I’m in my kitchen at 1:47 a.m., barefoot, wearing a silk slip that cost more than my first car, eating cold lo mein straight from the carton with a Montblanc pen because all the chopsticks are in the dishwasher and I refuse to do dishes after midnight. My phone buzzes. It’s a link from a friend who still thinks “group chat” is a personality trait.
The link says, bold as brass:
Which Reindeer Sex Style Are You?
I should close it. I should go to bed. I should do literally anything that preserves the last shred of my dignity.
Instead I click.
And just like that, with sesame oil on my chin and the fridge humming like a disappointed parent, I fall head-first into the most unhinged personality quiz ever created by a human who definitely owns too many novelty Christmas sweaters.
There are nine options. Nine. Because apparently Santa’s sleigh team moonlights as the kinkiest lineup since Calvin Klein’s 1994 campaign.
Let’s begin, shall we?
First up: Dasher
“You like it when your partner comes fast.”
Oh, honey. Fast? I once dated a man who treated foreplay like the express lane at Whole Foods: in and out in under four minutes, proud of himself for “saving time.” I told him the only thing he saved was me from a second date. If you finish faster than my Uber Eats order, you’re going back to the North Pole with a note that says “needs more stamina.” Dasher is for people who think “quickie” is a love language and “stamina” is something you buy at GNC. Next.
Dancer
“You like to do it to music.”
Now we’re talking. Who makes love in silence? Psychopaths and people who still use hotel Bibles as coasters. I need rhythm. I need bass that makes the art on my walls reconsider its life choices. I once tried to get it on to a meditation playlist (ocean waves and pan flutes) because he said it was “sensual.” I lasted forty-three seconds before I started laughing so hard I pulled a hamstring. If the beat doesn’t drop, neither do my standards. Dancer gets my vote so far, provided the playlist isn’t curated by someone who thinks Enya is foreplay.
Prancer
“This screams horse or pony play; anal tail plug anyone?”
I stared at my screen so long the lo mein went warm. Pony play? On a Tuesday? Darling, I can’t even commit to a Pilates membership. The closest I’ve ever come to a tail is when my blowout went full Arabian stallion in humidity. I dated a man who wanted me to whinny. I told him the only thing I neigh for is a cab during rush hour. He showed me his custom saddle. I showed him the door. Prancer is for people whose Amazon search history could get them on a watch list. Hard pass.
Vixen
“Do you use this for your blog name? If you do, drop the link below; this one’s clearly yours.”
Cute. Very fourth-wall. For a moment I consider rebranding everything I own to “Vixen Does Vintage Handbags” just to mess with the algorithm. But no. Vixen is for women who spell “come” with three extra o’s and think posting nudes with a Santa hat counts as seasonal content. I prefer my mischief fully clothed and tax-deductible.
Comet
“You like screaming across the night sky.”
Translation: loud. Very loud. The kind of loud that makes the neighbors learn your name against their will. I respect the energy, but my walls are thin and my super already thinks I run an unlicensed jazz club. The last time I got anywhere near comet-level volume, Mrs. Goldstein from 12B left a passive-aggressive note with a decibel chart taped to my door. Comet girls don’t care. I do, because I still have to ride the elevator with Mrs. Goldstein and her judgmental shih tzu.
Cupid
“You do it only if you are in love.”
Sweet, delusional angel. I tried that in my twenties. I waited for fireworks, violins, a string quartet, the whole Disney package. All I got was a man who said “I love you” right before asking to borrow my Amex. These days I’m less Cupid and more “if the vibe is right and he can pronounce Louboutin correctly, we can negotiate.” Love is lovely, but so is an orgasm that doesn’t require a two-year commitment and meeting his mother.
Donner (party of one, apparently they forgot the “d”)
“You like to wear the other gender’s clothes.”
Listen, I’ve borrowed many things from men: their hoodies, their credit cards, their last name on a resort registry when I didn’t feel like spelling mine. But full cross-dress fantasy? I once put on a boyfriend’s boxer briefs because I was cold and he acted like I’d desecrated a cathedral. Meanwhile I’ve worn his Tom Ford tuxedo shirt as a dress to brunch and got complimented by three drag queens and a Vogue editor. So maybe I’m a little Donner. But only if the fabric is cashmere and dry-clean only.
Blitzen
“You can only do it if you are drunk.”
Rude. Accurate, but rude. There was a phase (roughly 2017–2021) where my libido required a blood-alcohol level requirement. Tequila was basically foreplay. I’d take one look at a lime wedge and start taking off my earrings. Sobriety ruined my game, or improved it, depending on who you ask. These days I can get turned on by a well-structured sentence and health insurance, which feels like personal growth. Blitzen is the patron saint of bad decisions and Sunday regrets. I’ve retired her jersey, but I still keep it in the closet next to the shoes I swear I’ll wear again.
And finally… Rudolph
“You like to use your nose to ingratiate yourself to other people’s asses.”
I’m sorry, what?
I read it twice. Three times. The lo mein fell out of my mouth. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is out here suggesting… rimming? On Christmas? I feel like I need to light a candle and apologize to my childhood. The quiz literally ends with: “Rudolph was such a red noser.” I’m screaming into a throw pillow so hard I invent a new yoga pose.
So there I am, 2:14 a.m. now, wine gone, dignity somewhere under the couch with the lost earrings and self-respect. I still haven’t picked one. I’m a little Dasher (who isn’t?), a lot Dancer, a dash of Donner when the tailoring is impeccable, and maybe, on a dare and three negronis, a whisper of Comet.
But mostly I’m just a woman who started her night respecting Santa’s workforce and ended it questioning every life choice that led me to reading reindeer-based sex trivia with a pen in one hand and noodles in the other.
So tell me, darling — which reindeer are you? And please, for the love of all that is holy, lie to me and say you’re Cupid. My faith in humanity is hanging by a red satin ribbon and it can’t take much more.
