I really hate Christmas. Sure, somewhere in my jaded alcohol fueled heart I may find some holly jolly. But frankly, unless it allows me to slink away with a bottle of merlot and a pen, I’m generally not interested. This is why, for the fourth Christmas in a row, I find myself sitting alone at the nearest watering hole that keeps its martini’s dry and its boys slutty.
Normally I wouldn’t be so swayed to go out and search for a bit of strange. But, I rather enjoy being around my own kind and Christmas tends to bring out all the damaged and disaffected stoics who share my general disdain for the wretched holiday. You know, the insatiable cynics who can‘t be bothered to muster holiday cheer that isn’t aided by some chemical or another.
Although I’m generally a more of a separatist, I’d much rather congregate with people I have something that share more with me than an unfortunate biological pairing. Plus, I find something very intoxicating about olfactory symphony created by a gin soaked, chain smoking harlot like myself.
Right now, I’m very much enjoying the one created by this racially non-descript supposed twenty-something, who’s really a thirty-something, but he’s cute so I’ll let him have his fantasy. He says his name is Frank, simple enough.
Frank, is a rather tall bearish gentlemen, about 6’ 5” to my measure. His face is striking. Bright brown eyes with hints of honey and gold. A fluffy puff of curly dyed black hair, which keeps falling in in his face. An epic and well-manicured bounty of facial bush that would probably connect with the chest hair that over flows from his blackberry colored plaid flannel shirt, if he hadn’t spent an hour carefully grooming this morning. Large round lips, nose, and cheeks, all flush with color.
He looks a bit like a drunk, young-ish Chris Cringle.
From what I can see of his body, it’s rather plump. Nice legs, thighs specifically. Ass, check. Shoulders, check.
He’s got a great rack, which is accentuated by the fact that his shirt is about 2 sizes too small. Although the shirt is so tight that it borders on ridiculous, I’m definitely captivated as I watch the top button hold on for dear life. Periodically, I muttering some false statement of interest in his bravado to his cleavage, instead of his face, which I doubt he notices. It’s rather difficult to be self-aware when you’re on your seventh cocktail and busy talking about how great you are.
For past thirty-minutes he’s been whispering in my ear, trying, rather transparently to impress me. I’m not. He says he a job, a nice one. He says he has a car, a nice one too. It appears, from his telling, that he’s got a nice everything. However, it wasn’t until he broke out the honesty box that he even got my attention.
He tells me that he just broke up with his boyfriend of five years. He then clarifies that he got dumped because he got drunk and fucked their neighbor… and the neighbor’s boyfriends. I tell him that he could have saved himself thirty minutes and just been real from the start. He smiles. He’s really cute, and all I can think about is taking him home, bending his thirty-something ass over my chaise and making him my ho, ho, ho. But I play it cool.
He continues to tell me about the ex and what it is that makes him prefer spending Christ’s birthday in a dank bar full of other depressed and horny men than in the glittering halls of his family’s oversized McMansion. It’s rather depressing, but I let him vent. As long as he keeps supplying me with cold vodka with a twist of lime, I’ll listen to anything he has to say.
I listen, intently, employing all of my interview training to make him think I care. When he finishes, I take a swig of my beer followed by a finishing sip of my vodka rocks. He looks at me wistfully, drunkenly, horny. I can tell he wants what I want. But I like this game we’re playing. Rather, I’m playing.
I tell him I’m going to step outside for a cigarette and that he should join me. He says that he quit. I tell him to try harder. He smiles.
We stop for a minute and just stare at one another. I take another swig of my beer, and motion towards the door. He smiles and shakes his head to say no, telling me again that he’s given up smoking.
I stop, confused for a moment. Then I realize that he’s simply too drunk to get that I’m suggest we go outside so that I can slid my dick inside his drunken ass. So, I smile and lean forward towards him. I reach my hand out and run my hand over his slightly erect cock, which is rather pronounced through his jeans that are tighter than his shirt. He looks at me for a moment; he’s still not sure of what’s going on. Then I lick my lips and whisper, have you given up sucking dick?
I remove my hand from his now unquestionable erect cock, grab my coat and head for the door. Before I reach the door, I can feel his eager smile glowing behind me.
We reach my car, I open the door. We slide into the back seat of my black 1998 Lincoln Town Car, and my Christmas got a whole lot more merry.