I Hate Christmas

I hate Christmas, Santa Claus sucks, the reindeer should be ground up into dog food and the songs, the fucking songs, it's either advertisement that the road to happiness is paved in all those presents under the trees or praise for something that so many people have packaged into a religious icon and then put it up for sale. Of course I can say all this, well except the religious part, because I am Santa. No, not one of your department store borderline pedophiles dressed in a red and white suit, I'm the real deal.

Well, actually I was the real deal, before the corporate contracts elbowed me out of my position and the new, fat, bearded Santa appeared. I do have a beard, it's a bit straggly now, and my clothes are dirty and worn, but I am the man. You ask, "If you are Santa, where is Mrs. Claus?" All I can tell you is the truth, Mrs. Clause is a myth. Once again, the corporations got worried about the implications of a single Santa, questions about sexual orientation and things kept popping up. So there you go, Mrs. Santa Claus, about as authentic as a fucking reindeer with a light up nose. How many millions did Mr. Montgomery or Mr. Ward make on that one?

So there you go, I am the original, fucking Santa Claus, well, except I don't fuck, haven't ever done it. Now that's got to be a scary thought for the corporations: a virgin Santa Claus. Well, fuckheads, I go one further, I'm a virgin Santa Claus who's a street person. Yeah, street person, homeless person, one of those poor wretched souls you ignore in the street while you pitch your change in the bucket for those annoying bell ringers. That's me, dirty, stinking and maybe even a bit drunk, and guess what, I'm going to church.

Yeah, I know, I hate the songs and have serious problems with the whole religion for cash thing, but then that's just me. We all have reasons for being here. Me? I'm here for the heat, I admit it. It's cold on the street and if I can slip in here for an hour or so, I can get real warm. There's a vent near that back pew and I sit right under it. Even if someone is sitting there when I arrive, I just scoot over close to them and they move, simple as that.

At least I'm honest about it and that makes one of me. See that woman over there, leafing through the agenda for the service... yeah, she's here for the songs. The Christmas music makes her feel good, "Oh Come All Ye Faithful?" No, just come for the songs, after Christmas she's sleeping late and relaxing on a Sunday. The man over there, he comes to puff out his chest when he tosses that envelope into the bowl they pass around. The only thing that would make it better for him is if he could write on the outside of the envelope just how much he loves the Lord. How many zeros after the number is that?

Oh yes, I see her now. She's the thin one over there, her legs crossed as her foot bounces up and down. See her there? Yeah, watch as she stands and sings. Notice how she leans against the hymnals there, thrusting her hips in time with the music. I've seen her before, she moves her legs and pushes against the hymnals masturbating until she can stand it no more. She'll then stand up, rush to the restroom and, I presume, finish herself off.

Now that I am warm I figure I might be able to take advantage of the situation. Perhaps she'd be open to some company and while we're in the spirit of the holidays, why not see if she'd be interested in being Santa's first. I'll just get up and head towards the restrooms and wait for her to head my way. She should certainly be ready for it, as long as I can convince her I am truly the real Santa, it might work.

See, I told you, here she comes.

"Hey there, you can't go in the restroom, it's out of order."

"It is? But I need..."

"Look come over here and tell Santa about it," I say. Yeah I know it's a fucked up pick up line, but hell I've never done this before.

"You don't look like a Santa Claus."

"Yeah, well I've been gone a while, had a few bad times, but here, look at my ID," I say, showing her my fake ID.

"It says you are Santa Claus."

"There you go."

Licking her lips she said, "So you're the real Santa, like when I was so many years ago."

"Twenty seven."

"What?"

"It was twenty seven years ago when I brought you that doll that cried and wet her diaper."

She pauses, thinking, finally saying in amazement, "You really are him."

"Yes, I am him, and I know you've been naughty."

"When?"

"Just now, sitting there in the service. Now you've been naughty haven't you?"

"Yes," she whispers, blushing.

"Does church turn you on?" I ask.

Still blushing she answers, "Yes."

"Well, I know a quiet place over there. It's partway up the stairs, on the landing."

"And..."

"Well, I've never..."

"You've never. You mean we're going to do it in a church and it will be Santa's first time."

I nod, smiling shyly.

She grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs. Before I figure out what is happening she has her dress pulled up around her waist and her panties are gone. I quickly drop my drawers and kneel between her legs.

She takes hold of my cock and, as I lean forward, she guides it into her pussy. It slides easily in the wetness and soon I feel the smooth, warm and wet walls of her cunt sliding over me. I slowly withdraw and push back into her, listening to her moan. It feels so incredibly good, especially as she lifts her hips to meet each of my thrusts.

Her breathing quickens and then she clamps her legs around me and I feel the muscles inside her pulsate on my cock. I am suddenly flooded with pleasure and arch my back as my cock shoots my cum into her pussy. It is just incredible, as I lean on her and give her a kiss. She whispers, "Merry Christmas."

I reply, "Merry Christmas to you," and you know, that's the first time in a long time I said that and actually meant it. And fuck if I don't mean it. I pull my cock out of her, we both quickly dress and rush back into the service, joining the song, "Hark, the Herald Angels sing..."

Later we walk out of church together and I watch the people head home, telling myself, "Perhaps some of these people really mean it, perhaps just a few of them can ignore all the glitz and glitter and just love the time they spend with their friends and family. Maybe, maybe one or two, truly understand and mean what's said in those songs, maybe they do understand the true gift of Christmas."

I take my new friend's hand and she leads me towards her apartment. Together we wish everyone we see, "Merry Christmas," and maybe, just maybe they truly understand what we mean.