Date: Wed, 27 Nov 2013 13:35:12 -0800 (PST)
From: abbadabbaisme@yahoo.com
Subject: Naughty Santa

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Naughty Santa

Ho ho fuckin' ho. You've been sitting in that goddamn chair for so long --
excuse me, your goddamn throne -- you don't think you'll ever be able to
stand again. Motherfucker... You know you've made some wrong turns in life
when you sober up and find you're a mall Santa Claus without extra padding
or wig or even strap-on whiskers. You're the real deal: a
sixty-five-year-old fat man with a snow white beard that reaches down to
your man tits. Ten hours a day for two weeks of snotty-nosed kids crying
and whining and begging and demanding. You've washed kiddy vomit out of
your beard and kiddy piss out of your pants and all you've done is smile
and say "Ho ho ho" because you need the fucking money and you don't get
paid unless your ass is in that goddamn throne.

You miss your wife something awful. She's been dead, what, five years? Time
doesn't mean shit to you any more. All you do is think of Mary. Mary, that
fucking hot little cheerleader that made you the happiest guy in the world
when she married you on your eighteenth birthday. They all said it wouldn't
last; that you and Mary were too young and were making the biggest mistake
of your lives. You laugh bitterly to yourself, thinking how it turns out
all those assholes were right. It didn't last. After all, Mary's dead,
isn't she? and you're still here.

So you've been drinking and eating and not watching the tv and not calling
your kids and not shaving and not reading the paper. You just think of
Mary. Fuckin' Mary...

Somebody tells you it's been five years as if that means something and you
say "Okay" as if you care and you're left alone again and you drink and you
eat and then the checks start bouncing. The Social Security isn't covering
it. You've got a roof paid for and you've got heat. But you need food and
you need to be numb so you accept the fuckin' Santa job.

Finally your shift is almost over. There hasn't been a kid in ten minutes.
Which is good, `cause now you can focus on that cute little elf in the
short skirt. The one who looks like Mary when she was just sixteen and you
feel exactly how you felt when you first laid eyes on her when you were
seventeen. She'd twirl in that skirt of hers and you'd see her white
panties and her round bottom and she just looked so fuckin' happy she made
you happy. You weren't falling in love with her ass, you were falling for
her face. For her wide smile and her perfect teeth and those blue, blue, oh
so fuckin' blue eyes of hers. You were falling for her happiness and her
humor and the way her hand felt in yours and the way her voice sounded on
the phone all those nights you two talked and talked and talked and
couldn't bring yourself to hang up so you could go to bed and see her again
in person the next day at school. It wasn't about sex. It was never about
sex. It was about her. And it was about you two together. And when sex
finally came after you got married, it was new to both of you and beautiful
and something you never stopped sharing and loving. You never looked at
another girl or woman or anybody. Not even since she died have you looked
at a woman or girl or anybody. Until that fuckin' elf you saw earlier
tonight. She could be Mary brought back to life. And you could be that
teenage wrestler all over again.

That's when that kid returns to sit on your Santa lap a second time.

The kid tells you he forgot something earlier. As if you remember him from
all the other brats you've had sitting on your lap. Yeah, he looks a little
old to believe in Santa, but after these last two weeks, nothing surprises
you anymore. You've seen it all. Or so you think.

You want to go home, call it a night. You want to dream of Mary and never
wake up. You want to tell this kid to fuck off, there is no Santa Claus and
he's old enough to know better and why isn't he with his parents or better
yet home in bed. There's a lot of things that go through your head in that
flash of a second, but you know you can't do or say any of it so all that
comes out of your mouth is "Ho ho ho, little boy, come and sit on Santa's
lap."

The kid climbs up. He's small. Four feet? Four and a half? Who knows.
Slumped in your throne, still buzzing from the Jack you've been sipping for
the last eight hours, you can't judge height or weight or age. The kid
plants himself on your right thigh and starts talking about something
called a PlayStation. Whatever. You're not Santa Claus. You don't have to
buy him this shit. Let him say whatever he wants. You just watch the cute
little elf and think of Mary. The elf turns. Her green skirt rises and you
see red-trimmed tighty-whities. They're sexy in that chaste way that seems
dead to the world nowadays. Now everything's sex for sex's sake.  You don't
want this girl. You don't even want sex. You want Mary. Sixteen-year-old
Mary the cheerleader. Seventeen-year-old Mary your bride.
Twenty-two-year-old Mary the new mother still in the hospital with your
brand new baby. Fifty-nine-year-old Mary with only a week to live. They're
all the same to you. You'd take any one of them. You just want Mary
back. But this kid...

This damn kid won't sit still. He says he can't wait to get Santa's
present. He moves from your right leg to your left. He fidgets and shifts
around `til he's finally sitting in your lap. Even then he keeps
wiggling. You remember that old saying "ants in your pants" and for the
first time in your life you know what's meant by it. You're watching the
elf. The kid bumps into you down there. It's swelled up to fill the kid's
crack enough so that he can't move as much. It's a speed bump his ass
cheeks can't get over. He finally stops shifting around and settles down,
his ass cheeks on either side of you.

You mumble your usual shit about putting something in his stocking. He
leans back and says he doesn't want Santa to waste his present in a
stocking.

The elf girl, she climbs a ladder to add ornaments to the tree. She's Mary
decorating your first Christmas tree wearing your pajama top that lifts up
as she reaches to hang an angel on a higher limb. You're so proud she chose
you to be her husband; chose your shirt to wear. You're dreaming of Mary
while the elf girl stretches not thirty feet away from you and the kid in
your lap squeezes his ass cheeks.

You're hard. You'd forgotten you could ever get this hard. The kid lifts
his ass a bit. Shit, he can feel you. This is bad. You feel cold air down
there. For the first time in your life you wish you wore jockeys not boxers
because you realize you haven't just worked your way through the fly of the
boxers, you've worked your way through the unzipped fly of your pants. Did
the kid just say something about unwrapping Santa's present? All you really
know for sure is you're out in the air, right below this kid's ass.

The kid pushes back against your belly. Santa's belly. He's pushing the
wind out of you. He settles down and suddenly the tip of you meets
something warm and wet and tight and you're thinking "Mary..." and the kid
grips your leg and sighs and says "Oh, Santa..."

The elf girl reaches up the tree thirty feet in front of drunken you and
hangs a candy cane and on her panties you can see what looks like leaves
and now you see Mary and her panties while she's decorating your tree and
on her panties you see a mistletoe design.  They're panties she bought for
you to enjoy and you did and now she's dead and this other young girl is
wearing the modern version of the same thing and your body is alive and
this kid – this boy, goddamn it – is pushing himself down onto you
and you're too drunk and sad and tired and weak and depressed and horny
nostalgic to do anything about it except dream of Mary and the fishing pole
she got you that year and wonder what kind of fucked up world is it we live
in where little boys rape Santa Claus.

You're breathing heavy now.  Even you can't miss the stench of whiskey. The
kid, he coos something about liking your breath; it reminds him of his
grandfather. The fucking kid, he kisses you. It's Christmas and at
sixty-five you're finally experiencing first hand just how dark a place the
world has become. Or maybe it's always been. You have no idea. You were a
good kid, a good husband, a good father, a good grandfather. Who the fuck
did whatever's been done to this kid to make him do this to you?

The kid is squeezing and bouncing. He's gripping your legs and pushing his
head back into your beard. He reaches up like he's telling you a secret but
all he does is breathe in your ear. It's Mary's breath and you feel
yourself getting thicker. The little bastard says "Santa's naughty" and
it's the first year you dressed up as Santa for your own children, only
it's later that night after you finished putting together the kids' train
set under the tree and it's just you and Mary and she's on your lap, her
mistletoe underwear on your forehead and your fingers are playing with her
ass while she rides you and Mary, she says, "Santa's naughty..."

The kid pulls your arms around him. The elf backs down the ladder, her
short skirt catching the air and rising a bit with each step down. Three
steps from the bottom, she jumps and does a 180 twirl, her skirt flies up
and is pressed against her flat belly for a fraction of a second. You catch
a glimpse of the front of her panties. Her skirt drops and she smiles the
giant innocent happy smile of the high school sweetheart you married and
for the first time in five years you gasp. The kid gasps. The elf has no
idea any of this is happening. All the shoppers and employees are so tired,
you're hoping no one's noticing.

The kid squeezes his ass as he pulls himself off of you. He adjusts and
fidgets again. His pants are up.  You're back in your pants. He gives you a
hug and says this is his favorite part of the holidays. He says "Merry
Christmas, Grandpa. I mean, Santa," and then he's gone. There could be a
huge mess on the seat of his pants, you can't tell. His over-sized parka
hides all. The elf girl is gone. You drain the last of your Jack from your
candy cane flask.

Now you're home and in bed, cold and wondering what kind of man you've
become. When merciful sleep finally drags you off, the damaged boy, thank
god, is gone from your mind. So is the chaste elf girl. It's just Mary.
Mary with cookie dough on her hands. Mary changing the flat tire on the
Honda. Mary asleep next to you at the drive-in, the kids snoozing in the
back seat. Mary saying she loves you. Mary whispering, "Naughty Santa..."