A Filthy Christmas

As a child, sitting in Santa’s lap,
I could never have imagined
my libido would grow so large.
Today, the jolly gentleman,
dressed in bulging colors,
red and white, would be crushed beneath
the almighty weight
of my lustrous urges.

Sitting in another man’s lap today
doesn’t have the same meaning
it once did, the innocence of childhood
having being depleted
through years of growing up.
Society’s fears concerning homophobia and pedophilia
ensure I keep my distance,
though still, I needn’t be halted
from asking Santa why he has deprived
me so this year.

When asked if I have satisfactorily
behaved myself these last twelve months,
my compulsion to lie is abandoned
in exchange for the truth;
Santa, my man, I am so bad, I admit,
I ought to be forbidden.

When asked to elaborate,
I ponder aloud the uncertainty
of whether masturbation
is truly inappropriate,
and seen as a sinful atrocity,
for if it were, these hands,
that write these words,
would be the hairiest hands on Earth.

There was, of course, the time
I fucked a fellow student
in the corridor of our graduate school,
before fucking her again
two hours later, after she posted
on Facebook how the experience
was barely passable. She screamed
Oh God Oh God so many times,
I felt we might inadvertently summon our savior there.

A couple weeks later
there was the woman whose snatch
I devoured, if only to glimpse
the lucky red cunt she spoke
so openly about. In my defense,
she insisted she was horny,
and though I didn’t match her prerequisites
(I wasn’t American enough) she said,
as long as you speak with a fake accent,
I’ll just close my eyes, and fantasize
my craving is complete.

And let’s not forget the time
I caught a couple fondling
on the South Lawn, or, on another occasion,
when I couldn’t find a toilet,
so defecated in the university square
one evening. (I checked my weight
before and after – it must have weighed
four kilos). Sorry to anyone who stepped in it.

By the time I reach this moment
in my monologue, I find Santa almost out of breath.
Instead of laughing off my misadventures
with a jolly ha, ha, ha (not allowed to say ho, ho, ho
anymore – apparently it’s rude), he fiercely bellows
at my honesty, claiming I deserve
to be denied Christian celebrations this year.

Doubting the validity of his claims,
I pull his beard (though not as forcefully
as when I pull my penis), until he groans
dis-pleasurably. The reason I am deprived
a Merry Christmas becomes all the more
clearer, when I see the expressions
of the children awaiting their turn in line –
I only scared a dozen or so – I hardly think
that constitutes security having to become involved.

Santa’s elf passed me her number though,
so, might still have myself
some Christmas sex this year…

-I thought I should add, though almost everything I wrote in this poem is true, it doesn’t necessarily mean it happened to moi.


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