Hello. Well, it’s here already: another holiday season. Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas more than anyone, but you have to admit, it feels just a little less special when we’re thinking about the Yuletide spirit and there’s not even snow on the ground yet. I mean, seriously, is it just me, or do the intense, sweaty sex dreams about fucking and being fucked by Santa Claus start earlier and earlier every year?
I know, I know, everyone always says that! But seriously, isn’t it kind of odd how last night—a full eight weeks before Christmas, mind you—I had a dream in which Jolly Old St. Nick crept down my chimney and surprised me in bed, fondling my throbbing cock through my pajama bottoms while lightly kissing the base of my neck?
Come on, people, it’s not even November yet!
And look, Christmas is my favorite time of year. When it comes to caroling, whipping up a batch of my famous fruitcake, or wandering through the corridors of a dream-gingerbread house in which at every turn I find a naked Santa leering at me while eagerly lapping away at Mrs. Claus’ soaking wet hole, I’m practically Tiny Tim!
But there’s a time and place for everything, and when I find myself waking up with my comforter caked in drying semen after yet another marathon double-orgasm wet dream in which Santa fits me with a reindeer harness while he and his cackling workshop elves take turns filling my mouth and beckoning asshole with a series of thicker and wider candy canes, I want there to at least be a nip in the air! I’m sorry, maybe I’m just old-fashioned like that.
Because despite what the Grinches and the Ebenezer Scrooges out there may try to tell you, Christmas is a wonderful time. It’s a time for gratitude, for charity, for taking a powerful dose of melatonin to make sure you don’t awaken before the conclusion of a frighteningly vivid reverie in which Kris Kringle is holding a gun to your head and forcing you to beat off in front of your parents, and for togetherness.
But if these things don’t arrive at the right time, it makes all those dreams about crawling on my hands and knees through my local mall’s Santa’s Village display while being hunted down by a lust-maddened Heat Miser a little less special—and don’t let the greeting card companies tell you any different.
Where does it end? I’m already having feverish, fluid-rich fuck dreams about Santa, with an occasional cameo by a Sybian-riding George Bailey, and Christmas is still two months away! Am I going crazy here?
I mean, if I’m already grinning from ear to ear while tangling my sheets into a clammy mess as I envision Father Christmas taking me from behind while shoving my face into a freshly baked mince pie, then what does that do to the rest of the holiday calendar? You can be sure I haven’t even had time to dream about a group of pilgrims and Wampanoag chieftains trussing me up, basting me in gravy, and visiting an array of hallucinatory degradations on me in between trips to the buffet table.
Seriously, when exactly was I supposed to take the time to fantasize about that—July?
At this rate, come next year, the only way I’ll be able to fulfill all of my carnal, seasonal-based needs will be to combine them into one extended dream odyssey in which a leprechaun, Cupid, and Abraham Lincoln take turns sucking me off as we all wait patiently for the Easter Bunny to yield a warm egg from its quivering aperture and then step on it. Sure, that would be really hot, and I’d probably come extremely hard, but that’s not the point.
The point is that Christmas is magical. It’s about more than just presents, or a perfectly cooked goose with all the trimmings, or a recurring dream of Santa wearing a black SS officer’s cap and punishing my balls with a riding crop. It’s about the twinkle in a child’s eye, my moans of pleasure when I dream of Santa spitting on me, and blowing my load so loudly it wakes up my downstairs neighbors and frightens their kids. And it’s something that I’m sorry to say the retailers and the advertisers and the holiday jingle tunesmiths will never understand.
So be patient, I say! Enjoy the holiday season for what it is, and when it is. Sure, you may want to choke yourself out right now so that you can fall into a phantasmagoric scenario where you and Santa work together to melt a pleading Frosty the Snowman with your hot piss, but hold off! Delay your gratification, and edge yourself until you’re just about ready to burst with the holiday spirit.
And if you do that, well, I can promise it won’t be long at all until you’ll hear me say, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a very, very, good night!”