Blame it on the Eggnog

[bianchi_andreas]

Blame It On the Eggnog

A Christmas Story in Four Acts With Abject Apologies to Charles Dickens

Act I: The Guide

Frustrated, I flung the cup across the room towards the fireplace. Almost weightless because it was emptied of its eggnog and because it was made only of paper, it fluttered about halfway across the room and fell impotently to the floor, mocking me as a totally unsatisfactory and unsuitable vent for my rage.

"I hate Christmas!" I shouted to my empty living room, for, indeed, it was Christmas Eve, and I was unexpectedly alone in the drafty old Victorian house that I was supposed to be renovating with my boyfriend, Charles.

Make that my ex-boyfriend, Charles.

No! Make that my motherfucking-ex-boyfriend-may-his-dick-shrivel-up-and-fall-off-and-he-rot-in-hell, Charles, who had told me just this week that he was leaving me and going back to his wife, formerly known as The Bitch, now known as The Love of His Life. His departure left me A) bitter and angry, B) saddled with a huge mortgage on this place, C) alone for the holidays, D) bitter and angry. Believe me, I have enough 'bitter and angry' to repeat that part a couple of more times if I need to… do I need to mention that the paper cup I threw at the hearth was not the first I had emptied that evening? Well, it wasn't even the fifth cup I had drained since the sun went down, so deal with it.

So here I was, sprawled under a comforter on the couch, freezing my ass off all by my lonesome, pounding down the drinkies and threatening to slip into an eggnog-induced coma just like that rich woman in that movie. You know the one I am talking about.

I stumbled to the kitchen to refresh my drink, looking in the mirror over the sideboard in the dining room. "Why did he leave you?" I whined at my reflection. "You're not so bad looking."

Right then, I must confess, I didn't look too sexy...my eyes red and bleary, my face unshaven, my hair unwashed for three days, a little crust of dried eggnog on my chin, snot dripping out of my nose... but normally I could be considered an athletic and devilishly handsome twenty-eight year old.

Charles taught a seminar on real estate investments that I attended last year, and I was flattered that the author of three Times bestsellers on finance took such an interest in me, and coffee to discuss his ideas turned into dinner a few days later, and that turned into sweaty sex in an hourly-rate motel on the turnpike the following week, and that turned into a weekend at the shore, and then he moved into my apartment, and yada, yada, yada, I end up all alone on Christmas Eve, shivering in my underwear the middle of a kitchen I can't afford on just my salary. The bastard!

I grabbed another paper cup... the jerk had taken all the glassware when he left... and poured a finger of brandy in it, some expensive French stuff that he practically had an orgasm over when he found it on his last trip to New York and had somehow overlooked yesterday when he was picking through the shambles he left of my life.

"Well, Ha-Ha, cocksucker!" I shouted as sloppily tossed back the brandy. "It's mine now!"

I poured another shot of liquor, opened the refrigerator and took out the carton of eggnog. Looking at the cup, I dumped the eggnog down the drain of the sink, grabbed the bottle of brandy and shambled back to the couch. I threw another log on the fire and jabbed at it angrily with the cast iron poker. Curling up under the blanket with my bottle, I could hear the bells of the church at the corner chiming eleven o'clock.

I took a long pull on the brandy. "Bah fucking humbug!" I grumbled.

I must have dozed off, or passed out, if you want to be picky about it, because I woke up and the fire had almost died down completely. I could hear a shutter in the dining room banging as the wind caught it, and went in to secure it again. As I looked through the window, I could see that it had started to snow again, and wearily sighed, knowing that would mean a round of shoveling for me. Maybe I would have a heart attack while clearing the walk, and then Charles would be sorry!
I returned to the living room and was shocked to see that the fire was again blazing merrily and that a man was sitting in the wing chair by the hearth, grinning at me.

"Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?"

"I am the Spirit of Christmas, of course!"

He had the shiny black boots and the fur-trimmed red hat that might suggest he was Santa, but that was where the resemblance ended. His face was clean-shaven and handsome. His dark hair was trimmed in a military buzz cut. Beneath darkly-tanned skin he was bulging with muscles. On one bicep was a tattoo of the Marine Corps globe-and-anchor emblem. Did I mention that he was only wearing a pair of skimpy red bikini underwear? That's all he had on between the boots and the hat, and believe me, they were not doing much of a job holding back the swelling mound of his balls and the cock that reached around nearly to his hip bone.

"Why are you dressed like that? What are you supposed to be, like, Sergeant Santa?"

He looked down, running his hands along the mounds of his pecs and his rippling abs. "I'm not sure, really. They took the image of the Spirit of Christmas from your subconscious, and I guess that the TV ad for the Marine Corps toy campaign made a big impression on you."

He flashed me a dazzling smile with lots of sparkle from his baby-blue eyes, "Look, buddy, do you think that you can help me out with this?" as he grabbed his swollen crotch. "I'm really hurtin' here!"

I belched, "No, I'm not having anything to do with you. You're just a brandy-induced figment of my imagination. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I was sent to help you get over your sadness and regain the holiday spirit."

"I'm not sad... I'm mad as hell."

"Of course, you are... you just got dumped, and let's keep it real here, a'ight? Old Charles wasn't the exactly the blue-ribbon rooster at the county fair. It must really hurt being rejected by that loser!"

"I wasn't dumped," I said defensively.

"Okay... we can play the cards however you want... I am here to help you get over being 'not-dumped'." He rolled his eyes.

"Uh-huh. And that goes how, exactly?"

"I will bring three ghosts that will show you different scenes and help you to understand the true meaning of Christmas."

"Blah, blah, blah," I replied sarcastically, "and then I guess that Tiny Tim makes an announcement and everything is all wrapped up in a nice package with a big red bow."

"Tiny Tim? TINY Tim? What kind of gay guy are you to be looking for Tiny Anybody? I refer you to Chapter Four of your Orientation Manual, 'There's no Such Thing as Too Thin, Too Rich or Too Well-Hung.' I mean, look at this, for Pete's sake." He grabbed his crotch again." The caliber of the homos we're seeing these days! Sheesh! I blame the Republicans!"

I sighed, "So what do I do to get you out of here."

'Nothing. Just go back to sleep, and at midnight, the first ghost will come to you."

I pulled the comforter up to my chin, "Lock the door on you way out."

"Don't need the door. Listen, dude!" he glared at me, his arms crossed over his chest. "Are you really not going to do anything about my hard-on?"

In response, I closed my eyes and made loud snoring noises.

I heard him say, "You are one selfish motherfucker!" and snap his fingers. I opened my eyes, and I was alone in the room. I looked at the bottle of brandy on the table.

"I either drank too much or not enough!" I thought and decided to err on the side of caution, taking another big swig.

Before I knew it, I was awaking and hearing the distant bells chime midnight.

I looked around the still-empty room and grunted, "Shows how much he knows."

Then I heard the banging sound in the kitchen.

 

[Craiger]

Andy,

Charles Dickens would never leave us in the lurch like that. I hope this is just an intermission... Also, I hope you are referring to Dickens' Tiny Tim, not the modern day one. lol

Again, you have chosen exceptional likenesses for your characters.

Craiger

 

[mmoay020]

shear talent... great writing and fun to read! Love the pics in your album to go along! Awesome idea!

Thanks again!

 

[bianchi_andreas]

Chapter II: The Ghost of Christmas Past

I wasn't sure that I had really heard someone banging around in the kitchen, so I huddled on the couch with the blanket pulled up to my chin, straining to hear. Just as I was ready to write it off as the wind, aided and abetted by too many Stephen King novels, I heard it again, more clattering and clunking, clearly from the kitchen, this time accompanied by someone rendering my all-time most-hated holiday song, "Little Drummer Boy," in a particularly horrendous way... I know what you're asking, and I agree... is there a way to render that piece of garbage that isn't particularly horrendous, but this is my brandy-soaked nightmare, so indulge me, okay? I decided that I had to go investigate, not that I had any idea what to do if it was a burglar.

I clutched the blanket around me like it was some super-hero's Cloak of Invisibility and grabbed the poker. I crept about half way across the room and crept back to the couch and snatched up the bottle of brandy. You never know when you might need a shot of liquid courage.


As I reached the door to the kitchen, I could see that there was someone! Rooting around in my refrigerator! Eating my porridge, no doubt, if I had any fucking porridge!


Now, to be absolutely and scrupulously honest and above board and make a full disclosure here, the open refrigerator door was actually hiding most of whoever it was, so all I could see was stone-washed denim encasing the most mouth-watering ass and thighs I had ever salivated over. I'm talking gold-medal-winning, world-class, own-wing-at-the-Smithsonian, bow-down-and-worship-me-you-dogs kind of ass.

I was glad I'd gone back for the brandy, and I slammed back a big swig.

He stood up, revealing a top half that was a credit to the bottom half, and I nearly dropped the bottle when I saw his face.

"Ryan!" I exclaimed.

"Hey, Cuz! You got any other mustard? I don't like this one."

For indeed, it was my cousin, Ryan, not Ryan as I saw him a few weeks ago at the last family gathering, tired, harassed, paunch hanging over his belt, bald spot the size of a Volkswagen, but the Ryan of my mis-spent teenage years, when he was about twenty-two, blond curls topping the face of an angel topping a sleek muscular torso topping The Ass.

He looked at me quizzically. "Any other mustard? You alright, bro? 'Cause you looking a little shaky there. You want a sandwich? I was fixing a sandwich, but you only got this sucky mustard."

"What are you doing here? Why do you look like you did twenty years ago?"

He grinned, "Oh, yeah, I got a whole speech and everything." He patted down the pockets of his jeans, jamming his hands though them. I wanted to hurl myself over there and help in the search. "What a bonehead! I must have left the speech on the bus or something, but I think I remember most of it."

"You took a bus?"

"What bus?"

"You said you left your speech on the bus."

He just grinned amiably at me.

"Okay, Ryan, just give me your speech."

"Oh, yeah! I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, or Passed Out , or something like that, who knows, and then there was this part that was really cool about how you shouldn't be all sad and shit just because this Chuck guy doesn't want to smoke your bone anymore and then I show you some pictures of when you were a little dude at Christmas and all happy, like, and then there really boring shit about the meaning of everything that I can't remember because I really didn't understand all of it, or any of it, really, it was all like something they make you read in school at the holiday pageants, but way more boring and shit, and then we fuck."

He gave a big sigh, clearly relieved at having gotten through it, and gave me a grin with so much wattage it could have registered on satellite surveillance photos.

"I beg you pardon."

He looked pretty alarmed. "Do I have to go though the whole thing again?"

"No, just the last part."

"Cool, okay!" He ticked on his fingers as he repeated, "Let's see, pictures of you as a happy little dude, the boring part I don't remember too well, then we fuck."

"You and me? What does that have to do with regaining the holiday spirit?"

Ryan smirked at me, "Well, if a good boink doesn't make you go 'Fa-la-la-la-la,' you prob'ly ain't doing it right. You want to jump me right now, or can I eat my sandwich first?"

"Oh, by all means, eat. I'll be in the living room."

"Be there is a sec!" He laughed, "Don't start without me!"

I wandered back into the other room, and threw another log on the dying fire. I must be having some kind of weird dream caused by stress. That's it… it's just stress and maybe a little bit of it caused by the brandy. It's not as though that is the real Ryan in there, or even a 'real' ghost that looks like Ryan. It's a memory I have of Ryan, only a lot hotter... and a lot dumber. Well, even in a fantasy world, a hot dumb blond makes for perfect-o rebound sex, so in spite of my misgivings, I could feel a little stir inside the ol' Calvin Kleins.

Okay, again in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that last part about my misgivings? I didn't have any at all. And the part about the little stir? That was actually a full-bore raging boner.

I lied a little, so deal with it.

Ryan eventually comes into the living room, wiping sandwich crumbs from his full lips, and flops onto the couch next to me, still with that big grin.

"Ready, Cuz?"

"Sure, give me your best shot"

He stood up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, teasingly revealing a few inches of his unblemished skin at a time. Pulling his arms free of the sleeves, the muscles of his broad shoulders bunched seductively across his back

.As he reached for the buckle of his belt, I asked, "Could I do that for you?"

He smiled, "Sure!"

My eager fingers made quick work of the front of his jeans and they dropped to his ankles. He wasn't wearing any underwear, and a witty bon mot bubbled to my lips when I beheld his huge slab of meat: "Gyaxchk!" I moaned.

He looked down and exclaimed, "Whoa!" He tentatively touched himself, studying his cock from different angles, and then looking at me with a sheepish grin, "Dude, I gotta tell you... I got nothing like this in real life."

I held up a hand, saying, "You don't have to explain... I have already had the lecture about dick size once tonight."

I went to work with enthusiasm, licking and slurping from tip to base, tonguing every vein, nibbling every nut, gnawing and slobbering every square inch of that monster a dozen times. I was crazed about the taste and couldn't get enough. I wanted to spend a lifetime or two sucking Ryan's cock.

At the time I thought it quite rude that he insisted on bringing matters to a head, you should pardon the pun, and shooting several hot jets of cum to the back of my throat, since from my perspective the orgasm was a lot of fun only for him while it brought my pleasure to an abrupt end, but as I was sitting back to sulk, he rolled over onto his stomach to remind me what attracted me in the first place.

I took one look at his butt and fervently hoped that he had read all the latest literature from the Surgeon General on reviving heart attack victims because I was gonna need it.

What a magnificent expanse of flesh!

From the rise where the muscles curved away from his back to the transition to his thighs, this was a work of art that not even the genius of a Michelangelo could improve. The flawless skin, the way the lower third was dusted with a continuation of the curly blond hair that carpeted his thighs made me think that I could never touch this god-like form with my mere mortal fingers.

That stupid thought lasted about five micro-nano-seconds, and I grabbed a greedy double handful. I tugged the cheeks apart to expose my prize nestled between them and nearly needed the CPR right then. The dark bronze skin, voluptuously folded and whorled, the cleft spiked with golden hair, it was like looking into the eye of an ancient primitive god, and I knew this time for sure that I could never touch the immortal beauty with my mere mortal fingers.

So I plunged my tongue in, washing and probing his pucker, fervently hoping the ol' ticker could hold out for another ten minutes. Just ten minutes, that's all I was asking for. Ryan was moaning and carrying on as though any of this had to do with him, but my lust was behind the wheel and driving the truck with the throttle wide open... he and I were just along for the ride. The way that the ring of his hole was grabbing my tongue, I knew that it was going to be quite a ride, at that.

I spat on my cock to lubricate it and plunged in to the hilt and held on for dear life as the bucking and bouncing began. That night Ryan earned the Croix d'Honneur for Cock Servicing with Double Oak Leaves for Courage Above and Beyond the Call of Duty. I was moaning and groaning and speaking in tongues, a whimpering, shaking and shivering mound of desire.

Desert shamans would consider their experience with peyote as wasted time if they could see the visions I had.

The hot, white spurts of my release set new land-speed records. I am sure you can look it up somewhere on the Internet if you don't believe me. I was not existing in three dimensions or time for a while. As I gradually returned to consciousness, I knew that Life As We Knew It had ceased to exist.

Ryan was grinning at me, "So you seemed to have a good time."

"Yeah," I replied thickly.

"Help you get over that Charles guy?"

"Charles who?"

"Attaboy! Oh, look at the time! I gotta go. Bye" He gave me a quick kiss and was gone, poof! into thin air.

"No, wait, you can't leave yet." I wailed to an empty room.

Before I could despair, I looked around, and Sergeant Santa was back, the wet spot on the front of his underwear much larger now.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "That was hot! I got Niagara Falls leaking out of me here. Is it my turn yet?" he asked hopefully.

"I thought you left."

"Still refusing to help me out with this?" He was massaging his crotch. "I am in so much pain, bro!"

"Go away!"

"Oh, sure, the pretty boy, it takes you all of thirty seconds to pop, but you are still refusing to help a man in uniform."

"Go!" I barked.

"Oy, vey... you are one mean-spirited fegellah!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Wait! The Spirit of Christmas speaks Yiddish? Isn't that a little off kilter?"

He looked way too pleased with himself for my taste. "I picked it up last year. Guy in San Francisco imagined me looking just like Barbra Streisand in full Yentl garb. Meshuggenah!"

"Just go!"

"The next ghost will be here at three o'clock." He leered, "Get some rest. You're gonna need it."

He snapped his fingers, and I was alone.

I yelled, "And those red underdrawers? That's so not a uniform!"

I wanted to stay up to remember every detail of my experience with Ryan, but I fell asleep quickly, and soon I heard the clock striking three. I woke up and wondered what was waiting for me.

 

[Craiger]

OMG, Andy, old Dickens is probably rolling in his grave by now. I love it!!! I can hardly wait for the next ghost........

Craiger

 

[bianchi_andreas]

Chapter III: The Ghost of Christmas Present

After the last echoes of the ringing bells died away, I sprawled on the couch for several minutes without hearing a noise except the wind whistling through the trees outside. Not even the mouse of poetic fame stirred. Deciding that everything that had gone on so far was just a dream, I expelled my breath heavily, puffing out my cheeks, and I heard a resonant bass voice booming from the dining room, "We're late... a lot of holiday traffic tonight. Get in here and let's go now! Stop wasting my time!"

I crept across the hall, past the front door and in front of the staircase. I hid momentarily behind the massive oak newel with its elaborately carved finial of smirking cherubs. I don't know what good I thought that would do me, but for some reason the loud echoing voice from beyond the door alarmed me. Okay, well, to be truthful it scared my witless. Imagine the voice announcing the doom of the apocalypse is imminent. Now imagine that voice as belonging to someone who's been working all day at the exchange counter at Macy's, and you get the idea.

I pushed open the door to find a man who fit the voice. Seven feet tall and every bit of 450 pounds crammed into a ratty looking green-robe-kind-of-thing. A great flowing beard that would honor an Old Testament prophet. Piercing green eyes. A scowl on his face that would terrify Miss Irma Coleman herself, my third-grade teacher and previously the undisputed and uncontested heavyweight champion of scowling. He was holding in one great paw a joint of meat so large I am certain it was an entire haunch of beef, periodically gnawing on it with lip smacking gusto. It did cross my mind briefly to wonder why all these ghosts were coming up so hungry, but I did not think this corn-fed slab was in any mood for my frivolous questions.

"Who are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Are you ready yet?"

"Do I look ready," I snapped, pointing out the fact that I was still in my boxers with a coverlet wrapped around me. "And why are you wearing that funky green bathrobe?"

I would never dream of mentioning this to the giant, of course, having as I do a strong desire to live, but the outfit he was wearing made him look a lot like he a quarter-ton of badly-costumed transvestite. Maybe he was; who am I to judge?

He demanded again, "Are you ready finally? We're not going to be in time if you don't hurry." He pushed me brusquely out the door. Do you remember the last time you tried to resist a Christmas Ghost? Well, then you know what I was up against. Before I knew it, he was dragging me barefoot through the snow. I was indulging in a little squealing temper tantrum until I realized that I wasn't really cold, so I shut up long enough to realize further that he was singing that accursed "Little Drummer Boy", too, and I started screeching again to drown him out.

I was in Hell! That had to it. I had died and gone to Hell and would be hearing "pa-rum-pum-pum-pum" for all eternity.

"Would you cease that infernal caterwauling?" the ghost thundered. "We have arrived, and it's bad enough that we have missed the first act, but if you don't shut up, we won't be able to hear and shall miss the second as well."

"First act of what?" I wondered. He glared at me some more. "Shutting up now!"

We were standing in front of a pretentious McMansion in the new subdivision that was being developed out past the university, the kind of place that makes the hearts of the nouveau-riche go pitty-pat, while Old Money and those of us in Old Poverty sneer condescendingly. It looked a little familiar, but these places are all designed to look that way. How the owners ever find their way to their own beds in their own homes after a few cocktails is beyond me, but now that I think about it, that may be the whole point. However, I digress.

The ghost pushed me right into an entrance hall full of moving boxes as though the door wasn't there. One second I am on the porch and the next I am inside without having to bother with that pesky opening the door business. It sure would help me make the mortgage every month if I could transport my happy ass around all Star Trek-y in and out of bank vaults. I was making a note to remember to ask Mr. Green and Grumpy about that when I heard an annoying voice from another room and realized where I was.

This was the home Charles returned to in order to live with his family. I turned to the spirit who had brought me here, and pleaded, "I don't want to see him with his wife and children. Please take me out of here."

Actually, I really didn't mind being there. The newly-reinstated Mrs. Charles was a rather nasty bit of work, cursed with the face of a bulldog and the manners of a dockworker. In the interest of making a full, honest disclosure, I was looking forward to watching Charles get the business from the wife, but I thought that saying, "C'mon, I wanna see the bitch rip him a new one!" might tend to cast me in a rather bad light.

He just waved me on, herding me towards the other room as though I were a particularly stubborn sheep.

I slid around the honking great tree set up in the living room, under the garlands of gaudy tinsel draped across the archway marking the entrance to the dining room. It was odd that I couldn't feel the heat of the fire in the living room or smell the feast that was spread out on the table, but before I could ask about that curious lack of sensory input, I stopped suddenly when I realized that was not presented with Charles and Mrs. Charles and all the little sniveling spoiled demon spawn in unhappy holiday misery, but with an intimate dinner with just Charles and a man who looked suspiciously like me, only five years younger and twenty pounds of muscle heavier.

At the onset of my howl of indignation, the ghost put his hands over his ears, but Charles and the pretty boy-toy just kept making silly faces at one another.

"They can't hear you, but I can, so SHUT UP!"

"But can't you see what he has done? I thought he went back to his wife, not this... this..." I spluttered.

"He did go back to the missus, but he's just cheating on her with someone new."

I stood next to Charles and screamed at him, "You are so evil! I can't believe I wasted a year on you!"

The giant ghost roared, "Quit yelling! He can't hear you... and you're giving me a headache."

"Oh, man, you have so gotta fix that! I have to tell him what a jerk he is."

"Looking like that?" The giant meant I was only wearing my underwear.

"Well, no, I guess," I sulked. Pointing to the pretty boy-toy, I grumbled, "I at least should be able to warn him so he doesn't end up snared in this web."

"Hmmm..." he rumbled. "Do you really have this stranger's best interest at heart?"

I held my hand in a three-fingered salute. "Scout's honor!"

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Were you ever a Boy Scout?"

Cagily, I replied, "Is that a deal breaker?"

He sighed and said, "I guess not... go back into the hall."

As soon as I stepped out of the dining room, I was magically dressed in a pair of jeans and a really tight muscle-flattering t-shirt with a cartoon picture of... fuck!... it was that damned Little Drummer Boy!

"I'm not wearing this!" I shouted, trying to claw it off my back, but it was, like, glued to me or something.

"You can always remain an invisible observer," the ghost warned.

"No, no, no! I'll wear it... go ahead and make it so Charles can see me." Suddenly, I could feel the heat from the vent blowing across me and smell the resin of the fir tree and the wonderful meal on the table. I drew my lips back in the biggest, most phony smile I could conjure up and marched back into the dining room, singing out, "I'm so sorry to interrupt you, but I just wanted to see if you took my red sweater by mistake."

"Brandon!" Charles exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello, darling," I cooed, giving the back of his neck an affectionate squeeze calculated to leave a noticeable bruise and kissing him on the top of the head, deliberately planting my lips on his bald spot. "How naughty of you to have taken all the glasses." I rapped the back of his head hard with my knuckles, causing his eyes to water with pain. "I had to drink my holiday cheer out of paper cups, and I know how that would horrify a terrible snob like you!" and gave his neck another hard pinch.

"Ow! You're hurting me!"

"Enough about you... what about this much more interesting sexy stud?" Eyes bugging out and mouth gaping, the pretty boy looked like one of those goldfish I had as a kid. "Hello, I'm Brandon."

He warily shook the hand I thrust out to him, "Tommy."

"A nice boyish name for Chuckie's latest boyish fuck buddy."

Color flamed up instantly in Tommy's face as he stammered, "Oh, no, it's nothing like that!" and Charles spluttered, "Now see here, Brandon!"

I snatched a half-eaten roll off Tommy's plate and side armed it at Charles, hitting him square in the nose. Pretty impressive accuracy, if I do say so myself. "Shut up, Chuck!"

To Tommy, I said, "No need to get upset, Tommy... I once was dazzled by the attention of Charlie the Great, as were about fifteen other young men before you." He looked startled. "Yes, you are part of a pattern with Charles." I sighed sadly, willing to trade my left testicle to be able to cry on cue. "You've heard of serial monogamy?" Tommy nodded slowly. "Chuck's a serial bigamist."

Charles began grumbling, "You're out of line, Brandon!" so I grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes and flung it, hitting him in the middle of his face.

Tommy mumbled, "I... I am here for some investment advice is all. I'm kinda straight."

I snickered, "Kinda straight? Well, it's Christmas, so I'll let you slide on that one. So you're looking for some advice? Other than staying away from the predatory clutches of Charles?" Tommy nodded mutely. Charles barked, "Brandon!"

I grabbed the carving knife out of the roast beef and threatened him with it. "I used to help my grandfather geld the hogs. It's like riding a bicycle... you never forget." He shrank back in his chair.

I said to Tommy, "Look around you... all of this wasn't purchased with canny investments and clever anticipation of financial trends. I will let you in on a little secret." I stood right behind Tommy, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. I leaned close, inhaling his clean scent that was palpably erotic. Whispering in his ear flicking my tongue softly across the flawless skin on the side of his neck, I said, "Here is all Charles can tell you about making money. Find ten suckers willing to pay five-hundred bucks to attend an investing seminar." As my breath caressed his ear, I could feel his pulse quicken beneath my fingertips. "Plop them in a meeting room and give them whatever the latest hot scheme is." Glancing down at his crotch, I could see a bit of quickening there as well. "So just spend $39.95 at the Quik-Kopie for business cards and fliers and watch the money roll in."

I stood up and said aloud, "And that's all there is to it."

Tommy turned to look at me, his eyes full of longing, and said to Charles without taking his eyes off me, "Thanks for dinner, but I gotta go."

Charles began yelping, "No, Tommy, wait! Don't listen to him! He's a crazy man!" I wouldn't want to submit that statement to the judgment of a jury of my peers, since I couldn't really argue with it, but Tommy was already scrabbling in the hall closet for his coat. I grinned at him as he caught my eye and mouthed the words, "I'll call you."

'Kinda straight' my ass!

As the front door slammed behind him, I said, with my best insincere smile of sympathy, "What a shame, Chuck-o. He looks like he's a real tiger in bed. Well, my work here is done. Hate to ruin your nookie-bagging and run, but I gotta go, too." I grabbed a wine glass from the table. "And I'm taking this with me."

As soon as I stepped out of the Charles' dining room, I stepped into my own living room. I was pleased to note that the Little Drummer Boy shirt was left behind. I was not so pleased to see that Sergeant Santa was back, wild-eyed and breathing hard, his muscular chest covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. The front of his briefs was soaked through with pre-cum, so much that it was starting to run down his thickly-muscled thigh.

"Just do that whispering thing in my ear," he begged. "That's all I'm asking!"

Fresh off my triumph over Charles, I was in an expansive and generous mood, but I was enjoying torturing this hunk too much to concede to him now, so I demanded, "Get out of here, you horny dog." I realized I was still clutching the pilfered wine glass, so I dumped the last of the brandy in it and sipped it. "I'm not putting out for you tonight, so deal with it."

In the interest of a full and honest report, I must disclose that the stud was wearing down my resistance. I mean, look at him! And his greedy lust was so turning me on! Who doesn't want to be desired like that? I could hold out a little longer, but not much.

He groaned, "For a notoriously easy slut, you sure are playing hard to get. Your next visitor in arriving at five o'clock, and I'm gonna make sure he knows all of the lyrics to 'Little Drummer Boy' and sings the whole time he's here!"

He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

I yelled, "Bring something back to clean up where you've dripped on the floor. That's disgusting. I'm not your maid!" but there was only silence in response.

Finishing the last of the brandy, I quickly fell asleep, awaking as the distant bells banged five times. I was in a strange bed in an unfamiliar room, not the first time in my career as an apprentice slut puppy THAT happened, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, and as I lay in the dark, I could hear the mechanical humming and bubbling of a jacuzzi beyond a partially opened door.

 

[Craiger]

Andy, this is great. You should make it into a screen play and submit it for production.

Don't keep us waiting too long for the five o'clock ghost...........

Craiger

 

[wastingmymind]

Hilarious. I love it.

 

[bianchi_andreas]

Chapter IV: The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

As I threw back the coverlet and climbed out of bed, I noticed a couple of odd things. First, I was wearing a pair of freaky red underdrawers similar to the ones that Sergeant Santa had been sporting all night. Frankly, after noticing that weird bit, nothing else really measured up on the "odd" scale, but there was a trail of clothes leading towards the Jacuzzi sounds, if you can call a couple of shiny leather boots and a discarded red bikini a trail. I followed the sounds cautiously, and found a beautiful bathroom, almost as big as the bedroom, all beige sandstone and buff marble and recessed lighting, a Jacuzzi sunk in the middle of the floor with my spirit buddy soaking in the tub, little Santy cap still jammed on his head, a particularly bad smelling cigar clinched in his jaw at a jaunty angle. Much to my relief, he wasn't singing "Little Drummer Boy".

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" he chanted, "Look who finally decided to get out of bed."

"Who you calling a ho'? Anyway, you're here early," I observed. "Don't you usually show up at the end?"

He gave me a big grin. "I'm all you're getting. Budget cuts."

I eased myself down next to him, with my feet dangling in the water. "I didn't really peg you for the champagne-kind-of-guy. I see you more win the domestic beer type."

He yawned theatrically. "In as far as you think about anyone other than yourself, I am much more complex than you give me credit for."

I poked him lightly in the shoulder. "Being high-maintenance is most of my charm."

He scoffed in derision, "A fleet of Italian sports cars demands less attention than you do."

Having nothing to counter that statement, I just shrugged, but he asked, "Would you maybe like a little to drink?"

He offered me a flute of champagne, and my brandy-soaked stomach began doing a little holiday cha-cha, but I took it just to be polite, and the fact that he was an incredibly hot stud had nothing to do with it... probably.

"So are you going to show me some vision of my future now?"

He sighed. "Why bother? You haven't learned anything all night... let's just skip directly to the sex! Why don't you just slide on here in the water with me?"

Not yet ready to be reeled in, I stalled a little. "No, way, man! You're supposed to show me my future, and I want to see it!"

Groaning, he shook his head. "You live a long, miserable life and die alone and unhappy. There! That's your future. The end. Satisfied? Let's cuddle."

"No, I most certainly am not satisfied! What about my family?"

He rolled his eyes at me... he seems to do that a lot. "Do you really see your sister comforting you in your old age?"

At the mention of Angie, I felt a little dizzy, 'cause once I thought about her, the memories of past encounters prompted me to down the champagne I was holding and grab another, so the tummy cha-cha had escalated to a tummy rumba on its way to a tummy East Coast/West Coast rapper free-for-all since she, who being older should really be the more mature one of us, hasn't spoken to me in two years, no matter how much I assured her that her fiancé was gay well before I slept with him at the lake cabin, but she has always been convinced that I spitefully lured him to what she always called "the dark side" without a smidgen of irony. Well, in the interest of full and honest disclosure, I must report that there was some spite involved, but I promise that man was far too skillful at sucking cock for it to be his first time as he claimed, I swear.

Well, that was all ancient history...my old age was really such a long way off, and since here I was sitting next to a really hot stud, never having been one to dwell too long over my many, many mistakes, I scooted over right behind him and slung a leg over so that I was straddling his shoulders. He turned around and smirked at me, "Either that's a gun you're holding to the back of my head or you're really happy to see me!"

I wiggled all ten fingers in his face, "Look, I'm holding nothing in my hands!"

I ran my hands along the short hair that stubbled his scalp and leaned down to nibble one of his ears. I whispered, "Do you want to take this to the bed?"
He splashed out of the water so fast and was toweling off on his way to the bedroom that I almost couldn't keep up with him, but I was moving at a Derby-winning pace myself.

Soon I was flat on my back with him on top of me, grinding his mouth against mine, his hard cock shoving eagerly into my stomach. I ran my hands down his back, grabbing with gusto at his ass, not quite in the same league as Cousin Ryan's, but spectacular slab of flesh in its own right. We were sucking hard at each other's tongues, biting and nibbling enthusiastically. I practiced one of the moves from my days on the high-school wrestling team, and I was on top of Sergeant Santa, grinding my crotch against his thigh and enjoying his hands exploring my butt.

Then it was all as though we had ESP or something because suddenly we both were twisting around and cramming dick into our mouths as though it was last call at the all-you-can-eat buffet. With his hot, wet tongue working me over, I was moaning, he was moaning, the bed springs were groaning. I felt so great I would have put up with a couple of choruses of that freaking "Drummer Boy" if he had asked me to. I have never had anything so tasty in my mouth... ever!

My balls were in his mouth; his balls were on my chin. Hell, the way we were twisting and gyrating around on the bed, those could have been my own balls on my chin!

His dick was rock hard, a fountain of pre-cum flowing out, and I was slurping up every bit of it as he moaned and squirmed around, talking dirty to me in about twelve different languages. I was grunting and digging my heels into his back as he took more and more of my cock into his throat, inventing some words myself in a couple of languages I wasn't aware that I knew.

His nuts were tugged up tight against his body, and I was hoping that I would get a mouthful of his hot spunk, but nothing that had happened in my life up to that point prepared me for the attack! He was moaning, shaking, writhing, groaning, turning, twisting, contracting, expanding.

The force of his cum practically shot out the back of my head. There was cum overflowing from the corners of my mouth. There was cum shooting out my nose. There was cum dripping out my ears.

While I worked my jaw tentatively to make sure it was still connected to the rest of my head, Sgt. Santa pushed me over on my back and demanded, "I want you to fuck me hard." When I hesitated, still a little dazed, he barked, "Now!"

He didn't wait for an answer, grabbing some lube and slathering it on his ass and on my cock. He was in some crazy kinda Spirit of Christmas place, and I thought it unwise to distract a man on a mission. With one smooth thrust he impaled himself, and I was moaning and groaning at the hot, silky smoothness of his chute. I wanted to close my eyes in ecstatic abandon, but the vision of his cock, again rock hard and stiffly bobbing in rhythm with his bouncing up and down, up and down on my dick, had me transfixed. He was pumping harder and harder, jackhammering my cock, his ass sucking hungrily at me.

I wanted this experience to go on all night, but his tight pucker clinching me hard soon had powerful waves of heat washing out of my groin as I nutted deep inside him, arching my back so hard I nearly bucked him off.

We collapsed in a sweaty heap, too worn out to do anything other than gasp for air, our chests heaving with the strain of our workout. Our legs tangled together, his head nestled on my shoulder, I was trying to formulate a question for him about the bleak future he forecast, but fatigue overtook me and I fell asleep before I could ask.

Bright sunlight streaming through the windows later that morning woke me from a sound sleep, and even In my half-awake, half-asleep state of disorientation I could see that I was in my own bed in my own bedroom, and that I was alone again. At first I was a little sulky that Sgt. Santa had not stayed around long enough to say goodbye… I mean, the sex was fantabulous, and it seems to me that I at least deserved a farewell grope if not an encore performance!

But hard on the heels of that came the realization…shocking, really, in a way… that I was feeling more satisfied and content this morning than I had in months!
In his dumb blond way, Ryan was right… a good boink does make you go "fa-la-la-la-la."

Since I was naked, I put on a flannel robe and went to look out the window, amazed to see some guy shoveling the snow off the driveway of the house next door, which had been empty since I had moved here six months ago. Judging from the curtains at the windows and the smoke rising from the chimney, someone was living there now, but I didn’t see anyone move in.

How long had I been asleep? Was I some modern-day Rip van Winkle, unconscious for weeks or even years while the world went on its merry way without me, the self-appointed Center of the Universe? My shaky hand tentatively explored my jaw, fearful of finding a luxuriant beard of many year's cultivation, but I was relieved to find only a few day's stubble, no doubt sexy as hell, if I do say so myself.

I watched the man clearing the driveway for a few moments… it was hard to tell much about his body under the bulky coat, and a knit cap covered his head, but his vigorous energy as he attacked the snow certainly had my attention. I threw open the window and shouted down at him, "Excuse me, could you tell me what day this is?"

He looked around, unable to locate where I was for a second, and when he located me in the second-story window, I found myself staring into the most starting blue eyes. I must admit that the suspicious expression on his face was a bit of a mood killer. "Uhh… it's Christmas, you know?" he responded.

"I wasn't sure… I don’t remember you moving in, and… " I trailed off lamely.

He leaned against his shovel and unbuttoned his parka. My heart skipped about three beats as I watched his chest muscles straining against a tight shirt. "Just moved in yesterday," he offered.

"I see your wife already has the curtains up… I had bare windows for a month."

He held up his left hand. "I'm not married. Put them up myself."

Well, now, this was interesting. I leaned out of the window a little more. "I'm single, too."

The sudden draft of cold air told me that the robe had fallen open and that anyone who was interested was getting a free gander at my goodies, and this man was certainly expressing interest… his eyes never strayed from my crotch. Fine, I'm cool with it… let his peepers get their fill.

"So, uhh," he swallowed hard, still staring at my cock, one hand jammed deep in a pocket to do a little not-so-subtle adjusting. "If you're not doing anything later, why don't you come over for some eggnog."

My stomach started doing flip-flops at the though of more eggnog, and I shuddered. He must have noticed, because he quickly added, "Or maybe a cup of coffee if eggnog's not your thing."

"Yeah, coffee sounds good. Thanks! I'll be over after I get dressed."

Was it my imagination or did he actually look disappointed that I was not traipsing over butt naked? As I waved at him and closed the window, I wondered just how easy does he think I am?

Well. I reflected ruefully, he probably wasn't far from the truth!

This was shaping up to be the best Christmas ever!

 

[Craiger]

Andy,

I think good old Charles would have loved that version. All I can do now is to go to bed and hope I get visited by the same ghosts. And guess what, there is a vacant house just down from me. Who knows... Maybe this will be the best Christmas ever for me.

Love your writing. I'm sure there will be a new story for New Years.

Craiger

 

[frenguy23]

yes i love it.
more more!!!!!!!

 

[Bodhi1]

Loved it! Found it by accident ... One of the very best! Kudos!

 

[wyndhampaul]

Very very funny. I'm glad it's come to the front again.

 

[tajuliqbal]

this is very good... i wish it happened to me tho~