'I dreaded my first Christmas as newly single. Instead, it became the sexiest week of my life.'

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This one year, a few years ago, I went home for Christmas newly single. I'd broken up with my boyfriend of almost five years and expected the holidays to truly suck on my own. Spoiler: they didn't.

I had that fear that I think follows us all around when we're newly single and about to see lots of people who want to know about our lives. I was dreading the pitying looks, the strokes on the arm, the supposedly comforting phrases like: "everything's going to be okay" or "you'll find someone else." I didn't want to find anyone else. I was pretty sure that I never wanted to sign my life over to a man ever again. And I didn't want to have to explain that to anybody.

But there was also this ache, the feeling of being alone over the holidays — that was looming. Christmas has always felt like a particularly romantic time to me. Perhaps it's that all my favourite rom-coms are set amongst Christmas lights, carols and snow, or that my childhood obsession of kissing under the mistletoe still hadn't come to fruition.

Or maybe it was because, once, a really cute boy from high school turned up on my doorstep on Christmas Eve to tell me he loved me. It felt very High School Musical and proved all the Christmas movies right: it's the time of year you get to be honest.

I was always the kid that loved Christmas, that believed it was a magical time and that anything could happen. But this year, I was feeling pretty cynical about life and love. The guy I thought I'd spend my forever with turned out to not be my person. I'd come out of the relationship emotionally battered and bruised, a stranger to myself and a much more hesitant believer in hetero relationships.

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So, when my childhood-crush-turned-good-friend offered to drive us both home for Christmas, I didn't hesitate.

I need to give a bit of backstory before we carry on. 

I grew up on a very long, tree-lined street in Adelaide. Although the street itself was almost 2km in length, it was like a little village. We knew everyone that lived down it, their pets, their kids, what they did for work — everything. It's a bit of a small town thing, I think.

We were friends with a few of them, went over to their place for dinner parties etc. One couple, who lived about 20 houses down from us, were good friends with my parents and they have three super handsome sons. I won't tell you their real names, so as not to embarrass them. Let's call them *Ned, *Andy and *Wes. 

Wes, the youngest, was my childhood crush. I loved him. He wore Hawaiian shirts, worked at a salsa bar and loved Murakami. I thought he was everything. We became friends who shared books, baked treats for each other and eventually kissed. We almost fell in love, but it wasn't the right timing. We were too young, I think.

Andy, the middle child, was the dreamboat. I also had a massive crush on him, but he was ten years older and always dating someone beautiful — which made him feel wildly out of reach. So I shelved that fantasy. You can't crush on brothers. Right?

Fast-forward 15 years, and both Wes and I are living in Melbourne. We've become good friends, worked through our childhood crushes on each other (turns out he used to crush on me too and was devastated when we didn't fall in love) and have become good friends.

So when he offered me a lift home for Christmas, the tension was… noticeable.

The car ride was all banter and laughter. He'd also brought along another girl he used to crush on. You can imagine the vibe. We were teasing him, he was flirting back — fun, flirty, lighthearted. A perfect distraction.

A few nights into the trip, there was this pop-up bar event — something Wes and Andy's cousin was hosting at a converted warehouse-turned-wine-bar (Adelaide is small, you'll see). I wasn't planning to go, but everyone in Adelaide somehow ended up in the same room at Christmas, so I went. I didn't think Wes or Andy would be there; neither had mentioned it. But the moment I walked in, there they were. Both of them.

Andy looked exactly as I remembered — maybe better. That rugged, Heath Ledger-meets-theatre-boy thing. He lives in Sydney now, works in the performing arts, which somehow made him even hotter.

"It wasn't at all what I'd expected from going home for Christmas," writes Laura Roscioli

I sat down at their table. They were happy to see me — warm hugs, wine poured, easy laughter. But then I noticed it: they were both flirting with me. Not just friendly banter. Flirting. Andy never really had before. He'd always gone for the skinny, androgynous, bookish type. I'm not that. But tonight he was flirting, hard. His hand found my thigh. He poured me another glass.

Wes was watching. He could see the energy shift, although he was pretty drunk. When Andy went to grab another bottle, Wes leaned in close and whispered, "Want to go to my car and make out, for old times' sake?"

I laughed. "Yes," I said. "But after some more wine."

Andy came back with the bottle, and we started talking again. Something about him was different — or maybe I was. Maybe I hadn't noticed it back then because the age gap had made it impossible. Now, it didn't feel so impossible.

At some point, I told him I needed to pee, and for reasons I can't explain, I asked him to come with me. The bathrooms were big, dimly lit, and it felt like we'd stepped out of time. I remember laughing, then crawling across the tiled floor toward him as he sat down.

He looked at me and said quietly, "We shouldn't do this. Wes would kill me."

But it was already happening. It felt wrong, hot and inevitable at once, the kind of moment that belongs perfectly to the holidays, when the air feels a little charged and everyone's playing a version of who they used to be.

We kissed feverishly on the bathroom floor, before slipping out the back door into the warm night, hearts pounding, wine-drunk, and grinning like teenagers who'd just gotten away with something. 

After hours of walking through the streets of Adelaide — making out against anything that would hold us up (fences, laneway walls, the occasional bin, even lying down on the grass in a local park) — we ended up back at his family home.

I'd been inside that house so many times throughout my childhood and teenage years that it felt strangely familiar. Memories flooded in: his mum pouring me tea to calm my nerves before Year 12 exams, Wes sitting me down to tell me he had feelings for me, the way my mind used to spin during their family dinner parties, writing erotic stories in my head about both of them.

He led me into Wes's childhood bedroom and started taking off my clothes. It was weird and horny and surreal all at once: the brother of my childhood crush, undressing me in my other crush's bedroom. They looked similar enough that my tipsy brain had to focus extra hard to make sure I didn't say the wrong name.

I'd imagined this before. Actually, I'd imagined both of them undressing me at the same time, but this was close enough. As close as I was ever going to get.

I let myself relish it, even though I knew I'd have to tell Wes on the drive home and just hoped it wouldn't ruin our friendship. But at that moment, I didn't care. It was the sexiest I'd felt in over a year. My ex and I had stopped having sex and I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt horny.

But now, I felt it all: ravenous, excited, wet. It was as if my blood was finally circulating properly again. I was alive, and I was kissing a boy — now a man — I used to dream about.

A few other wild things happened during that week-long stint in my hometown, my first Christmas back as a newly single 27-year-old.

I saw an old flame, someone things had ended badly with years earlier, and we hugged it out. Admitted our faults. Forgave each other. I met his new girlfriend and, to my surprise, felt fine. I kissed someone else I hadn't kissed in years and was relieved to find that the spark was gone.

I even kissed Wes — and told him about Andy. He said he'd kind of expected it to happen eventually, and he wasn't mad. We realised we'd probably never be together, but that we love each other very much.

It was an action-packed week of both sexy and strangely wholesome behaviour. I felt little pieces of myself return — my body, my desire, my lightness. I found my sex drive again. I made peace with the past.

It wasn't at all what I'd expected from going home for Christmas. I thought it would be lonely, full of reminders of what I'd lost. But it turned out to be the opposite. There's something about going home single that can be deeply healing. You stop performing for anyone else and start reconnecting with the version of you that existed before all the heartbreaks and compromises. You realise you can still have fun, still feel wanted, still surprise yourself.

Maybe that's what a single Christmas really is: a reminder that love doesn't only live in romance. Sometimes it lives in nostalgia, forgiveness, and the thrill of becoming yourself again.

*Names have been changed to protect identities.

Read more stories from Laura:

• 'I was out escorting when we ran into my client's daughter. I knew I'd never see him again.'

• 'I thought I'd grow out of my thing for older men. Instead, I fell in love with one.'

• 'I asked my boyfriend why he wants sex so much more than me. His answer was surprising.'

Feature image: Instagram/@lauraroscioli.