Here are a few things my boy is a fan of:

• My hair being short
• My cunt being freshly shaved
• Me wearing a dress
• Me wearing his clothes

Can you guess which common theme ties these all together?

Novelty is sexy

No matter how much you love someone’s scruffy jeans and bog-standard t-shirt/hoodie combo (and I have to say I do: I really really do), there’s something deeply hot about novelty. The person you see day in, day out turning up looking as if they’ve been taken over by someone else.

That, I suspect, is why suits are so deeply arousing. I don’t go weak at the knees over the men who get on the tube day after day in a standard-issue blue suit with pastel-coloured shirt: they’re clearly the people for whom ironing shirts and selecting an appropriate tie is part of their daily routine. But my God, when a guy I’m dating gets scrubbed and pressed for a special occasion, both my heart and my knickers melt at the sight of it.

It’s not that you look much different in a suit: you still have the same face, same hair, same body. But all of those things are decorated in a new and beautiful way. Just as the high street looks more magical with Christmas lights, you look more magical in a suit.

My new sexy hair

So, novelty is sexy. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to spend half my life trying new outfits and hairstyles and facial expressions just so I can inject pizzazz into any sexual encounter I have with someone I’ve known for a while. 

It’s not just for him that I get my hair cut – I find it pretty fucking sexy as well. Not out of an arrogant desire to show off, you understand: my hairdresser’s good but she’s not good enough that the new cut will hide the fact that I’ve put on a bit of weight and have bags under my eyes you could carry a weeks’ worth of shopping in. It’s not because my new hair makes me sexy, it’s because it makes me different.

Difference isn’t about becoming a different person: it’s about the ability to slightly tweak your feelings along with your appearance. If I’ve been feeling shite for the last few weeks, cutting off half my hair and seeing someone noticeably newer in the mirror gives me the chance to cut off some of the other stuff I’m feeling too. New-hair GOTN just isn’t the sort of miserable twat who’d sit around moaning about stuff: she looks like the sort of achieving go-getter who’d… I don’t know… stand up and moan about stuff.

This works not just for hair: new underwear, a ridiculous colour of nail varnish, a new piercing, half an hour spent bothering to put on make-up. And, incidentally, it means that not getting my hair cut, or shaving my cunt, or doing any of the things that magazines tell me I should do every single day, is utterly crucial to milking the sexual joy out of my changes in appearance. The sexiness of novelty relies on the everyday sexiness of the ordinary – they are two sides of exactly the same coin.

Fuck me like I’m someone else

I think part of the attraction of changing my appearance comes from a long-held desire to fuck strangers. I don’t fuck strangers these days, but I do flirt wildly with them. New men, with different bodies and clothes and mannerisms and accents… they’re special. If I’m meeting you for the first time, and you’re a guy, chances are I’ll spend the first hour or so of our conversation batting away mental images of what it’d be like if you bit my neck. Or slipped a hand up my skirt. Or ordered me to my knees and pushed your aching dick through my eager, open mouth: I can’t help it.

But changing my appearance gives me a tiny flash of that ‘fucking strangers’ hotness, no matter how well I know the guy I’m fucking. Because I’m new now. I’m different. I won’t necessarily drop to my knees the way you know I will – I might push you back on the bed and grind myself up against your straining cock. I might beg you to spit in my mouth, or find myself spitting in yours. I could do this any time, of course, but I don’t often realise I can until something changes about me, and it clicks into place that – hey! I don’t have to be the same person every day.

What I’m saying is that newness is filthy. I’m saying change is sexy. I’m saying bend me the fuck over, grab a handful of my freshly-cut hair, and screw me like we’ve never met.