THE LOVER AND THE HOLIDAY

Holiday Balls

The 21st of December is the shortest day of the year. The lack of sunlight makes me feel like a tragic babushka lamenting over burnt potatoes. Thanks to the glorious spirit of the holiday's commercialization that I can live my excitement vicariously through the experience of others. This girl just bought her mom a 7'' tablet; I'd prefer it somewhere in a neighborhood of 9'' and above, but I guess that will do for the time being. Another girl got a big bag of Christmas beignets, deep-fried to a golden delicious crisp. Hark! Nobody cares about the correlation between a low caloric diet and longevity anymore. For me, I want no tablet nor grease, I just want to bring my lover home and have a very merry gathering with the rest of my family. Below are several possible reasons why I can't. Pick one for your entertainment.


My lover is a marine biologist. She eats nothing but fish: steamed, fried, dried, or fermented, you name it. She also likes to crack offensive craw-fish jokes about her vagina. Her bubbly personality and the way she flops on me whenever we make love earn her the lovely nickname "La Sirena" in my little red book of lovers. I like to float in the blue of her eyes while caressing her breasts and whisper nonsense in her ears while stroking the flow of her hair. Contrary to the way I feel, the ladies in my household don't row their boats in La Sirena's ocean.

When I talk about my lovely siren, they usually feign interest with such bovine serenity that if you let your imagination loose a little, you'd probably hear an occasional moo here and there. Nobody serves fish and beef on the same dish.  "But why? She's a pescatarian!" - my mother exhales calmly as she sinks the carving knife deep into the roast. Mi Sirenita is reading about Tricherus manatus alone in a lab somewhere, not with me this holiday season.

Source: Bizarro Comics

My lover is a coffee barista. He makes the best pumpkin spice latte in the whole state of Maryland. After three months of eating nothing but ground beef, he switched completely to veganism. His fart smells like broccoli all the time, what a prize you get for having an artisanal, organic, and fair trade diet. Anyway, something about his ears and the way he smiles make me think of Christmas, so The Elf is the nickname I gave to him. On the way back from my yoga class, I like to wait for him outside of his shop just so I could steal the leftover pastry and pinch him on the wall for a kiss. He likes to travel and on one of the trips, he falls in love with an artistic Ecuadorean boy. That is when The Elf leaves winter wonderland forever.

The ladies of the household are baffled by my constant lounging in the bedroom. I even lose my otherwise healthy appetite. The taste and look of vegetables make me sick, yet strangely eating meat doesn't make me feel any better. "You look a little pale," says my mother, "When you bring a girlfriend home?" she goes on to ask without taking her eyes away from Martha Steward's chopping something green on the TV screen. Meanwhile, on a breezy hilly street somewhere in Quito, The Elf is dancing the tango with his artistic lover, not with me this holiday season.

My lover is a cake decorator. He doesn't like eating anything in particular. He used to stick to only PB&J sandwiches, cottage cheese, and carrot sticks; however, he has lately switched to prunes and protein bars for better bowel movement. His ass is so amazing that I can't think of anything else to call him but McPlumpbutt. I like to cover his face completely with kisses and feel his strong arms latching onto my body. He has to work before and after Christmas day, so he can't manage to drive 500 miles to join me at my homestead here on the East Coast.

The ladies of the household are comfortable with the idea of me being with a guy. They just can't come to term with what other people think about it. So if McPlumpbutt comes, he would't be welcomed since my brother in law doesn't know that I'd rather suck a dick than watch Duck Dynasty on a Saturday night. "If you have your own place, then I wouldn't have a problem seeing him," whispers my mom dismissively as she adjusts the oven according to her secret recipe. Somewhere in a cold gray Midwest town, my poor McPlumbbutt is eating bad Chinese food on Christmas' Eve with someone conveniently trying to get in his pants, not with me this holiday season.

On the holiday, it doesn't matter what you do, it's who you are with that brings the essence of the time closer to the heart. For those of you who have the privilege of spending the time with everyone you love, please enjoy it since I shall live my life vicariously through your experience, at least for now.

Some day in the future, I shall have the full house.