Why is it So Hard?

Deck the Halls…Then Wreck the Sheets

• Season 1 • Episode 15

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This isn’t your grandma’s holiday special.

It’s December 23rd, the whipped cream’s already warm, the mistletoe’s hanging low, and Lizzie & Nash are going all in on why holiday sex hits harder, dirtier, and more necessary than ever.

We’re talking:
– Thighs trembling under Christmas lights
– Tinsel in places that should not sparkle
– Coffee-fueled couch rides, candy cane weaponry, and orgasmic exhale
– Why sex in December isn’t just relief — it’s rebellion

Plus: glitter in your ass, cleanup sex, listener emails from the edge, and the unholy power of “don’t move.”

This is the gift that leaves bruises.

Listen now.

Have a question or want to know more? 

Email us at lizzieandnash@gmail.com or Text us at 814-900-4273

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unknown:

Yes.

SPEAKER_00:

Dim the lights, let go of the day, and slip into something a little more honest. You're listening to Why Is It So Hard with Lizzie and Nash, where things get deep, raw, and just a little dangerous.

SPEAKER_01:

Before we light the fire under your libido, here's the part where we remind you we're not therapist, not your priest. We're two married degenerates recording this on December 23rd with whipped cream in the fridge, erotic candy canes in the drawer, and pine needles embedded in places that shouldn't be. This isn't a lesson. This is a warning and a dare. Don't play this around your children. Don't listen in public unless you're ready to explain the word edge play to a stranger in line at Target. This is why it's so hard. There's something about December, and it's not just a light or the cinnamon or the fourth cup of coffee you're pretending isn't laced with bourbon. It's the low hum under everything. That feeling that your body's awake in a way you didn't give it permission to be. You walk past the Christmas tree and suddenly remember what it feels like to be kissed against the wall. Not politely, not slowly, just taken. You bend to grab a gift bag and your partner walks past and your nipples harden like they've heard something you didn't. It's not just the season, it's the way the whole month drapes your skin and nostalgia, pressure, and sugar, and then act surprise when you're ready to misbehave.

SPEAKER_04:

It's that brain fog, too. That overstimulated, overcooked exhaustion where you're running on fumes, and yet one look, one whisper, one come here under the mistletoe, and suddenly your body's alert, like primal alert, like rip the tinsel off and leave teeth marks alert. Everyone's trying to keep it classy. Meanwhile, your body's over here, like put me on the couch and fuck the Christmas cheer back into me.

SPEAKER_01:

Holiday sex isn't delicate. It's not that sweet mistletoe kiss on a Hallmark card. It's teeth, sweat, pressure release. It's I haven't had a real moment to myself in weeks. And if you look at me like that again, I'm going to straddle you on the kitchen counter with the oven timer still running. That kind of energy. And that's what this whole episode is about. How holiday sex isn't just hotter, it's necessary. It's the one part of December that doesn't require performance. It's the rebellion, it's the sigh of relief. It's the only thing that doesn't come wrapped in expectations.

SPEAKER_04:

And it's not just about sex, it's about presence, touch, real goddamn contact. You spend the whole month smiling at strangers, faking patients, tolerating relatives, pretending to like Peppermint Bark. I do. And suddenly your body's like, get naked and pin me down before I lose it.

SPEAKER_01:

We're not even a minute in, and I can already feel half of you listening trying to remember where you hid the whipped cream. If it's expired, um, we're not judging. Just don't get it in your eyes. Trust us.

SPEAKER_04:

Yeah. Uh, unless it's by accident and you earn that burn. No one said December kinks were gentle.

SPEAKER_01:

All right. Let's get filthy. Let's get honest. Let's get all the way under the surface of what happens when the lights are dim, the coffee's still warm, and you catch your partner standing under the mistletoe wearing nothing but that smug little smile that says, Yeah, I know what I'm doing.

SPEAKER_04:

And yes, we're talking about that kind of candy cake. The one you bought as a joke, the one that keeps ending up on the nightstand, the one that smells like peppermint sin, and lube regrets.

SPEAKER_01:

There's no maybe in that moment. There's just here. There's just now. There's just don't stop until the lights flicker.

SPEAKER_04:

You ever notice how the whole house starts feeling like foreplay this time of year? It's not just the lighting or the weather, it's the damn tension. Like the entire room is daring you to act out. Your partner hands you a mug of coffee and suddenly you're one sip away from bending them over the arm of the sectional. And they know it. The air's thick with it. That subtle electric pressure, that vibe that says we could behave, but why the hell would we?

SPEAKER_01:

That kind of pressure gets stored in your skin. The kind that makes five fingers on your thigh feel like a detonator. The kind that makes a whisper behind your ear feel like a rope tightening. It's not dramatic, it's primal. And you don't even need to go full production. Sometimes it's just a kiss, a real one. Tongue tension, that slight grind against the hip bone that says later we're not pretending to be nice anymore.

SPEAKER_04:

And the sex, it's not polite. It's not rehearsed. It's not let's light candles and check in emotionally before we undress. No, it's sweaty, half dressed, you're still wearing socks. The trees blinking in the background don't laugh because I wear socks. There's a half-eaten cookie on the nightstand. It's hot because it's raw, not the cookie, the sex. It's hot because it feels urned.

SPEAKER_01:

There's nothing like holiday sex when you're wired and fried at the same time. Your body is buzzing, your brain is mush, and someone finally touches you with intention. Not out of obligation not to take a box, but because they want your skin in their mouth and your thighs in their hands and your noise in their throat.

SPEAKER_04:

And you don't even care if the dog's watching. You'll throw a blanket over them later. Right now, your mouth is full and your hips are working through something primal.

SPEAKER_01:

I had a moment last night, real story. I walked past the bathroom mirror naked, except for the tinsel I forgot stuck to my thigh, and I laughed out loud. Not because it was cute, but because my reflection looked like a feral ornament on the edge of a breakdown. And I still texted you, bed, now bring coffee.

SPEAKER_04:

I happen to actually like the tinsel. Well, I did bring the coffee, uh, and it was hot, but not as hot as your thighs wrapped around me like the holidays owed you reparations.

SPEAKER_01:

You're damn right. The holidays owe me orgasms and silence. One down, one to go. Okay, here's our first listener email. This came in two days ago. Is it weird that my girlfriend and I only seem to go absolutely feral right before Christmas? We go from normal couple to nipple clamps and whipped cream in the pantry. Is that normal or are we just repressed?

SPEAKER_04:

Let me say this with love. It's not weird. It's seasonal. Your body knows what month it is, the temperature drops, the bills stack, your in-laws show up uninvited, and your brain screams for relief. Some people drink, some people cry, some people stick erotic candy canes in unholy places, Lizzie, and relearn the power of moaning under tensile.

SPEAKER_01:

Repressed? Maybe, but welcome to the club. We've got spiked eggnog, a black light under the tree, and a strict no-pants policy once the house hits 68 degrees.

SPEAKER_04:

And that's the point. This time of year isn't about perfection. Do you like what I said there? That's the point. Because 68 nip. Okay. It's about release. It's about fuck the dishes, meet me in the laundry room. It's about putting your fingers in your partner's mouth just to watch their eyes roll back. It's about looking at each other like dessert just arrived and you're not even pretending to use a spoon.

SPEAKER_01:

You know what's sexy? Getting railed in front of the dryer while the towels finish fluffing. That's domestic bliss. That's grown-up advent calendar shit. That's the kind of moment your body stores and brings back in March when you're stuck in a budget meeting trying not to picture whipped cream dripping off a nipple, drop by drop. Damn. You ever notice how nobody warns you that December makes you feel feral and fragile at the same time? Like you're sprinting to get every damn thing done. And then suddenly all it takes is one look, one lick, one perfectly placed hand, and your whole body just drops the act. That armor you've been wearing since the first of the month, gone. In pieces on the kitchen floor, right next to your underwear, and whatever the dog dragged in from under the couch.

SPEAKER_04:

Yeah. One minute you're icing cookies, the next you're bent over the counter with your pants halfway down and frosting still on your thumb. And the thing is, that moment doesn't feel like an accident. It feels like relief. Like your nervous system was holding out for that. Like all the damn carols and chaos were just a runway for one filthy, breathless landing.

SPEAKER_01:

And if you're lucky, really lucky, your partner sees you in that chaos, not as someone who needs fixing or calming or saving, but as someone who needs to be touched, kissed, used, held like they're the gift that's finally being unwrapped with two impatient hands and zero chill.

SPEAKER_04:

I love watching that moment hit you. When your mouth gets soft and your back arches like it's trying to pull more of me in, you get this look, part challenge, part surrender. It says, I dare you to ruin me, and I fucking need you to.

SPEAKER_01:

And when you take me up on it, when your hand wraps around the back of my neck and your mouth lands just below my ear, and you whisper something that makes my thighs ache before I even exhale, I swear the entire holiday season resets. Like that's it. That's the only tradition I care about anymore. That kind of touch, that kind of claiming, that kind of sex that doesn't ask for permission in words, but gets it in moans.

SPEAKER_04:

Holiday sex doesn't have to be clean or pretty. Until the lights dim, until you lock the door, throw off the robe, and say, You waited long enough. Now make it worth it.

SPEAKER_01:

We had one of those nights last year. Yes. I remember exactly what I was wearing and what I wasn't. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and burnt sugar. There was wrapping paper still stuck to your sock. I was sitting on the counter, naked, except for a red velvet ribbon I tied around my own neck. You dropped a dish towel like it owed you money.

SPEAKER_04:

I remember exactly how you tasted, like peppermint, tension, and the kind of need that doesn't fade after one orgasm or the taste of burnt sugar. I remember gripping your thighs like they were the only thing keeping me tethered to the room.

SPEAKER_01:

I remember thinking this. This is the only way to survive December.

SPEAKER_04:

No gift bags, no playlists, just me, you, and the kind of sex that rewires your brain.

SPEAKER_01:

That's what people forget. You don't need a week off or a whole night. Sometimes five minutes in the pantry while family is arguing over mashed potatoes is enough to keep you from walking into traffic.

SPEAKER_04:

I didn't think you were going to bring up the pantry. Sometimes it's just a kiss, a real one. Deep, slow, the kind where your teeth click and your breath catches and your nipples go hard without being touched. The kind of kiss that says later, I'm going to pin you down and use every second you gave me in that look.

SPEAKER_01:

Kisses like that change the temperature in the room. They make your partner look at you like a problem they've suddenly remembered how to solve. You can be covered in glitter, exhausted, half drunk on coffee, and still feel like the sexiest thing alive if the energy is right.

SPEAKER_04:

And don't pretend you haven't used the whipped cream on purpose. I've seen that eyebrow arch. You reach for it slow, you make eye contact, you squirt a line across your tongue, and then walk away like you didn't just declare war.

SPEAKER_01:

And what are you gonna do? Not chase me down and taste it.

SPEAKER_04:

I did.

SPEAKER_01:

That's the trap. That's the entire point. The kitchen isn't just for cooking in December. It's where you warm me up before you lay me out.

SPEAKER_04:

I live for that energy, that slow build tension, that moment where you pretend we're still being civilized, and then you bend over to grab a tray and your robe accidentally lights off your shoulder, just enough to show me exactly what's not underneath.

SPEAKER_01:

Clothes are optional. Timing is not. You want me, take me, but make it quick, filthy, and in a place we'll laugh about later.

SPEAKER_04:

I think the best holiday sex we've had didn't even make it to the bedroom. It was on the floor by the couch, half-wrapped gifts around us. You were riding me with a candy cane in your hand and a grin that said, You'll never hear jingral bells the same way again.

SPEAKER_01:

That was the same night you tied tinsel around my wrist and told me I was the only thing you wanted to unwrap. And then you actually bit my thigh. And you did not stop me. No, I arched into it because I was full of eggnog, feral need, and the sudden awareness that nothing was going to make me feel more human than being used like I was your stress relief and your goddamn gift.

SPEAKER_04:

Speaking of gifts, let's get into our second listener email.

SPEAKER_01:

Hey guys, is it weird that I only feel sexy in December? Like I spend most of the year avoiding mirrors, and then the lights go up, the sweaters come out, and I suddenly want to be naked with someone who worships me like I'm the holiday main event. Am I broken or is this a seasonal delusion?

SPEAKER_04:

Okay, not broken, just tuned in. The season turns something on in you, and instead of fighting it, you should be exploring the hell out of it.

SPEAKER_01:

Yeah. Who told you you're only sexy if you're consistent? That's bullshit. You can be a foggy, unsure version of yourself most of the year and still show up in December ready to wreck someone's life with a glance.

SPEAKER_04:

The lighting helps too. Christmas lights make everybody look like sin wrapped in glitter.

SPEAKER_01:

Right? That soft glow, that amber cast, the way it flickers against your skin while you're half dressed and panting. That's porn level intimacy without even trying.

SPEAKER_04:

So the next time you feel that December sexiness waking up inside you, don't question it. Write it, own it. Strip in front of the tree and tell your partner you want to make them forget every gift they opened this year.

SPEAKER_01:

And if they hesitate, grab the candy cane and show them how it's done.

SPEAKER_04:

You and the damn candy cane. It's funny how fast the vibe can shift. One second you're sipping hot coffee in silence, still shaking off sleep. And the next they walk into the room with bed hair and no pants, and your entire body wakes up like that's what I need more than caffeine.

SPEAKER_01:

Coffee hits different when you're holding it in one hand and your other hand tracing skin. When you're sitting on the couch next to your partner and they lean over to take a sip from your mug, but they hold eye contact a little too long. Now the mug's shaking and your thighs are pressed tighter, and whatever's on the TV isn't going to make it to the end credits.

SPEAKER_04:

You know exactly what you're doing when you tilt your head back and let that steam hit your lips like a tease. The way your breath curls around the rim of that mug, the way your robe slides open just enough to show the curve of your nipple in that holiday light, you're not innocent. You're staging a seduction. And I fall for it every damn time.

SPEAKER_01:

Yep. And that's the best part. It doesn't have to be loud or elaborate. It can be slow, lethal, like slipping your barefoot into their lap under a blanket, like pressing your mouth behind their ear and saying, just so you know, I'm still sore from yesterday and I still want more. It's not about the event, it's about the energy.

SPEAKER_04:

Energy that builds with every accidental brush of skin. Every time you pass me the whipped cream canister like a loaded weapon, every time you bend at the waist to grab something off the floor, and I see just enough to ruin any plans that don't end with you on top of me.

SPEAKER_01:

You ever notice how tinsel finds its way into the weirdest places? Yes. Like you'll be fully naked, straddling your partner, and still somehow there's a single silver strand glued to your ass cheek, like a sparkly little tag of shame and celebration.

SPEAKER_04:

Every year. And it's always the piece I end up pulling off you with my teeth while you moan into my mouth. That's the best kind of ornament. The one you earn mid-thrust.

SPEAKER_01:

The sex doesn't even need to be acrobatic, it just needs to be real, messy, loud, soft when it needs to be, rough when it has to be, honest the entire time. The kind of sex where your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly the only words left are please and more.

SPEAKER_04:

And I don't even need a full sentence. Sometimes you just give me that look. The one where your eyes narrow just a little and your lips part like you're already imagining how you want to be taken. That's my green light. That's all I need. That's the moment the tree becomes background noise, and all I hear is your skin begging to be bitten.

SPEAKER_01:

I want to be handled like a gift someone's been waiting all year to open. No delicate bows, no slow unraveling. I want torn wrapping, breathless urgency, and the kind of touch that leaves fingerprints on my thighs like a signature.

SPEAKER_04:

And when you finish, I want to kiss the back of your neck while you tremble. I want to carry that sound you make, you know, the one that only comes when you stop thinking into the next day. I want to sip my coffee while you smile like you know you're still dripping from what we did last night.

SPEAKER_01:

I love being that kind of undone and claimed when I'm laid out, panting, tinsel wrapped around my wrist, the taste of you still fresh on my lips, and I know we're not even close to being done. That's December to me. Not the Carol's, not the shopping, that.

SPEAKER_04:

That's the kind of sex that gets stored in your nervous system like a private highlight reel. You'll be back in a meeting in March, staring at a spreadsheet, and one second later, your thighs will clench because you remember the sound the bed made when I pushed your legs open under the blinking tree lights.

SPEAKER_01:

That moment's branded in me. The way you gripped my hips like you were trying to climb into me. The way you whispered, don't move, while you filled me so slow I forgot how to count. The way you used the candy cane to trace every part of me that wasn't already aching.

SPEAKER_04:

That candy cane's getting a lot of action. You tasted like peppermint and filth. You sounded like worship and war. I don't care what anyone says. Holiday sex is a drug, a dangerous, necessary, delicious drug.

SPEAKER_01:

And I want every dose.

SPEAKER_04:

I know you do, but you're gonna have to wait. Let's get into our third listener email of the night.

SPEAKER_01:

This one cracked me up. Lizzie and Nash, please help. My wife brought home some peppermint scented lube. It smells like Christmas and sin. She used it on me once, and now I can't get hard without thinking about Santa. Is that normal?

SPEAKER_04:

Holy shit. Okay. Um, you've been conditioned and welcome to the club. I can't walk past our pantry without a semi-boner because that's where you once dropped to your knees and made me forget how to say my own name.

SPEAKER_01:

Peppermint is powerful. So is cinnamon. So is gingerbread if you're built like me and get turned on by every damn sensory memory. Honestly, holiday sex is kinkier than most people admit. The lights, the candles, the stolen glances, the pressure to behave, it creates the perfect storm for a deeply erotic violation of the norm. Even if thinking about Santa helps get you hard.

SPEAKER_04:

And once your body pairs arousal with mistletoe or frosting or the sound of bells, or in this case, Santa, it's over. You're not broken, you're festive.

SPEAKER_01:

You're horny on theme, embrace it.

SPEAKER_04:

All right. I'm gonna say it. More people need to stop waiting for the perfect holiday sex moment. There is no perfect, there's only present. If you're waiting for the kids to be asleep, the house to be clean, the mood to be just right, you're gonna wait until April. You want to wreck the sheets, grab your partner, make out in the hallway, drag each other into the bathroom, and don't apologize for the noise.

SPEAKER_01:

Or better yet, pull me into the garage while you're getting something from the fridge and tell me exactly how long you've been thinking about bending me over the hood of the car. Let your breath fog up the windows while you fuck me like I'm the only thing that still makes you feel alive in this season of noise and pressure.

SPEAKER_04:

I'll literally never look at the garage the same way again.

SPEAKER_01:

You're welcome. Now imagine that same energy. Put out a string of battery-powered fairy lights and the cold kiss of winter air on my nipples while I ride your face like the world outside doesn't matter.

SPEAKER_04:

What the fuck? I would die happy.

SPEAKER_01:

It's hilarious how weather doesn't even matter when the energy is right. I don't need snow to be feral. You could put me in 60-degree Indiana drizzle under a blinking strand of lights and a crumpled porch blanket, and I'd still ride you like the last sleigh out of hell. It's not about cozy, it's about contact.

SPEAKER_04:

Humidity turns you into a menace. I watch that light sheen show up on your chest and it's game over. You always claim you're just warm from the oven or the bourbon coffee, but no, that's lust sweat. That's mid December mischief, and your skin knows it before your mouth does.

SPEAKER_01:

You're not. Wrong. That light layer of sweat right behind my knees, the one that shows up when I'm pretending not to think about you, pushing me up against the wall with one hand on my throat and the other one pulling my shorts down just far enough to make me beg. That one. That's not from the weather.

SPEAKER_04:

And you have the audacity to stand there eating whipped cream off a spoon like it's nothing. Like I'm not watching it drip into your chest and mentally calculating how fast I can get you horizontal without knocking over the coffee table.

SPEAKER_01:

Spoiler, you did knock over the coffee table. Twice. Twice. And you still didn't stop. Because there was stencils stuck to your elbow and my thighs were shaking. And I swear to God, you looked at me like you'd forgotten Christmas was for presents and not performance art with my body as your canvas.

SPEAKER_04:

You were the only thing wrapped that mattered. And unwrapping you was the moment I stopped giving a shit whether the tree lights were blinking in sync or if anyone remembered to refrigerate the ham.

SPEAKER_01:

We ate leftovers naked on the floor with rug burns and swollen lips. That's December joy. That's erotic resilience.

SPEAKER_04:

That's us. And speaking of us, it's time for another listener email. I'll read this one. Um, dear Lizzie and Nash, last night my girlfriend sat on the kitchen island wearing a Santa hat and nothing else. She asked me to eat whipped cream off her chest and I choked on it from laughing. We still had sex, but I feel like I ruined the vibe. How do you stay sexy when things get funny?

SPEAKER_01:

First of all, you didn't ruin anything. Laughing during sex isn't a vibe killer, it's a vibe amplifier. The sexiest moments are the ones you survive with eye contact and a dirty grin. Whipped cream in the lungs, congratulations. You just unlocked a new kink.

SPEAKER_04:

That girl loves you. She wanted you to get messy. And now you've got a memory that'll make her clinch every time she sees Cole Whip. That's called erotic imprinting.

SPEAKER_01:

If I had a nickel for every time I've burst out laughing in the middle of getting railed, I'd have a lot of sticky nickels.

SPEAKER_04:

Yeah, but you'd probably still be naked.

SPEAKER_01:

You think I stop for dignity? I laugh, wipe my nose, and say, Don't you dare stop moving.

SPEAKER_04:

Exactly. The best sex isn't perfect, it's alive. It breathes, it sweats, it stumbles, and then it recovers. If you're laughing together and still ending up tangled in each other with heavy breath and no regrets, you're doing it right.

SPEAKER_01:

There's something about this time of year where you don't just want pleasure, you want mess, not filth for shock, mess for release for proof that you're still here, still hungry, still capable of letting go so fully that you stop curating every moment and start feeling them.

SPEAKER_04:

That's why we always end up on the floor or against a wall or straddling each other half dressed with one sock and a bite mark, or no socks and two bite marks, because the bed feels too organized sometimes, too intentional. Sometimes what I want is less positioned and more penned.

SPEAKER_01:

Sometimes I want to be taken without ceremony. No candles, no playlists, just your hands in my hair, your mouth on my neck, and the kind of slow grinding kiss that says, I'm going to make your legs shake without even getting you fully naked.

SPEAKER_04:

You know what does it for me? The way you look when I grab your chin and tilt your face up, just to see if your mouth opens before I ask. That slight part of your lips, that gasp, it's not submissive, it's volcanic. It's consent wrapped in tension, and it hits harder than anything you could say out loud.

SPEAKER_01:

And you know what turns me into a puddle? When you keep eye contact while you slide my underword down and say nothing. Just that slow drag of fabric and silence. That pause before touch. That's what ruins me.

SPEAKER_04:

I live for that pause, that suspended breath, that half second where I know you're waiting to be wrecked, and I choose to wait one moment longer just to make you feel it that much deeper.

SPEAKER_01:

You are absolutely a sadist, and I adore you for it.

SPEAKER_04:

Call it delayed gratification. Call it art. All I know is your thighs start twitching when I whisper not yet.

SPEAKER_01:

Because not yet means I'm going to be incoherent by the time you let me come.

SPEAKER_04:

That's the goal. Holiday incoherence. Tinsel tangled, thigh quaking, can't form words, levels of need.

SPEAKER_01:

That kind of heat is exactly what saves me this time of year. When everything's too loud and too bright and too damn demanding, your mouth on my skin reminds me that I'm not a machine. I'm a body. I'm a nerve ending. I'm a yes. I'm telling you right now, I don't care that the ham's in the oven, the dogs are barking, and the neighbor just dropped off some weird fruitcake. If your hand slips between my legs while I'm stirring the sweet potatoes, I will grip the edge of that stove and forget how verbs work.

SPEAKER_04:

Good. Because I'm not waiting until the candles are lit and everyone's asleep to remind you what your body sounds like when it forgets who's around. That quiet whimper you make when I pull your waistband down just a couple inches, slow, like a threat, that noise is church to me.

SPEAKER_01:

Fuck church. Give me worship in the form of open-mouthed kisses against the back of my neck and hands that don't ask for permission once I've already said yes with how far I'm spreading my legs.

SPEAKER_04:

You want to talk Christmas magic, that moment when your thighs start shaking and your hands grab mine like it's the only thing keeping you upright? That's magic. I don't need snow, I don't need gifts, I need five uninterrupted minutes with your ass in the air and your breath fogging up the microwave door.

SPEAKER_01:

You remember two years ago that one humid ass Christmas Eve, the heat was on, the windows were fogged, and we couldn't get the whipped cream to stick because it was already sweating before you even touched me. I swear my thighs were melting before your tongue got invog.

SPEAKER_04:

Oh, I remember. You bent over the kitchen island wearing nothing but one sock and a Santa hat and said, be quick, but don't be polite. You had a half-eaten cookie in one hand and your other hand fisted in your own hair. Fisted. That's kind of funny. I've never come that fast from just watching.

SPEAKER_01:

I couldn't walk straight for an hour, and we still hosted dinner. That's the part nobody talks about. The double life. You're bringing a turkey and dripping your partner's cum into your underwear at the same time. That's December.

SPEAKER_04:

I kept stealing looks at you during appetizers. You had that glow that he wrecked me over the kitchen sink glow, that post-orgasm calm that makes everyone else look like they're trying too hard.

SPEAKER_01:

Because they are. Most people are sprinting toward connection without realizing they could have had it if they just dropped the damn facade and said, Touch me like I'm the last warm thing in the room.

SPEAKER_04:

I want to say that to you every hour in December. I want to crawl under your skin and make you remember what your voice sounds like when you're moaning into the crook of my elbow, still wearing one earring, one sock, and nothing else.

SPEAKER_01:

Say it next time. Say it while you're inside me. Say it while my legs are shaking from the way your fingers won't stop, pressing that one spot like it owes you rent. Guess what?

SPEAKER_04:

What's that, babe?

SPEAKER_01:

I have another email. Yay! I tried using tinsel during sex, and now there's glitter in places I didn't know had nerve endings. Was this a mistake or a Christmas miracle?

SPEAKER_04:

I'm gonna go and say both. Glitter is forever. Yep. But so is the memory of your partner choking back a groan while their ass is lit up like a disco ball. I say leave it there. You know, kind of like mark the territory.

SPEAKER_01:

You're lucky it was just glitter. No kidding. I once left a peppermint swirl handprint on Nasha's thigh so vivid it looked like a toddler had tried to paint him with frosting.

SPEAKER_04:

You remember that? I flexed in the mirror afterward, though, because I was proud. Nothing screams holiday joy like cum brain and sugar burns.

SPEAKER_01:

The moral of the story: if you're going to get creative with candy canes and decorations, do it like you mean it. Don't ask if it's ridiculous. Ask if it turns you both on. And if the answer is yes, unwrap that sleaze with pride.

SPEAKER_04:

Tis the season for consent, chaos, and candy cane bruises and places only your partner gets to see.

SPEAKER_01:

Can we talk about the hotness of life at home with filth layered under it? Like watching you take out the trash and those gray sweatpants while I'm still flushed from what you did to me 10 minutes earlier. That's porn. That's real life filth.

SPEAKER_04:

And you walking past me in the hallways, half wrapped in that robe, hair wild, still biting the inside of your cheek like your orgasm hasn't finished echoing yet. That's the only Christmas miracle I need.

SPEAKER_01:

You call it a miracle. I call it getting railed so hard, I forgot where the stocking hooks went. We're both right.

SPEAKER_04:

The older I get, the more I care less about gifts and more about that 2 a.m. tangle where you're riding me slow, whispering shit you'd never say with the lights on. And both of us smell like sweat, bourbon, revenge, and burk sugar.

SPEAKER_01:

That's the only rhythm I trust anymore. Not sleigh bells, not carolers. The rhythm of our hips when everything else in the world goes quiet. That moment I realize my thighs have bruises in the shape of your grip, and I feel more alive than I have in a month.

SPEAKER_04:

When your eyes roll back and your lips part just enough for that first whimper to slide out, you know, the one you always try to hold back, but never can. I want to press my mouth to yours and swallow it. That is my high.

SPEAKER_01:

Then keep me there. Keep your fingers inside me while I twitch. Keep your mouth on my nipple while I moan your name, like it's the only word I can remember. Keep whispering. That's it, baby. Like the world's not still spinning around us.

SPEAKER_04:

I am not letting go. Not until I feel your whole body let go first.

SPEAKER_01:

Could. Because we've still got candy canes to melt, whipped cream to misuse, and at least three unopened bottles of bourbon to pour down our chest before the neighbors come back for a midnight mask. It's wild how much of December happens under pressure. And then suddenly one private moment hits right and everything inside you uncoils. Like your nervous system finally finds the fuck it button. That moment when I walk past you in the hallway and don't even say anything. But you grab my arm, pull me into the bedroom, and kiss me like you forgot your name. That's my December reset.

SPEAKER_04:

I wait for those moments. Actually, I crave them. You're walking around the house with a towel on your head and really nothing else, humming something low under your breath, and all I can think is take her now. No schedule, no prep, just body on body now. And when I do, when I grab your ass and push you up against the bedroom door and you don't flinch, you just melt back into me grinding. That's the moment I know we're both alive in.

SPEAKER_01:

That door's gonna fall off one of these days. But until then, that door's a witness. That's where you pin me with your chest, one hand holding my wrist above my head, and the other sliding between my thighs, like you're checking to see if I'm still yours.

SPEAKER_04:

You're always still mine, but I like confirming.

SPEAKER_01:

You better, because when your fingers go slow like that, teasing but certain. When you press in just enough to make me arch and then pause, waiting for the moan, I lose my goddamn mind. It's not the motion, it's the timing.

SPEAKER_04:

It's the way you pulse around nothing before I give you something, that soft clinch, the whisper of want, the way your whole body becomes a fucking drumline of yes.

SPEAKER_01:

You ever think about how that moment feels like the only honest one all day? After all the smiling, gifting, organizing, cooking, cleaning, being wanted like that, needed that way, it doesn't just make me horny, it makes me real again.

SPEAKER_04:

That's what sex does in December. It doesn't just get you off, it brings you back.

SPEAKER_01:

Back into your own skin, back in the truth, back into the body that's tired of pretending to be okay and just wants to feel. I want to feel teeth, nails, heat, the weight of your chest pressing me into the mattress while my breath fogs up the window and my legs won't stop shaking.

SPEAKER_04:

There's nothing like watching you come in that slow, breathless way where your eyes roll back and your hips lift off the bed like your soul's trying to escape through your clit. That is the best view in the house.

SPEAKER_01:

And the way you say my name when you can't hold it anymore, it's not performative, it's possession. That's my kink. Not costumes, not scripts, just need so loud we don't hear the Christmas music anymore.

SPEAKER_04:

I could take you under the tree, under the table, on the hood of the car, but the best is when I take you in your own bed like it's your throne, and I'm your favorite mistake.

SPEAKER_01:

And I'd sit on your face like I was born for it. Like I already know exactly how you're going to groan when my thighs start to shake and you lock your arms around me like you're daring me to run.

SPEAKER_04:

Run? Babe, I drag you back. Promise? Every damn time. Hi, Lizzie and Nash. I just got my first ever don't move during sex, and I have to say, what the hell kind of spell is that? I was literally shaking. I couldn't speak. My brain emptied out. What is that?

SPEAKER_01:

That, darling, is what we call a nervous system reboot. Don't move hits different because it tells your body to surrender. Not in a performative, sexy pose kind of way, in a stay right there or I'll lose my mind kind of way. It's not dominance, it's focus.

SPEAKER_04:

Exactly. It means stay exactly how you are because I'm about to worship you with a kind of precision that turns minutes into myths. It's not a command, it's a love letter delivered through tension.

SPEAKER_01:

And the shaking, yeah, that's just your body finally letting go of all of the holding. Let it happen. Moan through it, cry through it, claw the sheets, just don't move.

SPEAKER_04:

Every time we have sex in December, there's always this one moment right near the end where it stops being dirty and starts being true. You'll be underneath me, hands on my face, and you'll whisper something so soft I almost miss it, like I needed this, or don't stop yet, and I don't, because I know you're not just talking about the rhythm.

SPEAKER_01:

I'm never talking about just the rhythm. I'm talking about the presence, about how your hands don't shake when you hold me, how your voice gets quieter, but your breath gets louder, about how your forehead presses into mine and it feels like you're giving me back my name after I lost it somewhere under a pile of expectations and Amazon boxes.

SPEAKER_04:

I want to be the place you come back to when you don't know who you are, when the world's made you soft and hard at the same time, when your skin itches for meaning and your throat forgets how to speak. I want to be the hand that steadies and the mouth that reminds.

SPEAKER_01:

And don't stop kissing me after. Don't roll over. Stay with me in the sweat and the heat and the chaos. Put your palm over my heart and feel how fast it's still going. Let me fall asleep like that. That's the aftercare I want. That's the foreplay for next time.

SPEAKER_04:

Noted and already hard again.

SPEAKER_01:

You ever notice how the best sex in December is the one that ends with no cleanup, no wiping down, no resetting, just collapse. That warm days soaking wet sprawl where you don't even speak. You just breathe each other in. You can still taste me. I can still feel you pulsing against my leg. And all I want in that moment is your body on mine, your breath behind my ear, your hand still wrapped around my thigh, like you're not done with me yet.

SPEAKER_04:

Yeah, because I'm not. I never am. Even when you're shaking and spent and glazed with sweat like a holiday pastry, I still want more. Not just sex, just you, that heat, that raw hum between us, that feeling like the world could be falling apart outside, and I'd still be fine as long as my mouth is on your skin and you're moaning my name like it's the only language you remember.

SPEAKER_01:

That's what aftercare is for me. Not a blanket or a checklist, not a sweet, are you okay? It's the staying, the way you wrap your arm around me and pull me into your chest, even when I'm still twitching. The way you kiss the side of my face like you're sealing it in, the way you keep your fingers tangled in mine while our bodies cool down and the lights on the tree keep blinking like they're trying to catch their breath too.

SPEAKER_04:

It's the silence that hits different, the kind where everything else disappears. There's no family, no schedules, no pressure, just you and me. Sticky, spent, smiling, maybe crying, maybe laughing, maybe both. And I don't need to fix anything. I just need to stay.

SPEAKER_01:

It's where the truth lives. The part after the orgasm where my guard drops, and I remember what it feels like to be held without being needed for anything. That's when I feel the safest. That's when my body says, Oh, you're not alone. You're wanted, you're home.

SPEAKER_04:

You always say that like you're surprised.

SPEAKER_01:

Because some days I am. Some days I'm just surviving. Some days I'm all bark and no breath. But then your mouth finds that spot under my jaw. Your voice drops into that low growl. Your hand wraps around my rib cage, and suddenly I remember I'm not just useful, I'm desired.

SPEAKER_04:

You're always desired, even when you're biting my head off over the guest sales, even when you're stomping through the living room with garland wrapped around your ankle, cursing the Amazon driver.

SPEAKER_01:

There is something deeply erotic about the way you look at me after I've cursed out a Christmas tree. Like you'd bend me over it and let the ornaments fall around us just to prove a point.

SPEAKER_04:

Do not tempt me. I've already got glitter in my beard from last time.

SPEAKER_01:

You earned that glitter and the bruise on your hip from where I wrapped my legs around you and refused to let go until you gave me a third orgasm and a throat kiss that made my toes curl.

SPEAKER_04:

That bruise is a badge of honor, thank you. So is the bite mark you left on my shoulder that spelled out mine in Morse code.

SPEAKER_01:

Then keep wearing it. Keep earning it, keep touching me like every moan is a secret code and every shiver is a challenge. Because if you're still hard after round two, I'm not getting off your lap until one of us begs.

SPEAKER_04:

That's a deal. Um, I think we have one more email that you need to read.

SPEAKER_01:

Okay. Subject line says glitter, my ass help. Hey, you two. I found glitter in my crack on New Year's Eve, and I know exactly who to blame. My wife swears it's from a decorative pillow. I know it's from her wrapping herself in tinsel and grinding on me until I forgot my name. Do I confront her or just say thank you? Say thank you loudly, repeatedly, maybe from your knees with tongue and fingers, and maybe a handwritten thank you no on a pillow covered in more glitter.

SPEAKER_04:

Because if your partner is grinding on you in tinsel and you're not thanking them with everything you've got, we will come to your house personally and revoke your December sex privileges.

SPEAKER_01:

That glitter is a reminder, a souvenir, a sparkle-stamped memory that says, I wrecked you with joy and bad decisions, and you like it. Wear it proudly.

SPEAKER_04:

Half the decorations are still up, but the vibe is different. Softer, slower, almost sexier.

SPEAKER_01:

It's the lawless week, the sacred haze, the liminal space between chaos and calendar. And it's perfect for sex that doesn't perform. The kind of sex that doesn't rush or explode or check a box. The kind that lingers, that creeps in with a kiss behind the ear and never leaves. That melts instead of burns.

SPEAKER_04:

The kind where we don't talk, we just tangle. Where you roll over onto me, straddle my lap, and start grinding without a word, where our bodies take over and our minds finally shut the fuck up.

SPEAKER_01:

That week is everything. No meetings, no alarms, no bras, just me and your hoodie and nothing else. Still flushed from the night before, still stretched in all the right places, still wet, just thinking about how you looked with my thighs on your shoulders.

SPEAKER_04:

That's when the cleanup sex happens. The we survived it sex. The I found a rogue candy. Cane under the bed and now I'm gonna use it sex.

SPEAKER_01:

The kind where we're putting away decorations and I find the velvet ribbon, you tie it around my wrist, and I say, We're not done with this, are we? And you say nothing. You just pull me by the waist and bend me over the back of the couch like I'm not wearing underwear because I'm not.

SPEAKER_04:

That's the kind of sex that makes New Year's Eve irrelevant. We don't need fireworks when you're still dripping on my tongue and your hips are still jerking every time I whisper how fucking perfect you feel.

SPEAKER_01:

And when it's done, when we're both breathless and lazy and our bodies are humming like we finally turned the world off. I don't want to get dressed. I want to stay sticky, stay close, stay ruined until the sun goes down again.

SPEAKER_04:

We earned that. That exhale, that quiet, that glow, and that ache, that peace you only get when you've given each other everything and taken even more.

SPEAKER_01:

That's what holiday sex really is. Not performance, not a checklist, just a reminder that we're alive, that we're wanted, that we're still here. You know what I want for New Year's? Not a resolution, not a party. I want one more round with your mouth on my skin. I want to be underneath you, already spent, and still begging. I want to end the year the same way I want to live the next one. Wet, wanted, and worshipped without apology.

SPEAKER_04:

Then I'll end it the only way that makes sense. I'll lay you out, open you up, use my fingers, my tongue, my hips, whatever it takes. And I won't stop until you forget how long the month was, until you forget how heavy your chest felt when you were smiling for everyone else and dying to be devoured.

SPEAKER_01:

That's all I've wanted since the first wrapped present, since the first fake smile at the door, since the first carol that made me grip my teeth and say, Merry Christmas, like I meant it. What I meant was wreck me before I lose myself completely.

SPEAKER_04:

Then let me remind you, let me crawl back into your bones and remind you that your moans matter more than your lists, that your pleasure isn't earned, it's yours.

SPEAKER_01:

My thighs don't need to be toned, my belly doesn't need to be flat, my voice doesn't need to be sweet. All I need is a partner who looks at me like I'm the only thing keeping this season from swallowing them whole.

SPEAKER_04:

You are the only thing. Every time I hear your breath hitch, every time you grind against me in silence because your words gave up, that's when I know I don't need a single gift.

SPEAKER_01:

Just this.

SPEAKER_04:

Just you.

SPEAKER_01:

So let's wreck the sheets one more time. Let's leave the lights on and the windows open. Let the air be warm and your hands be hot. Let me ride your thigh until my whole body goes soft and I sink into your chest like gravity finally remembered me.

SPEAKER_04:

I'll hold you through the whole damn aftershock. I'll keep one hand on your hip and one on your throat. Soft now, just enough to remind you that even in the quiet, you're still mine.

SPEAKER_01:

And when I wake up, sore and sticky and glowing, make me coffee with your cum still drying on my skin. Hand me that mug like it's a trophy. Sit across from me, naked and grinning, and say, You survived the holidays. Now let's make January ours.

SPEAKER_04:

That's the goal, not perfection, just survival with style, with bruises, with orgasms and eye contact, and enough inside jokes about candy canes and cinnamon-flavored lube to last until spring.

SPEAKER_01:

And if we find another glitter-covered sex toy in April, so be it. And let the cleanup take months. Let the memory stain the sheets, let the mess be the point.

SPEAKER_04:

Another glitter-covered sex toy. Great. Yeah, because the world doesn't end on December 31st, and neither should your heat. Keep touching, keep kissing, keep fucking like it's the only honest thing left in the chaos.

SPEAKER_01:

Keep asking for what you want with your mouth, with your hips, with your hands. Use every part of yourself to say yes.

SPEAKER_04:

Say it louder. Say it messier. Say it bent over the kitchen counter at 2 a.m. with the fridge door still open and your thighs still trembling.

SPEAKER_01:

Say it with whipped cream dripping down your chin and your breath still ragged. Say it until your voice cracks and you laugh because your body can't take another orgasm, but your soul is starving for one more anyway.

SPEAKER_04:

Say it until next Christmas.

SPEAKER_01:

And when next Christmas comes, we'll wreck the sheets again. Deck the halls, wreck the sheets, and then call in sick.

SPEAKER_04:

We dare you.

SPEAKER_01:

If you made it to the end of this filthy holiday therapy session, disguised as a podcast, congrats. You're officially one of us. Your reward, glitter in your crack, craving in your chest, and the sudden urge to pin your partner to the wall before the credits finish rolling.

SPEAKER_04:

Did you say glitter in your crack?

SPEAKER_01:

I did.

SPEAKER_04:

All right. Uh, as far as you know, the partner pinning you against the wall before the crash and the credits, if that happens and you do that, um, send us the details. You know we love a good listener confession.

SPEAKER_01:

Email us anytime at Lizzie and Nash at gmail.com or text us at 814-900-4273. We want your filth, your chaos, your we broke the bed stories. Wrap them in a bow if you must. We'll still read them naked.

SPEAKER_04:

And remember, your desire isn't a liability. It's a signal, it's a gift. Don't shelve it with the ornaments and don't stuff it in a resolution. Live it.

SPEAKER_01:

You don't need permission to want, you need opportunity. And sometimes that looks like a partner with bourbon on their breath, glitter on their thighs, and a candy cane between their teeth, whispering, come here like a goddamn miracle.

SPEAKER_04:

I knew you would go back to the candy cane. Happy holidays, heathens.

SPEAKER_01:

We'll see you in January. Yes.