By The Sexy G
The holiday season put me into a contemplative mood. I imagined driving alone through the deserted, hushed streets the day after Christmas. Everyone inside, all warm and cozy with their gifts while I wander around the city.
I began to think about one of the blogs I wrote – do women really want sensitive men, those special men in touch with their feminine side? Or, are women unconsciously repelled by the very same qualities they say they desperately need in a partner? Then I thought that the image of Santa Claus gives him the ambiance of a sensitive man. He’s a philanthropist of the highest order, making sure every child get a gift. He is applauded and adored around the world and never even took an income tax break for charity.
So, I thought, what if Santa walked into a bar where the older set hangs out and sat next to me? How would I react? Here’s the picture:
I’m sitting in an upscale bar in Center City Philadelphia.
The bar is carved oak with a black marble counter top. Behind the bar are brightly lit, glass shelves with top-drawer bottles of liquor. There are very few patrons. I’m drinking an icy vodka martini and chilling out. A man, two seats down, is staring at me. I give him a small smile. He moves over and sits next to me.
“Want to buy me a drink, sweetheart?” he asks.
“Not really.” I say. ”Just kidding.”
He looks up.
“Hey, barkeep, give this nice lady another, whatever she’s drinking.”
I look over at this brash man who didn’t even ask me if I wanted another drink and find his appearance pleasing. He’s wearing a navy, cable knit sweater and tan slacks. His salt and pepper hair is cut short, but several strands sweep over a high forehead. His nose is large but quite appropriate for his tall, thick size. He’s solidly built and in his early sixties.
He extends his hand, and I shake it. It is cool and smooth to the touch, not a hand that belongs to a manual worker. It’s how I picture Jimmy to be – plastic.
“Okay. Are you married or otherwise engaged?” I ask
“Nope. Been there, done that a couple of times and have given it up for Lent. Just want to have fun now.”
At least he’s honest. Do I dare sound corny and tell him that I’ve been there, too, but want to have a terrific committed relationship now? I decide to keep quiet.
“You’re a pleasant looking lass, he says peering down my v-neckline at my cleavage.
Well, can’t say that wearing this outfit was accidental. We’re smack in the era of displaying cleavage and the tops of backsides. The latter is definitely not for me, but a little cleavage works wonders for a little attention. Oh, sometimes men are simplistic.
“Do you know why your marriage or marriages didn’t last?” I ask him.
“I wasn’t home much because I’m a workaholic and when I was around I watched sports on TV. What man doesn’t do that? I just didn’t get the kind
of woman who tolerates it. Then she cheated on me. But I’m not changing.”
“When you and your wife were together, did you enjoy intimacy? Were you a good listener and did you give your wife some quality time?”
“Hey, that’s chick stuff. I’m sure I was a good husband. I’m not great with domestic stuff. As a provider I did the best I could and loved my kids. Isn’t that enough?” He shook his head. “Look, let’s not talk serious stuff. If you want to have fun, I’m your guy.” He looks at me sideways. “I’m good in the sack.”
So, I’m face to face with a man who has the bad boy syndrome, and, I must say, it has some appeal. Why not be carefree and enjoy every second? No strings attached. Hey, next year arthritis might get me or some other damned illness.
Thudding footsteps sound behind me. I turn. Santa Claus is standing in the middle of the marble floor, removing his big, white mittens. I’m in shock. He walks over and sits next to me.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks. His beard has tiny icicles hanging from it.
“Sure, Santa. What are you doing here?”
“No one is home. I haven’t publicized it because it will upset millions of children, but Mrs. Claus passed away last year. The elves have gone to their own families. I was lonely.”
“Santa, you’re a super star. Thousands of people would invite you to dinner.”
Jimmy, seemingly unaffected by Santa’s presence, moves away and sits next to an attractive woman.
“It’s one of those oddities. You see, because I was busy pleasing everyone, I never developed close relationships. Children love me, parents love me, but with limits. It’s sweet and pleasant, but I’m not really an integral part of their lives.”
The bartender delivers the drinks. Santa had ordered a mint martini. We click glasses.
“I realized since my wife died that I was remiss in our relationship. I used my enormous fame and generosity as a ploy to keep from being close to her. We only talked about my work and the stresses that go with it. If my wife complained, I didn’t listen to her.”
…This even made me angry.
“I insisted that making toys for the children superseded herdemands for attention. So many people depend on me.” His expression turns weary. ”It’s only since she’s gone that I see blaming work for my failings was dumb. I feared love because it would make me vulnerable. The woman of my life meant so much to me, gave me everything within her capacity. I cut her off emotionally so that I might devote myself to the world. Giving my all to others was easier than working on my marriage with the one person who mattered most in my life.”
I finish my drink, grab his unfinished cocktail and down that quickly. Was this real? Or was I having a psychotic episode? I admit to
being a bit strung out from guzzling bourbon eggnogs yesterday, but this was beyond hallucinating.
“I opened up to one woman since my dear wife’s passing,” Santa continues. “She had champagne waiting for me when I came down her chimney. She’d heard about Mrs. Claus’ demise and thought we’d get along. I poured my heart out, telling her that I’d reevaluated my life and knew I’d missed so much in the pursuit of success. I wanted to change now, discover who I really was under this hand-tailored, red suit. I wanted to discover poetry and learn to cook. I let myself cry in front of her, told her how upsetting it was to always act strong even when I don’t feel it. I had always lived in constant terror someone might not like me and I became the epitome of a crowd pleaser. Now I want my image off of all those greeting cards. I would willingly trade my celebrity for love, passion and obscurity.”
“Suddenly, this woman got a look of horror. She told me I’d be a nobody. What did she want with someone like that? I said I’m looking for a woman who wants to be friends first, before we’re intimate.”
He blinks at me.
“She thought the idea of being friends first was gay. She asked if I had sexual relationships with the elves? That did it. With a clatter, I zipped back up the chimney. As I sailed through the air in my sleigh, I decided that I wouldn’t let her attitude stop me from seeking answers within myself. Somewhere, a woman exists who truly wants a sensitive man. I’ll search even if I have to miss next Christmas.”
He sighs and his blue eyes get a mischievous twinkle.
“When I first saw you, I thought you might be that kind of
I look over at Jimmy. He sits alone now and gives me a big smile and a small wave. I stare at Santa, little beads of water from melted icicles cling to his brilliant, white beard.
“I’d love for you to dance through life with me until the music stops,” he says.
Or my tits fall off
- whichever comes first.
I say a little prayer that Santa is a vegetarian. Then I remember his fondness for his pet reindeers. He’d never eat meat.
“Santa, want to come back to my place?” I ask.
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