Christmas on Crack (10 page)

And
that sealed it for me. No more room for doubt. I had given alcohol to and
spooned with the embodiment of Christmas himself, and there he was, still on my
bed and available to me. There were so many things I want- ed—and perhaps
needed—to ask him.

“But
why didn’t I get that scooter when I was eight? I wanted it more than
anything.”

“Well,
you were a bad boy that year. Remember what you did to your older brother,
Billy?”

The
name plucked a chord in me. I hadn’t thought about Billy in quite some time.
He’d been dead at least a decade, and it’d been fifteen years or more since I’d
last spoken to him.

“He
was with his girlfriend out in the yard. They were kissing. Billy’s tongue was
down her 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 mitten-covered
hands into the snow, to taste of it and make angels, but turned when I heard
something jingle.

Santa
stood over the bed; I hadn’t seen him arise. Though nude, he wore his trademark
bell-tipped hat at a jaunty angle. A ruddy glow brightened his cheeks; his belly
looked almost jolly. Below it, a long, thin penis curved like a candy cane.
Somehow, I knew it would taste of peppermint. As Santa stared at me
—into
me—a broad smile enlivened a face
that appeared years younger.

“Not
bad,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But get on your belly, boy. It’s time to
call me Daddy.”

Bing
Crosby’s “White Christmas” tickles a wet dream out of a lithium battery named
Double, who wakes up next to his sister-brother Discharge. While saying “his”
would normally be silly because Double is intersexed like all batteries are,
he and other batteries are okay with male words. Words are the least of his
worries, because tomorrow morning is the biggest battery orgy of the year:
Christmas! To humans, Christmas means money, toys, videogames, and all kinds of
things people give to each other. The toys and videogames are the most important
to Double, Discharge, and other batteries, because such children’s delights are
where batteries get their sex.

Double
edges closer to Discharge to say something, but then takes a slide back. Both
of their positive ends would be touching if he really tried to talk to
Discharge, and despite being envious of people for being able to have better
gay sex, Double is no gay battery. By frequency and the power of their orgasms,
batteries have better straight sex than people.

After
an hour, Double gets eager for talking again and bumps Discharge once to say,
“Merry Christmas!” Discharge bumps back. “Merry Christmas.”

Double
bumps twice: “I’m ready. You ready?”

“Yes,
very ready.”

“Me
too,” says Double, then he leans on Discharge for a bit to say, “But, I’m still
a little bit nervous.”

“So?”
asks Discharge, throwing Double off. Double rears back and leans on Discharge
again. “I just hope I like the ones I’ll be fucking. I never met any other
batteries.”

Discharge
throws Double off again with a knock. “Stop doing that.”

Double,
getting a cold oily feeling from where Discharge knocked his body, doesn’t
speak to Discharge again and takes a moment to question his sexuality. His
microeyes look around the room and see the other batteries sleeping in their
packs. Sugar plums and bulging prods dance through their heads, Double thinks,
as both sets of his glowing blue nipples swell with horny buzzing. He wipes his
wet dream cum on the plastic above him and goes back to sleep.

In
the morning, Double and Discharge wake up at the same time as big hands pick
them up and rip apart their tiny cardboard box. Both of them tumble into one
hand and wince as their pairs of same-parts bang into each other. Then fingers
pluck them from the hand and hold them up for a short dizzying moment in the
air before Double is flipped upside-down and loaded into a tight space with a
strong spring-loaded prong reaching into his negative end while his positive
end pushes into a knob. Then, as Discharge is laid down in a different slot
and a plastic cover closes over them, the skin of another battery reaches over
to touch Double’s skin. “My name is Amp,” says the other battery through his
gentle spark-touch. Then, Amp’s same words are made louder as a surge quivers
through both of Double’s ends. The prong teases the neg-end as it opens a
little and leaks juices, then the prong plunges deep, pulls back a little, and
plunges back in. The poz-end expands and reaches further and further until
tickling a different wet spot and pushing into it. Then the hard plastic beneath
them softens, becoming a wet, glossy, and fleshy bed. Double can now see
everybody, all having grown fin- like limbs with long tentacle fingers.
Pecs
and breasts mold out
of their bodies with hardening blue nipples.

To
his left, Amp is stroking Double’s chests with pretty blue electric arcs
caressing the skin that say to him, “Relax a little. Touch me back.”

Double
smiles inside and gropes Amp’s chests with his own electric tentacle-fingers.
“Ah, that’s better,” he chuckles into Amp.

Suddenly,
Double feels electric tendrils slide up both of his butt cracks. The same
fingers grope and claw Double’s body, making him shiver. “Plump and firm,”
whispers the battery behind Double. All the while, Double can feel that this
battery is not lithium like Discharge and Amp, but something with a slightly
weaker current. “I heard that,” says the battery to that thought, “and what
matters is that I know how to use it. Still, glad to take a piece like you.
Name’s Alka, and I expect you to moan it. Now.”

Double
feels a wide load of energy penetrate deep into his neg-end while his poz-end
swells and thrusts harder against the current. His good feelings become so good
that they begin to hurt. With tears welling inside of him, Double complies:
“Uh-Alka. Alka. HhhAlka!”

“That’s
right, and I own you and everyone else in my teddy-bed,” says Alka, and then
his tendrils claw deep into Amp’s and Discharge’s bodies as he penetrates them
both and squeezes their nipples. Energy fills in and out of the three to the
rhythm of Alka’s tendril-lashings. Outside, the teddy bear holding them named
Happy Companion Buddy Bear is being chased around wrapping paper and other new
toys like pastel-colored talking Elder God Egg Stackers, a plush streptococcus
peelable ball, and the hot new Japanese-imported toy set known as My First Unit
731, complete with battery slots for making the cries of P.O.W. test subjects
while the wire-fed doctors experiment on them. A little curly-haired boy with a
three-toothed grin is the child chasing the bear, laughing as the teddy bear
makes long jumps and cartwheels around the boy’s two sisters who whine about
not being able to play with their battery-powered Hussy Huskies and Plastic
Surgeon play sets with the boy being so obnoxious. Parents, aunts, uncles, and
grandma all chug down convenience store big gulp cups full of brandy-loaded
eggnog, laughing merrily at the sight and falling around with just as much
merriment as their head-wound blood sprinkles their Santa hats.