Page 12 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
Dottie gives me a look like she’s not sure what she’s gotten herself into, then says, “Oh, what the hell?” and gives the ribbon another tug. All four sides of the box fall open to reveal three Christmas bells, each hand-painted with green holly leaves and little red berries.
“How pretty!” I say.
“There’s one for each of you,” Stanley says. “Santa always comes bearing gifts, doesn’t he?”
Did he just stress the word “comes”?
“Haha,” I say. “Yes, I suppose he does.” I’m trying to be supportive of this man, but I’m getting warier by the second.
Dottie, Keira, and I each lift a bell by its respective ribbon and examine it. In that split second of distraction, Stanley whips open his red trench coat and yells, “Ho, ho, ho!”
“My eyes! My eyes!” Keira shouts and covers her face with her forearm.
The man stands there fully nude, and fully erect, his penis painted bright green like a tree.
He juts his pelvis in our direction. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, ladies, so deck my balls with your bells of holly.”
“You need to leave,” I say calmly.
“But—” Stanley protests.
“Sir?” I say more forcefully this time. “Close your trench coat and leave the premises. Now.”
He fastens his buttons and sighs good-naturedly. “Oh well. You miss all the shots you don’t take, right?”
“That’s the spirit!” Dottie says. “I’m sure your act is delightful, Mr. Steamer. But… maybe just not the right fit for our particular contest.”
That’s Dottie for you. Always the diplomat.
Stanley reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Well, if you’re ever in need of an exotic dancer for your holiday parties, I’m your guy. I’m almost fully booked next month at retirement centers, book clubs, and knitting circles, but I could always squeeze in another event for lovely ladies such as yourselves.”
Dottie takes his card. “Very kind of you, sir. You have a happy holiday now, you hear?”
“And you as well.” He approaches the table again and gestures to the bells. “I sort of have to take these. They’re part of the act.”
“Understood,” I say. “Be well, Mr. Steamer.”
He gathers his bells—and his balls—and he’s gone.
I blow out a breath and regather my wits. “Keira, before we see the next contestant, could you remind everyone about the age requirement and our no-nudity clause?”
“Happy to,” she responds with an unusual ferocity to her tone. She flings the door to the hallway open and yells, “Hey! All you Santa wannabes! It shouldn’t be that hard to keep your pecker in your pants! Have some respect, will ya?! Also, it’s twenty-one and older, no exceptions! So don’t you come in here and lie about your age! You think you can pull a fast one over us just because we’re women? Well, you can’t! Women know! We always know!”
She slams the door, leans against the wall, and promptly bursts into tears.
I rise from my chair. “Keira, what on earth is going on?”
“They’re all lying liars who can’t keep their peckers in their pants,” she says between sobs.
“I really don’t like it when she calls it a pecker,” Dottie whispers to me as we approach our friend.
“No one does,” I whisper back. “But I think we should let that slide for the moment.”
We crouch beside Keira. She’s slid down to the floor, head in her hands.
“Do you want to tell us what’s going on?” I ask softly and brush a lock of hair behind her ear.
She wipes tears from her cheeks. “Tagg’s cheating on me.”
