When I met H, he was everything I thought I wanted in a man – quiet, resourceful and somehow physically reassuring. He was in his late forties and had a gentle, homely quality that I found sweet and nourishing. But soon he was to show me that I wanted more from a man – more from a human – and that he could give it to me.

That winter, we were staying in a cosy ski lodge when H introduced me to the Moomins. I was instantly hooked. I loved their solidarity, their love of nature, their sweetness, and their white curves – I was astonished to find myself aroused by them. At first I felt baffled and ashamed. But then I started dropping hints: I nicknamed H Pappa Moomin, bought him a top hat, fed him up.

Two years later, I convinced Pappa to dress up as the real thing for Halloween. I used to work as a seamstress and was able to create a realistic latex outfit. When he tried it on, I felt more sexual desire than I ever had in my life. We made Moomin-love right there and kept going for 18 glorious months. H was totally into it; sometimes I dressed as Little My, or H would put on his Snufkin smock, but it was always Pappa Moomin that did it for me: his friendly wildness, his kindly rotundness, his more than human curvaceousness.

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H died three years ago. Since then, I haven’t had sex with a Moomin. I have had a couple of relationships, but when I brought up the Moomins in this context, these men were perplexed and doubtful. I wouldn’t say I’m unfulfilled, but I do miss my Pappa Moomin.

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