Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Dear Miss Santa

Illustration Copyright 2014 by Lamair Nash    

Fiction File Entry #29 (Sexy bits and naughty thoughts that may yet become full-blown comics…or something.)
Santa was checking her list thrice.  She put the candied pencil tip to her lips and toyed it with her tongue.  The letters from the adults were the hardest.  Kids—the kids were easy.  I want a train.  I want a doll.  Santa, please, please, please, the latest electronic gadget.
Simple.  See?
Not so, with adults.  When they stopped being childlike, they could still be childish.  They could be 18 or 80, and still want the impractical.  Want what they should not play with.  “Like monkey handling gun,” Godmother would say.
That last letter.  From Brahms, the farmer guy, who also sees love as a form of, of produce.  Plant some seeds.  Pick when ripe.  Sometimes, she swore he must have thought he was writing to his therapist and not the North Pole.  If he had a therapist, which he probably should.
She has a shelf for an ass and a nice round tummy, kind of like you.  A thick black woman, you know, side to side, with this big bottom whose cheeks flop like fish out of water when she walks.  But at that moment I was looking into her eyes, I could see the bile building in them, the calamity to come.  She was so sour, at that moment, she’d suck the fun out of an orgy.  I told her, “I can be trained.  I’m a good monkey.”  When she raised her eyes to meet mine again, my cock shriveled in anticipation. She didn’t say anything, nothing at all that was the least encouraging.  I felt like scum, pond scum.  Is there any organism lower than that?  She’s all I’ve ever wanted, since meeting her at the shop here four years ago.     
His was a case of nature over nurture.  Hers, too.  She had a job to do.  And there was, as usual, no one to help her tonight.  If you didn’t count the elves, which you couldn’t.  They never rode the sleigh since The Accident.
Santa mused.  Sometimes, there were worse things for a monkey to handle than a gun.
She stuffed the tan, batteryless, remote-control, feel-real, Taser-teaser-pop-your-top phallus into her bag.
Nature or nurture.  She sighed.  Sometimes, you had to be a little naughty to be nice.

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