I know, but what does one do, our Christmas is in summer which is in December.... I'd never be able to submit a Santa story in this competition if I don't now.
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Fancy dress isn't my thing. Ever since Christmas, a few years ago, I've avoided it but Jen insisted. When I chose to go as Superman, she balled a dish cloth in her hand and pointed it at me.
"Kryptonite," she said. "Zzzzzt! Gone," and she threw it to land with a splash on my chest. My shirt was saturated. I knew she hated the idea. I always went as Superman and was going to tell her it was Superman or nothing.
I certainly wasn't going as Santa again. I nearly died twice the one time I did. It was forty two degrees centigrade when I pulled the red suit with all its padding on. The white beard was lank and wet with my sweat as it hung from the elastic supported by my ears. I had to walk more than a kilometre and when there sat in the full sun as kids sat on my knee between "Yo ho ho's"
It was darling Russell who provided the first threat to my life. He wanted a horse. No ordinary horse, his had to win the Melbourne Cup and the next year the Cox Plate, before taking out the equestrian event at the Olympics. As Santa does, I laughed.
"Yo ho ho."
My laughing stopped abruptly when I felt some thing sharp against my ribs and the last I remembered was him whispering in my ear that he'd push the fucking knife deeper next time if the horse he got was a dud.
I woke some time later. I was being pushed into an ambulance on a barouche with i.v. fluids being pumped into my arm and so many people hovering around me. Later, I was told little Russell had been especially tearful after he fell to the ground and he'd eventually confessed, much to the shock of his parents who wondered where he got such language from. When I fell, I hit my head on the ground. I never did find out whether I'd been knocked unconscious by the fall or whether I was already unconscious due to dehydration.
I was shocked too when I came to my senses. As I recovered from the headache and confusion, I realised I'd been stripped of every item of clothing in their efforts to cool me down and rehydrate me.
Most children have the impression of Santa being of ubiquitous masculinity. The children there that day witnessed their Santa's masculinity. It probably saved my life and I often wonder if my being undressed did them any harm. Certainly, they would have discovered that though their Santa spent Christmas Day in hospital they still got most of their presents. I had to pay the rental company for the suit that had been cut from me.
Little Russell's parents objected to hearing about his usefulness with a knife. Their offense was such that they no longer joined our Christmas parties. The other parents were also concerned and also withdrew. It was only those of us who had no children who continued to attend. It didn't feel like Christmas any more. Children make Christmas interesting. In our experience fancy dress wasn't an adequate substitute.
"I'm sick of Superman. I'm going to find something else." Jen interrupted my little reverie. Then she walked out of the kitchen and left me to wonder what was happening.
Next day, we went shopping and she bought a diaphanous fabric that was seven metres long. She also bought a heavy fawn, cotton canvas that looked so ugly I wondered what use it could have. The next few days she was busy sewing. She didn't say a word about what she was making.
I began to worry about what I'd be at the fancy dress Christmas party. At least Superman is topical, a small boy rescued from a collapsing planet. There was nothing wrong with Superman. It sure beat dressing as Santa. I felt safe as Superman.
"Don't worry," she kept saying. The day arrived and I still had no idea. It was mid afternoon when she suggested we start to get ready. While she showered I checked the bed. There was still nothing on it to wear.
She came from the bathroom with a towel around her, reached for the hair drier and let the towel drop. She'd cleaned up her pussy with a razor and left a neatly trimmed heart. I reached to her, but she slapped my hands away and insisted I have my shower.
"Can you shave your balls while you're there, Love," It was a statement more than a question. I wondered why but did it any way. I imagined Ken and Mike discussing deforestation and indulged in a smile.
When I returned she was struggling with the diaphanous fabric I'd seen her buy. On the bed was the fawn canvas I thought was so ugly.
"Put them on," she said and appraised my shave with her fingers. I picked them up- a fawn shirt with epaulettes and the biggest pair of shorts I'd ever seen. They must have been starched because they were very stiff. I pulled them on and was about to show her how inappropriately huge they were.
"I'm sick of going as Lois," she told me. "I'm tired of picking you off floors because of some invisible kryptonite. I've had enough of being safe all the time. I want to be adventurous. I want people to see I have a cleavage, I have tits. I need to feel desirable, to know that people want to shove their hands down my cleavage and feel my tits. I want people to know I have a cunt and it's as good as any. I'm a woman and I want people to know it. I'm not going as Lois." I was trying to think of some thing to say.
"I want people to know you have balls too. You're not a plastic hero, you're a man with a big dick and balls. After the party I plan to blow you." She was angry. I stood, ridiculous in front of her and said nothing.
