Read Online Christmas on Crack by ed. Carlton Mellick III - Free Book Online Page A

throat, and he had his back to you. You took advantage of that, but
you shouldn’t have pulled his pants down. It was the worst possible time, and
you knew it.”
    I
could only sputter.
    “It
was the most embarrassing moment of his life, and he remembered it until his
dying day.”
    I
managed to locate words and pull them up past my lips. “You—you saw that?”
    He
smiled a brown and yellow smile.
    Long-forgotten
Christmas memories washed over me, drowning out all other thoughts. The tingle
I felt in my extremities when I woke up on Christmas morning. My favorite bow—a
red velvet one my parents put atop gifts year after year. The spicy eggnog my
great-uncle used to make. “My God,” I said. “You made the world seem like a
beautiful place. You really did.”
    “Well,
that was my job back then.”
    Now
that I’d found words, they started to pour out: “When I was a kid, I had no
idea what real life was like, how dirty and ugly it was. But you kept me in a
bubble that made my childhood seem like it was spent in a gingerbread house.”
    “I
guess that’s a good thing,” he said.
    “Yeah,
a good thing.” I continued to look at Father Christmas, but my mind was not on
his face or anything he was saying, provided he was saying anything at all.
Rather, I thought about the litany of soul-sucking jobs I’d held. I thought
about my disappointment with sex, myself, and humanity in general. Maybe I
would feel better about such things had I not been shielded, had I known from
the beginning there was no magic in the world, and that all things bright and
beautiful had simply been imagined.
    “Could
I have another drink?” Santa asked.
    I
came back to myself. “What?”
    He
repeated the question, but I just closed my eyes, saw myself reach for and give
Santa the bottle. He took it, and I walked to the dresser and removed one of my
old yellowed undershirts, rolled it taut, turned it into a gar- rote and crept
up behind him as he imbibed. I wrapped the shirt around his neck—wrapped it,
tugged it and saw sugarplums dance in my head and smelled the faint aroma of
hot bread pudding as his tongue protruded and his face turned blue.
    Instead,
I reared up, now on my knees on the bed. I flipped him over; his body was
practically weightless. I yanked down his pants, mounted and penetrated him.
Santa’s response was to wrap spindly legs around my back and knead it with his
hands. “Faster,” he said.
    A
moment of shock, but if that was what the old man wanted, then I’d tear him
apart, leave him coiled and bleeding on my bed. I sped up, plowing into his ass
as though it weren’t part of something human.
    “Harder,”
he continued.
    I
didn’t know how much faster and harder I could go. I considered seizing the
knife I kept between the springboard and mattress. I considered slitting his
throat with it, to see if that would get him off. At that moment, however, I
detected a little of that old Christmas spirit in my cock and balls—that
special tingle I hadn’t experienced in almost thirty years. Suddenly, I felt
connected not only to a man, but a rolling ball of power. My head was luminescent,
like a bulb burning bright. My whole body felt like a present, being unwrapped
by happy hands on Christmas morning. Nutmeg flowed with the blood in my veins,
and my interior world seemed covered in tinsel, everything silver and gold,
everything shimmering. In reality, I was inside Santa. In my mind, I was eight
and sledding down the biggest and most snow-covered hill I could find.
    When
my young-self reached the bottom, my old-self came. Spurting semen felt cold,
like a billion snowflakes shot from my cock into Santa. I imagined them coalescing
inside him to form a troop of miniature snowmen that danced up and down the
length of his gi tract. But the flakes were on the outside, too. They fell
across the bedroom in waves, gathered on the bureau, the nightstand, the bed
and our naked skin in thick tufts of white. I wanted to dig