to spend the evening alone. Most times, though, I’ve come home alone and miserable, wondering what the point was to even leaving the house. In fact, over recent years, mainly due to babysitters being short in supply, I haven’t ventured further than the lounge.

But, there is one particular NYE I do hold fondly in my memory – even if it’s my one speck of proof that it can be a successful event. December 31, 1999.

Being a thrifty bunch, my friends and I decide that the millennium will be an expensive night out in any town, so we agree to do a touring party, going from one person’s house to the next, finishing up somewhere with space to stand outside and watch any fireworks in the area without having to buy our own.

Luckily for me, despite at this point most people being coupled up and me, as usual being single, a certain Mr XY, with whom I had fallen into bed a couple of times is there. We both clearly don’t want to see in 2000 without some bangs and sparks of our own.

The drinks had been flowing a good few hours and the house we were at had a couple of empty and spacious attic bedrooms. Wouldn’t it be a waste not to grab such an opportunity? While everyone was chatting excitedly and enjoying the first few fireworks, we crept upstairs.

We frantically fumbled and tugged at each other’s clothes – no one would know we were gone for a while. We kissed wildly, almost clashing teeth, our fingers finding the way to one another’s genitals, masturbating urgently, impatient to be closer. Then he was inside me and we began banging hard and fast. The fireworks outside seemed to reach a climax, their whizzing and popping getting louder while at the same time we moved up a gear and he entered me from behind.

Our friends outside were shouting and cheering. So it seemed we had begun fucking in 1999 and finished in 2000 – the first and last time I have had continuous sex over two different years! We banged until we were both exhausted and lay in a sticky heap on the floor. Eventually we had to slope down to the back yard to show our (slightly sheepish) faces, sip a glass of champagne, smoke a fag and try to appear composed.

Since then, it’s all been pretty downhill – mostly nights in front of the TV, or, when my children were babies, being in bed by ten and missing out on any festivities. I live in hope that there will be another set of fireworks one year or even that trip to a cosy country cottage or traditional Edinburgh Hogmanay.

Happy New Year to anyone who actually reads this – bottoms up!

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