Los Angeles, California
My hottest Christmas was when I visited my first long-term girlfriend at her parents’ house. We had been going steady for eight months, the first week of our holiday being the longest time we had been apart. And as such, I was HORNY. The Christmas lunch was excruciating, one long game of footsie under the table as the cranberry jelly was passed down to Aunt Beadie and the potatoes up to little Sally Anne. I only had eyes for my girl. And from my girl’s mutually enthusiastic efforts under the table, I figured that Aunt Beadie wasn’t the only one wanting stuffing.
The day wore on slowly, and as more Christmas sherries were downed, my lust grew. But visitors kept a-calling, and constant introductions to Father Seamus and Uncle Robin kept getting between me and my wicked way. By mid-afternoon it was quite a party, my girlfriend was on the far side of the conservatory, and the only things getting pulled were Christmas crackers.
Suddenly, I noticed my girlfriend picking her way through the crowd, her eyes holding on mine a little too long and a little too meaningfully as she slipped out of the door. I waited excitedly for a minute so as not to arouse suspicion, then made an excuse to the circle of old ladies I was standing in and left. With my heart racing in my chest and my hand clutching the condom in my pocket, I ran upstairs and made a beeline for a door that had my girlfriend’s name on it. As I poked my head around slowly, it became apparent that she wasn’t in her childhood bedroom. Oh, so she was playing games! The next room I tried was the bathroom; empty. Next I looked in her parents’ bedroom; again, nothing. But as I was closing the door, I saw something move from the corner of my eye: a naked leg poking out from the heap of guests‚ coats piled on the parental bed! I leapt on top of my girl without hesitation, and we made the naughtiest, fastest love we ever had, our naked limbs intertwining with tweed jacket sleeves. HOT!
Once over, my girlfriend bolted from the room to rejoin the party, leaving me with the dilemma of where to dispose of the condom. Mother’s bedside trashcan was out of the question, and visions of blocked toilets prevented me from sneaking out to the bathroom. It left me with only one, rather unorthodox, option. Genius!
Or so I thought. As I re-entered the party room, a holy silence had befallen the assembly. Aunt Beadie turned aghast to face me, and my rosy festive glow deepened quite a few shades as I followed the guests‚ eyes upwards. For they were gathered under the conservatory’s glass roof, looking upwards in horror at the slimy sheath I had thrown out of the window, and which had landed smack bang above their heads, a small dribble of Christmas cheer trickling out of it.
West Hollywood, California
The hottest Christmas song I ever heard was the classic “Santa Baby” sung by Madonna. And believe you me, for a nine-year-old dyke who’s half Jewish, Madonna crooning “Santa Baby” is the closest any of us will ever get to Kris Kringle himself.
“Hurry down the chimney tonight…” was the last verse I heard as my mom rushed me off to bed swearing that if Santa Clause discovered me awake all I’d get was a stocking full of coal and a cold cup of rancid Baileys. So I scampered upstairs in my jammys and weighed my options: A) wait for delicious Madonna in tight red stockings or B) hold out for that Walkman I’d been begging for since June. Alas, I chose the obvious — both. No way would I wait another year to flaunt the almighty portable tapedeck, nor was I gonna let age nine pass me by like a virgin. The grand plan emerged quickly as I lay in the top bunk –I was to trick Santa into thinking I was asleep, when in fact I’d be hooking up with Madonna.
I raced downstairs humming, “Think of all the fun I’ve missed, think of Madonna that I haven’t kissed.” I passed under the mistletoe and hid behind the dining table and waited. But something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Why was Lauren Michaels, the hottest girl in school, my sister’s best friend, sleeping on the couch? She’ll wake up when Madonna and I meet and then Santa will discover not only me not sleeping, but Lauren Michaels as well! There was no way I’d be able to talk Santa into giving Lauren her presents too. Sure, I can take care of myself, but who knows if Lauren had been good all year? I tiptoed over to Lauren and shook her ever so violently whispering,“Wake the heck up!” Lauren replied,“What’s your problem, spaz!”
Me: “Ummm, I’m only about to hook up with Madonna!”
Lauren: “Santa’s gonna catch you, dummy.”
Me: “Get out, I have a plan and you’re ruining everything!”
Lauren: “No way, I wanna see!”
I grabbed Lauren off the couch and pushed her towards the staircase. “Go!” And with one final ram she fell on the step and said, “I hate you.” A loud CLUNK was heard through the chimney, followed by nasty, smoggy dust through the fireplace. Lauren and I looked up to see the mistletoe above us swinging back and forth like Father Time reminding us to get to bed.
Lauren’s eyes changed and the earth moved. Without warning, she put both her hands on my waist and pulled me into her. I tried to fight it, I swear. Then she planted one long, sensual kiss between us. The fireplace dust settled while she pulled her hot lacey tights off but all I could hear was my mom yelling, “Kids, get up, it’s an earthquake!”
Bethel Park, Pennsylvania
Once upon a time, in a suitcase far, far away was I. Mother went to the hot springs for therapy several times a year, and always once right before Christmas. She had a special suitcase for her furs in which I, a willowy thing at the time, fit quite nicely. When I think back on it now, I do wonder if perhaps mother knew I was there all along as she didn’t seem alarmed when Nana Jane radioed the plane to notify her I was missing. Anyway, the ride was very cozy, as mother insisted her luggage be with her in the cabin rather than the storage facility below. I remember listening
to the soundtrack from Hair, and the sweet smell of Afghani hash, my mother’s favorite.
When we landed, mother and luggage were taken to the resort next to the springs. Mother had reserved a private spring and two 16-year-old boys, both for their healing properties. I was left to make due with the resort’s community springs. Most of the people were in their 30s and 40s, ancient to me at the time, except for a young fellow, all by himself at the edge of the springs, reading Nietzsche. He was a 14-year-old Russian Brit with watery blue eyes and a hairless chest. When I slid into the water next to him he looked at me and said, “God is dead.” I said, “Yes, I know,” and so began my first sexual encounter. He had the most magnificent cock I have had the pleasure to pleasure to date, which, truthfully, is rather disappointing. (In retrospect, I have wondered if perhaps I have magnified that particular detail, as is the tendency when reminiscing; but the fact that I couldn’t walk for two days afterward allows me to remember his member in all its glory, and with no doubt.)
After many hours I made it back to mother’s room, curled up in her furs and fell asleep. (Perhaps the birth of my penchant for passing out in my mink.) We returned home the next day, as was Mother’s practice, to hide all of the valuables before grandmother came round for post-holiday celebration. No one was the wiser, although Nana Jane was a bit cross with me for making her worry.
It has been my tradition, ever since, to give myself a magnificent gift each holiday season. Admittedly, the gift of one’s sexual birth with a perfect 14-year-old cock is difficult to beat, but I certainly try with gusto each year, sometimes with great success.
Stay hot, darlings.
New York, New York
I hate Christmas. I totally fucking hate Christmas. So last year I skipped it completely: didn’t go home for the holidays, called in sick to the office party, threw all the cards I got in the trash without opening them. (Okay, I opened them to make sure they didn’t have a check inside, but I didn’t read them.)
How did I spend this most holy of days, you ask? Fucking my brains out with a stripper named Jesus, that’s how. But that comes later. Christmas eve I’m bored out of my skull. Nothing to read, cold as shit out, and it’s snowing. So what should I do? All of a sudden it hit me. There’s only one place I really wanna be: The Gaiety Theater. Now if you don’t live in New York City you might not know about the Gaiety. It’s one of the few trashy, sexy places to have survived Rudy Giuliani’s reign of terror. It’s an old fashioned gay strip club, with muscle boys on the make and sugar daddies with fanny packs full of crisp singles, bad HI-NRG played on a kick-ass sound system, footlights and g-strings and pinball machines and, incongruously enough, a buffet table. I’ve been hitting the Gaiety a couple of times a year since high school, and not just because I love to watch naked guys. Secretly I harbor a burning ambition to be a stripper.
I get there and guess what? There are like four people in the theater. But it’s cool, it’s all cool. The Germanic lady who sells tickets is giving out little candy canes along with the change. The DJ is playing the Salsoul Orchestra’s Christmas album. The strippers, all three of them, are decked out in fuzzy red Santa hats. I think to myself, This is my kind of Christmas spirit. I head right for the green room where the strippers mingle and set up paid dates for after their routines. (I love the green room because once an out-of-towner came up to me while I was hanging out there and asked me when I was going on: He thought I was a stripper.) One of the dancers, a ripped guy with “good” and “luck” tattooed on his knuckles comes up to me and starts talking. His name is — are you ready? — Jesus. Now I’m really feeling the spirit, let me tell you. He’s going on in a while so he has nothing to do. We talk. We talk some more. I tell him about my stripper aspirations. He’s interested, mostly because half the dancers on the schedule didn’t show. Jesus says that if I want, I can go on. I don’t understand at first, but it sinks in. I can strip, onstage, that night. My dream come true. The tips aren’t much, he says, especially since the place is practically empty, but maybe it will be fun. Fun? Is he kidding? I’ve been waiting for this moment all my adult life.
Faster than you can say “pole dance,” I’m in the dressing room, slipping on one of Jesus’ elephant-nose G-strings. He clears it with Inge the ticket lady, fluffs me a little with his mouth – an unexpected bonus – and before I know it, I’m out there taking my clothes off to a remix of Hollywood. What a fucking trip. At first the four guys in the audience are half asleep, but the DJ pumps them up by telling them it’s my first dance ever. Everybody loves a virgin stripper – those guys got my cherry and I got 16 bucks, 11 singles and a greasy five. When the song is over it’s back to the dressing room, a little more fluffing from Jesus, and back out onstage, buck naked with an erection. Now, I’ve shown it hard to a lot of guys over the years and nobody has ever applauded before, but that’s exactly what these guys do. Even though I know it’s standard Gaiety etiquette to clap when the dancer comes out with a woody, it’s still a great moment. The best Christmas present ever.
All that evening it snows, and Jesus doesn’t feel like going back to the Bronx so he stays over at my place, and that’s how we end up fucking all Christmas Day. As for the Gaiety, I work there part-time now, leaving my office job behind to make the six o’clock show two or three nights a week.
If you must know, I’m not a big fan of x-mas. Every year I end up writing a shitty bah humbug rant but this year I have a story worth telling. Christmas is not as hyped here in Amsterdam as America, still it seeps in Dutch television. I revel in this country’s freedoms, especially when it involves drugs, sex and fashion. By 10:00 pm weekdays, the normal television lineup includes porn. We are not talking the soft-core variety but fucking pornography: plotless raunchy sex for the sake of sex.
Dutch Christmas traditions are quite similar to those back home. Except they have SintaClaus not Santa and instead of hanging stockings they put carrots, wrapped in a wish list, in their shoes. SintaClaus comes out on December 5th. Traveling here by steamboat from Spain with his helpers, Zwarte Pieten or Black Peters. Very surreal to watch Dutch people running around Amsterdam with painted-on black faces in 17th-century clothing. I’ve had discussions on the implications of racism given Dutch history. For those who still believe in SintaClaus and God, Zwart Peter is black because he goes down the chimney. It has nothing to do with his Moorish heritage. No cultural sensitivity points when you suggest anything else. Fortunately there are many kinds of Peters – Happy, Silly, etc, and my personal favorite, Glamour Peter.
After losing a bet with a Dutch co-worker. I found myself standing in line waiting to meet this SintaClaus. He was a taller, thinner, more sexy looking version than our own flying reindeer jockey. Especially his Zwarte Peter, and sexy is no small feat when one is wearing pantaloons. He’s got a naughty/nice list and you do sit on his knee. Your naughty is list given to him by your parents days earlier. That explains much of the paranoia and why therapy is so popular in this country – and I thought it was the weed. Hungover, surrounded by screaming children, amazingly I realized that I found both SintaClaus and his weird elf hot. Mr. Claus picked up on this. Could it have been my lustful stare as I slowly licked my chocolate croissant breakfast off my lips? Sitting on his lap, encouraged by my attention, I felt a thumping bulge thru his red velvet pants. Delighted, I thought of my long wish list and the extra large carrot I had stuffed in my Pradas. Sinta whispered in my ear, “Have you been naughty or nice?” “OH, Sintaclaus,” I squirmed, “I’ve been so naughty…”
He invited me to party on his boat that evening. Sexy Peter answered the door. We also had Coco Peter, Eeee Peter, and my other personal favorite, K Peter. Hmmm…a boat full of 20 Black Peters.
I awoke that festive morning my body still covered with traces of marzipan. Giggling, I turned on the television and found it hard to decide between It’s a Wonderful Life and “I wana do your wife.”