I’m a Christmas baby, kinda. Kinda a New Year’s baby, too. I was born on December 29th, and like many holiday babies, this caused issues in the gift department. Not that I could blame anyone in the family. Insult to injury, my oldest sister decided to get married on December 27th! How was that fair?
My sisters are both MUCH older than I, enough that, by the time I was old enough to realize I was Birthday-Impaired, they were popping out babies of their own, and there wasn’t spare cash for two gifts in one week’s time. Woe was me. Woe, woe, woe.
So, the year I turned six (my first year as Auntie VJ), my mom created a tradition for us. Each day between Christmas and my birthday I got a small, usually inexpensive and novelty, gift. We called it “Birthmas”, and it was wonderful. I looked forward to those little presents, not because they were all expensive and extravagant — Lord knows they weren’t (favorite Birthmas gifts included a set of “glam color” Sharpies, a collection of embroidery floss in holiday colors, and a bottle of neon green nail polish). No, I looked forward to them because they were concrete evidence that in spite of all the holiday hoopla my birthday wasn’t forgotten.
Insecure much? Well, yeah. But there were some years when I really needed to feel like my birth was something to celebrate and not lament. (To which I can add, “drama much?” Well, duh!)
My mom continued Birthmas until I was well into my thirties. In fact, I was thirty-eight the last year we had Birthmas, and the only reason we don’t do it now is because Alzheimer’s has stolen the memory of it from her. That said, for a couple years even after Mom couldn’t do it, #1 Sister sent me email Birthmas. Probably because she felt guilty for plopping her wedding right in the middle of my birthday week!
I was a lucky holiday baby. No, I’ve never gotten two big, extravagant gifts within a week of each other, but I’ve got a family that goes out of their way to remind me I’m special and loved.
That, in my opinion, is the true spirit of Christmas, and the true meaning of birthday celebrations.
THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED
It’s the night after Christmas and all Santa wants is a drink, a shower, and a long winter’s nap. When he stops into his favorite bar to unwind, one look at the live entertainment has him adding a little stress relief to his post-Christmas wish list. Luckily, lounge singer and drag queen extraordinaire Chimera is more than willing to get right to work on that!
Santa Claus is Coming Excerpt:
Niklaus Kristofer Kringle was not a fat jolly old elf. Well, old, maybe. He’d stopped counting after the big five-oh-oh. But definitely not fat. Assuredly not jolly. He was also most emphatically not a Saint.
Where people got the idea he was fat and jolly was beyond him. Yeah, at one point he’d dressed in fur, which had, admittedly, made him look a bit…fluffy. Hell, for centuries it was the warmest garb available. But, shit. He’d been wearing polar fleece for decades. Nik scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away some of his fatigue.
Not fat. Not jolly. Not a fucking Saint.
What he was, was tired, jet-lagged and cranky. When he walked into the North Pole’s dirtiest dive, Santa’s Workshop, pretty much all he wanted in the world was a drink, a shower, and a long winter’s nap. Preferably with a good hard fuck thrown in there somewhere. Just to help him unwind.
The bar was the next thing to empty. Most of his minions, er, helpers, were either sleeping off nearly forty-eight hours straight of non-stop work—being an “elf” was a lot of hurry-up-wait-hurry-the-fuck-up-you-moron—or sleeping off a shot or ten celebrating the end of forty-eight hours of non-stop work.
Nik slumped at the bar and ordered whisky, neat. Forty-eight hours really wasn’t that bad. He remembered when it had been a week and a couple favors from Father Time to get his shit all done on Christmas Eve. The advent of internet shopping had cut his workload nearly in half, thank God.
He looked up in surprise when the classic rock on the radio cut off, and the lights dimmed. When the strains of jazzy string instruments replaced the growly vocals of the Boss, he shot an incredulous look toward the elf manning the bar.
Joe, the ubiquitous overweight, under-washed bartender, shrugged. “Owners wanted to class up the joint.” He gestured toward the small stage area on the other side of the small dance floor. “Chimera there’s our latest attraction.”
Nik noticed that the few people who’d clustered at the bar were drifting toward the stage, where a slender woman stood silhouetted against a gold spotlight. Brightly colored Christmas lights created a merry, twinkling frame and the over-all effect was dramatic.
Even more striking when the lighting changed and the singer was finally fully revealed.
Red hair, several shades darker than Nik’s own ginger spikes, tumbled to curl teasingly around pale, silky looking skin left bare by the off-the-shoulder ruby velvet dress. The contrast of ruby hair and ruby dress made her skin glow like a pearl.
She was tall for a woman. In her glittery red stilettos with silver metal heels, she was probably only a few inches less than his own six-five. And slim. Willowy, even. Her crimson dress clung from shoulders to mid-thigh, emphasizing the almost boyish lines of her body. Nik narrowed his eyes, looked closer at the rounded muscles of her shoulders, the nearly smooth line of her dress across her chest.
Not almost boyish. Chimera, The Workshop’s claim to class, was definitely male. Nik’s prick perked up.
Then he (She? Was that the proper pronoun while the performer was in drag?) began to sing, and all thoughts of male or female, classy or crass, fled his mind in a rush of goose-flesh.
That voice was, in a word, oh-holy-fuck.
Chimera made love to the microphone, the song, her (His? Did it even matter?) audience. Delicate hands cupped the mic. Long, graceful fingers tipped with long, scarlet nails traced sinuous lines over the mic stand.
Nik—and, undoubtedly every other elf in the room—was caught in the vision of those hands, those fingers, tracing something a lot warmer and thicker. Like his cock.
Chimera continued to weave a spell with music and lyrics, and Nik felt his exhaustion fade. Every word, every note was another teasing stroke of his flesh. Every dramatic pause a caress of his increasingly hard and aching dick. When the singer sent a sultry, teasing glance in his direction and started a very suggestive rendition of “Santa Baby”, it was all Nik could do to keep from storming the stage and dragging her (While the dress was on and the hips had that shimmy, Nik decided, Chimera was definitely a her.) off to his lair. But, dammit, he was The Santa. He wasn’t going panting after a lounge singer, no matter how magical, like a common elf. Even if his dick was screaming for him to do so.
There was no doubt she was singing directly to him. Wide, dark eyes conveyed total sincerity when she insisted she’d been an awfully good girl, but the kittenish way her lips curved when she invited him to hurry down her chimney suggested she’d rather he hurry up something entirely different. Yeah, Chimera so belonged on the Naughty List, in all the best ways.
By the time she’d finished her set, pretty much everyone else in the bar had gravitated to the tables closest to the stage, and Nik was about on hard stroke away from coming in his ski pants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so horny. If the glances she’d been sending him through her last few songs were anything to go by, Chimera was plenty turned on, too.
He was the only elf who didn’t crowd the stage to applaud and loudly offer praise, drinks, or whatever the hell she wanted if she’d just give him a little time, a little attention. Still, he wasn’t in the least surprised when she slid onto the barstool next to him, crossing her legs with a whisper of silken stockings.
She leaned toward him, and her scent teased him even over the stale smell of smoke and the tang of spilled alcohol. She smelled as good as she looked. A faint hint of evergreen, overlaid by vanilla and spice and everything wonderful about the holidays.
“Buy a girl a drink?” Her speaking voice was as alluring as her singing voice, as alluring as every fucking thing about her. Nik, however, was The Santa, and he’d be damned if he let her turn him into a babbling fool so easily.
Not that he’d ever admit how close she had him to babbling fool. And how easily.
“Not interested in girls,” he replied, leaning on an elbow he’d propped on the sticky bar. She raised one brow and the corner of her glossy red lips quirked. “I will, however, buy you a drink, Sweetheart.”
Unshackled from the Evil Day Job from Hell, VJ can now be found obsessing over whether her parents are getting enough to eat, obsessing that the kid is sexting the boyfriend, making coffee, drinking coffee, feeding the cats who allow her to live with them, or reading and writing erotic romance – either solo as m/m author VJ Summers, or as the shorter, quieter half of the “Violet Summers” writing team.