The Christmas Club
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Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
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Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,665
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
The Christmas Club
The Christmas Club
by Kiernan Kelly
In a rush to decorate at the last possible moment - as always - I find myself slinging tinsel over the boughs of the Christmas tree in clumpy handfuls, scrambling to finish before the doorbell rings. Benny says that its my own fault, simply because I refuse to unpack one single decoration until after December first.
I suppose that's true, but I can't bring myself to start earlier - it's a matter of principle.
Every year it seems that the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas grows shorter and shorter. I'm convinced that it's a conspiracy by the department stores to lengthen the holiday shopping season and empty our wallets. Don't laugh - it's true. They couldn't add more holidays to the calendar - although they've tried (National Rubber Pants Day was my personal favorite), so they resort to attempting to extend the ones they already have going.
When a Wal-Mart hauls out its pipe cleaner Christmas trees and Santa snow globes and sets them up next to their Halloween costumes and pumpkin-carving kits, things are getting out of hand. Next thing you know we'll have Christmas balls mixed in with the Easter Eggs and then...chaos.
Benny thinks I'm being paranoid. Then again, he still believes that Oswald shot Kennedy and that there was no one on the grassy knoll.
Yeah, right. And Area 51 is just a number between Areas 50 and 52.
As I hang the last plastic gingerbread man on one of the few remaining bare branches, the doorbell rings.
They're here.
"Benny!" I call as I trundle toward the door from the living room, the hitch in my git-along having gotten decidedly more pronounced over the last five years. The doctor tells me that I need a hip replacement, but I'm not convinced. My new doctor - the old one kicked off two years ago - is still young enough to be wearing a retainer, and I remain doubtful that he knows what he's talking about. You know the old saying - never trust anyone under 50.
"I'm in the kitchen, George! Let them in!" Benny calls, no doubt elbow-deep in sugar cookie dough. He makes them every year, producing baskets full of colorfully iced angels and snowmen. As if any of us can still eat sugar and not fall to the floor in a diabetic coma.
The bell rings again, accompanied by a knock this time.
"Hold your horses, I'm coming!" I holler, picking up the pace a little. For God's sake, I don't know why we never gave them a fucking key. They could've let themselves in and saved me the walk.
Clustered out on our front porch, bundled up like four arctic explorers even though the temperature this Christmas Eve is barely dipping below fifty, are Phil, Ted, Jules, and BJ.
Together with Benny and myself, we form the Christmas Club. We've been meeting every Christmas Eve for the last forty years, since we were all in our twenties.
Forty fucking years! Where the hell did the time go? Oh, I remember now. Down the toilet, that's where. Forty years of working the same job, day after day, month after month, just so that Benny and I could retire to Florida, better known as Death's Waiting Room.
"George? Will you please freakin' move so we can come inside? It's freezing out here!" Jules growls. He edges past me into the hallway, leaning over to rub his cheek against mine.
Jules is a piece of work if ever there was one. In forty years, I've never heard him once utter the word "fuck." Freak, frick, feck, and every other substitute one can possibly imagine, but never fuck. It's as if Jules thinks himself too refined to include such a vulgar word in his vocabulary. Of course that's not saying it didn't stop him from doing it at every available opportunity when we were younger, and in some very creative ways. I'll never forget the time in 1962 when Jules had bent BJ over railing of the Staten Island Ferry, ripped his pants down and plowed into him in full view of a pair of Marines on shore leave.
Luckily for us, Phil and Ted had been the Marines.
"Take their coats, George!" Benny orders as he places a plate of cookies on the coffee table. I do, and stagger into the bedroom under the weight of their down-filled jackets and woolen scarves. For shit's sake, with the amount of outerwear they arrived in you'd think we were living on the tundra. I remember a time when we'd strip naked in a blizzard if it meant getting laid. As a matter of fact, I remember several times when we did just that.
After all, that's why we got together every year - to get laid. No, I stand corrected. That's why we used to get together. We haven't had a free-for-all in the last five years. Somehow we went from being six horny young men to being six old fucks sitting around reminiscing about what it was like to be six horny young men.
God, it's so depressing.
"Who wants eggnog?" Benny asks, dipping thick yellowish-white liquid from a glass punchbowl. That punchbowl had been a gift to him from Benny's mother. The bitch had refused to talk to Benny since he'd come out, but she still made sure to send him a gift every Christmas - usually something as cheap and useless as the punchbowl. It had become almost a joke between the two of us - trying to guess what impersonal, shitty little gift FedEx would deliver that year. Still, I knew that it hurt Benny to get them. I'd see the tears he struggled to hide as he unwrapped the corkscrew or the set of coasters she'd sent. No note. No card. Just a sticker that said "to Benny, from your mother." I was never happier than the day his mother keeled over facedown in her blueberry pancakes at an IHOP ten years ago.
"Can't. Doc says I have to cut back- my triglycerides were through the fecking roof last visit," Jules says, settling himself down on the sofa next to BJ. He pats his gut, grinning sheepishly. "Got to lose a little weight, too. Not good for the old ticker, you know?"
"Yup. I'm on meds, so no booze. Had to have a colonoscopy last month. Doc cut out a polyp out my ass that was the size of a Volkswagen Beetle," Phil says, picking over the sugar cookies.
Please, somebody put a bullet in my head and put me out of my misery. They haven't been here for more than five minutes and already they're regaling us with their medical problems.
"You need to stop raiding the refrigerator at night," Ted admonishes him, frowning as Phil bites into a red-and-green reindeer. "You know that the doctor warned you about eating too much. I swear you're no better than a five year old. I'm going to have to padlock the door to keep you from binging."
"What difference does it make?" Phil grumbles. "You never keep anything good in there anyway. Carrot sticks and skim milk is all you ever buy."
"Right. That's why you've got that spare tire around your middle - because all you ever eat is healthy food," Ted retorts.
"What?" BJ asks, tilting his head toward Jules. "What did he say?"
"Phil needs to lose weight!" Jules yells into his ear. BJ is hard-of-hearing but won't admit it and, vain old bastard that he is, refuses to get a hearing aid. We spend most of our time together repeating ourselves at the top of our lungs. I've been tempted on more than one occasion to use cue cards.
Oh God. When did we get so fucking old? When did we go from getting tattoos to having moles removed? Then again, when did the tat Benny has on his left ass cheek start to shrivel up until it looks more like a prune than a heart?
I remember when he got that tattoo. Benny was twenty-two years old, and built as solid as a rock back then. Had a head full of thick, blue-black hair that he wore just long enough to brush his collar, and shoulders that were wide enough to land an airplane on. He had a washboard stomach, too, rippled with muscle. Best of all, you could bounce a quarter off of his ass. I loved his ass more than anything. Loved looking at it. Touching it. Fucking it. Especially fucking it. Benny's ass was tighter than a miser's fist in those days.
We were walking along Bleeker Street in the Village, eyeing the bongo-playing beatniks and guitar-strumming folk singers, nudging each other if we spotted a particularly cute, clean one, when Benny had paused in front of a tattoo parlor.
Next thing I know, Benny's bent over the artist's table, his pants pulled down to his knees while a beefy guy with long hair and bad body odor is tattooing a heart on his ass. I remember pouting, wondering how long his ass was going to be sore, and how long I'd have to wait before I could ram myself into him again without hurting him. Then I realized that the heart had a name tattooed inside of it, and that the name was mine.
Shit.
I knew at that moment that I was going to be with him forever. I had to be - in the early sixties it didn't get more married than that. Free love wasn't the ideal yet. It wouldn't be for another eight years or so. Back then once a man tattooed your name on his ass, you were done.
"Anyone bring any grass?" Ted asks, patting his shirt pocket. He pulls out a packet of papers, looking around hopefully.
"I do," Jules grins. "I need it for my glaucoma."
Somehow when a man says that his stash is for "medicinal purposes" and means it, it takes all the fun out of getting high.
BJ rises from the sofa and sidles past me on his way to the bathroom. He doesn't bother to close the bathroom door, and from my spot on the end of the couch I can see him pull out his pecker and pee.
His dick is still pretty impressive - it always was, although BJ's oral talents are what earned him his nickname. BJ's real name is Irving, although no one's called him that since the first time we all got together on Christmas Eve.
It was 1963. Everyone was so fucking depressed that year - Kennedy had been shot the month before and Camelot had come crashing down on everyone's heads. I can't remember who called whom, but we all met on Christmas Eve at Jules' and Irving's apartment in the Village. Fifteen floors up, and of course, the goddamn elevator was broken. Good thing we were young. If I had to climb fifteen floors today, my heart would explode.
They'd had a tiny Christmas tree tilted in one corner of the living area of their studio apartment. Sad, twisted little thing, it was. Made Charlie Brown's look like a fucking redwood. I remember that it had about a half-dozen lights and even fewer ornaments on it, but I guess it was appropriate, considering the mood of the nation at the time.
Jules and Irving had a hookah set up on the floor of the living area. It was the only thing they'd ever bought brand new, and they were incredibly proud of it. The rest of their apartment had been furnished by either the Salvation Army or courtesy of a dumpster diving expedition.
As the six of us sat cross-legged on the floor around the hookah, Jules produced his stash and soon enough we were floating along on pot-scented clouds. I don't know if it was the grass that led us to shed our inhibitions, or if we'd somehow subconsciously planned it all along, but before I knew it Irving was giving the five of us simultaneous, enthusiastic blowjobs. He flitted from one crotch to the next like some jazzed up, blond hummingbird.
It was fucking great.
He'd been fondly called BJ ever since, and was responsible for the tradition that we carried on for over forty years.
Not that we'd limited ourselves to holiday blowjobs, nor did we rely on BJ to do all the work. It's a community effort, really. Every year since that first time in 1963 we've taken turns hosting our Club meeting at each other's homes. Like clockwork on Christmas Eve we'd show up, strip down, and have at it while Miracle on 34th Street or It's A Wonderful Life played on the television. Up until five years ago that is, when Ted had shown up with a nifty new pacemaker.
He and Phil had protested that the new hardware didn't change anything, but none of us wanted to be the one that fucked Ted into the next life. So instead of collectively playing Hide the Yule Log, we'd passed the time reminiscing, and had done the same ever since.
But I've had it up to my eyeballs with talking about what used to be. I want things to be the way they were.
Fuck reminiscing. I want sex. Big, sloppy, group sex. I want more hands and mouths on me than I can count. I want warm bodies rolling over and around me, under me and inside of me. I want an orgasm that stops the world dead in its tracks; I want to drown in rivers of semen.
That's what I want.
What I get is a half dozen old men sitting around, eating sugar cookies and drinking eggnog, and yakking like old women.
"How about some music?" Benny asks, turning on the stereo. He fiddles with the stations until he finds one playing Christmas music. I think its Perry Como singing The Twelve Days of Christmas, a holiday staple for anyone over fifty.
Ted starts singing along, his deep baritone just slightly less off key than I remember it to be.
"Seven maids a-milking, six geezers laying, five golden rings…" he sings, unconsciously screwing up the lyrics.
I burst out laughing, roaring until tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes and I'm gasping for air.
How perfect. How abso-fucking-lutely perfect. Six geezers laying - that's us in a nutshell.
When I finally stop laughing, I grin and reach over, fondling Benny's crotch and winking at him. Fuck it. Life is too short. Pacemakers, walkers, and medications be damned. It's Christmas Eve and the Christmas Club is called to order.
~End
Did you enjoy this story? For more free reads and links to my published works, visit my website at www.Kiernan-Kelly.com
by Kiernan Kelly
In a rush to decorate at the last possible moment - as always - I find myself slinging tinsel over the boughs of the Christmas tree in clumpy handfuls, scrambling to finish before the doorbell rings. Benny says that its my own fault, simply because I refuse to unpack one single decoration until after December first.
I suppose that's true, but I can't bring myself to start earlier - it's a matter of principle.
Every year it seems that the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas grows shorter and shorter. I'm convinced that it's a conspiracy by the department stores to lengthen the holiday shopping season and empty our wallets. Don't laugh - it's true. They couldn't add more holidays to the calendar - although they've tried (National Rubber Pants Day was my personal favorite), so they resort to attempting to extend the ones they already have going.
When a Wal-Mart hauls out its pipe cleaner Christmas trees and Santa snow globes and sets them up next to their Halloween costumes and pumpkin-carving kits, things are getting out of hand. Next thing you know we'll have Christmas balls mixed in with the Easter Eggs and then...chaos.
Benny thinks I'm being paranoid. Then again, he still believes that Oswald shot Kennedy and that there was no one on the grassy knoll.
Yeah, right. And Area 51 is just a number between Areas 50 and 52.
As I hang the last plastic gingerbread man on one of the few remaining bare branches, the doorbell rings.
They're here.
"Benny!" I call as I trundle toward the door from the living room, the hitch in my git-along having gotten decidedly more pronounced over the last five years. The doctor tells me that I need a hip replacement, but I'm not convinced. My new doctor - the old one kicked off two years ago - is still young enough to be wearing a retainer, and I remain doubtful that he knows what he's talking about. You know the old saying - never trust anyone under 50.
"I'm in the kitchen, George! Let them in!" Benny calls, no doubt elbow-deep in sugar cookie dough. He makes them every year, producing baskets full of colorfully iced angels and snowmen. As if any of us can still eat sugar and not fall to the floor in a diabetic coma.
The bell rings again, accompanied by a knock this time.
"Hold your horses, I'm coming!" I holler, picking up the pace a little. For God's sake, I don't know why we never gave them a fucking key. They could've let themselves in and saved me the walk.
Clustered out on our front porch, bundled up like four arctic explorers even though the temperature this Christmas Eve is barely dipping below fifty, are Phil, Ted, Jules, and BJ.
Together with Benny and myself, we form the Christmas Club. We've been meeting every Christmas Eve for the last forty years, since we were all in our twenties.
Forty fucking years! Where the hell did the time go? Oh, I remember now. Down the toilet, that's where. Forty years of working the same job, day after day, month after month, just so that Benny and I could retire to Florida, better known as Death's Waiting Room.
"George? Will you please freakin' move so we can come inside? It's freezing out here!" Jules growls. He edges past me into the hallway, leaning over to rub his cheek against mine.
Jules is a piece of work if ever there was one. In forty years, I've never heard him once utter the word "fuck." Freak, frick, feck, and every other substitute one can possibly imagine, but never fuck. It's as if Jules thinks himself too refined to include such a vulgar word in his vocabulary. Of course that's not saying it didn't stop him from doing it at every available opportunity when we were younger, and in some very creative ways. I'll never forget the time in 1962 when Jules had bent BJ over railing of the Staten Island Ferry, ripped his pants down and plowed into him in full view of a pair of Marines on shore leave.
Luckily for us, Phil and Ted had been the Marines.
"Take their coats, George!" Benny orders as he places a plate of cookies on the coffee table. I do, and stagger into the bedroom under the weight of their down-filled jackets and woolen scarves. For shit's sake, with the amount of outerwear they arrived in you'd think we were living on the tundra. I remember a time when we'd strip naked in a blizzard if it meant getting laid. As a matter of fact, I remember several times when we did just that.
After all, that's why we got together every year - to get laid. No, I stand corrected. That's why we used to get together. We haven't had a free-for-all in the last five years. Somehow we went from being six horny young men to being six old fucks sitting around reminiscing about what it was like to be six horny young men.
God, it's so depressing.
"Who wants eggnog?" Benny asks, dipping thick yellowish-white liquid from a glass punchbowl. That punchbowl had been a gift to him from Benny's mother. The bitch had refused to talk to Benny since he'd come out, but she still made sure to send him a gift every Christmas - usually something as cheap and useless as the punchbowl. It had become almost a joke between the two of us - trying to guess what impersonal, shitty little gift FedEx would deliver that year. Still, I knew that it hurt Benny to get them. I'd see the tears he struggled to hide as he unwrapped the corkscrew or the set of coasters she'd sent. No note. No card. Just a sticker that said "to Benny, from your mother." I was never happier than the day his mother keeled over facedown in her blueberry pancakes at an IHOP ten years ago.
"Can't. Doc says I have to cut back- my triglycerides were through the fecking roof last visit," Jules says, settling himself down on the sofa next to BJ. He pats his gut, grinning sheepishly. "Got to lose a little weight, too. Not good for the old ticker, you know?"
"Yup. I'm on meds, so no booze. Had to have a colonoscopy last month. Doc cut out a polyp out my ass that was the size of a Volkswagen Beetle," Phil says, picking over the sugar cookies.
Please, somebody put a bullet in my head and put me out of my misery. They haven't been here for more than five minutes and already they're regaling us with their medical problems.
"You need to stop raiding the refrigerator at night," Ted admonishes him, frowning as Phil bites into a red-and-green reindeer. "You know that the doctor warned you about eating too much. I swear you're no better than a five year old. I'm going to have to padlock the door to keep you from binging."
"What difference does it make?" Phil grumbles. "You never keep anything good in there anyway. Carrot sticks and skim milk is all you ever buy."
"Right. That's why you've got that spare tire around your middle - because all you ever eat is healthy food," Ted retorts.
"What?" BJ asks, tilting his head toward Jules. "What did he say?"
"Phil needs to lose weight!" Jules yells into his ear. BJ is hard-of-hearing but won't admit it and, vain old bastard that he is, refuses to get a hearing aid. We spend most of our time together repeating ourselves at the top of our lungs. I've been tempted on more than one occasion to use cue cards.
Oh God. When did we get so fucking old? When did we go from getting tattoos to having moles removed? Then again, when did the tat Benny has on his left ass cheek start to shrivel up until it looks more like a prune than a heart?
I remember when he got that tattoo. Benny was twenty-two years old, and built as solid as a rock back then. Had a head full of thick, blue-black hair that he wore just long enough to brush his collar, and shoulders that were wide enough to land an airplane on. He had a washboard stomach, too, rippled with muscle. Best of all, you could bounce a quarter off of his ass. I loved his ass more than anything. Loved looking at it. Touching it. Fucking it. Especially fucking it. Benny's ass was tighter than a miser's fist in those days.
We were walking along Bleeker Street in the Village, eyeing the bongo-playing beatniks and guitar-strumming folk singers, nudging each other if we spotted a particularly cute, clean one, when Benny had paused in front of a tattoo parlor.
Next thing I know, Benny's bent over the artist's table, his pants pulled down to his knees while a beefy guy with long hair and bad body odor is tattooing a heart on his ass. I remember pouting, wondering how long his ass was going to be sore, and how long I'd have to wait before I could ram myself into him again without hurting him. Then I realized that the heart had a name tattooed inside of it, and that the name was mine.
Shit.
I knew at that moment that I was going to be with him forever. I had to be - in the early sixties it didn't get more married than that. Free love wasn't the ideal yet. It wouldn't be for another eight years or so. Back then once a man tattooed your name on his ass, you were done.
"Anyone bring any grass?" Ted asks, patting his shirt pocket. He pulls out a packet of papers, looking around hopefully.
"I do," Jules grins. "I need it for my glaucoma."
Somehow when a man says that his stash is for "medicinal purposes" and means it, it takes all the fun out of getting high.
BJ rises from the sofa and sidles past me on his way to the bathroom. He doesn't bother to close the bathroom door, and from my spot on the end of the couch I can see him pull out his pecker and pee.
His dick is still pretty impressive - it always was, although BJ's oral talents are what earned him his nickname. BJ's real name is Irving, although no one's called him that since the first time we all got together on Christmas Eve.
It was 1963. Everyone was so fucking depressed that year - Kennedy had been shot the month before and Camelot had come crashing down on everyone's heads. I can't remember who called whom, but we all met on Christmas Eve at Jules' and Irving's apartment in the Village. Fifteen floors up, and of course, the goddamn elevator was broken. Good thing we were young. If I had to climb fifteen floors today, my heart would explode.
They'd had a tiny Christmas tree tilted in one corner of the living area of their studio apartment. Sad, twisted little thing, it was. Made Charlie Brown's look like a fucking redwood. I remember that it had about a half-dozen lights and even fewer ornaments on it, but I guess it was appropriate, considering the mood of the nation at the time.
Jules and Irving had a hookah set up on the floor of the living area. It was the only thing they'd ever bought brand new, and they were incredibly proud of it. The rest of their apartment had been furnished by either the Salvation Army or courtesy of a dumpster diving expedition.
As the six of us sat cross-legged on the floor around the hookah, Jules produced his stash and soon enough we were floating along on pot-scented clouds. I don't know if it was the grass that led us to shed our inhibitions, or if we'd somehow subconsciously planned it all along, but before I knew it Irving was giving the five of us simultaneous, enthusiastic blowjobs. He flitted from one crotch to the next like some jazzed up, blond hummingbird.
It was fucking great.
He'd been fondly called BJ ever since, and was responsible for the tradition that we carried on for over forty years.
Not that we'd limited ourselves to holiday blowjobs, nor did we rely on BJ to do all the work. It's a community effort, really. Every year since that first time in 1963 we've taken turns hosting our Club meeting at each other's homes. Like clockwork on Christmas Eve we'd show up, strip down, and have at it while Miracle on 34th Street or It's A Wonderful Life played on the television. Up until five years ago that is, when Ted had shown up with a nifty new pacemaker.
He and Phil had protested that the new hardware didn't change anything, but none of us wanted to be the one that fucked Ted into the next life. So instead of collectively playing Hide the Yule Log, we'd passed the time reminiscing, and had done the same ever since.
But I've had it up to my eyeballs with talking about what used to be. I want things to be the way they were.
Fuck reminiscing. I want sex. Big, sloppy, group sex. I want more hands and mouths on me than I can count. I want warm bodies rolling over and around me, under me and inside of me. I want an orgasm that stops the world dead in its tracks; I want to drown in rivers of semen.
That's what I want.
What I get is a half dozen old men sitting around, eating sugar cookies and drinking eggnog, and yakking like old women.
"How about some music?" Benny asks, turning on the stereo. He fiddles with the stations until he finds one playing Christmas music. I think its Perry Como singing The Twelve Days of Christmas, a holiday staple for anyone over fifty.
Ted starts singing along, his deep baritone just slightly less off key than I remember it to be.
"Seven maids a-milking, six geezers laying, five golden rings…" he sings, unconsciously screwing up the lyrics.
I burst out laughing, roaring until tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes and I'm gasping for air.
How perfect. How abso-fucking-lutely perfect. Six geezers laying - that's us in a nutshell.
When I finally stop laughing, I grin and reach over, fondling Benny's crotch and winking at him. Fuck it. Life is too short. Pacemakers, walkers, and medications be damned. It's Christmas Eve and the Christmas Club is called to order.
~End
Did you enjoy this story? For more free reads and links to my published works, visit my website at www.Kiernan-Kelly.com