by Alison Tyler
He gives me a short moment to recover, then pulls me so I’m sitting up. I’m still half-gone, but he looks fresh and ready to roll. He draws me to the window and lifts the blinds.When I look out again I see them—the impatient reindeer snorting and stamping, angrily demanding that their owner return to them. He kisses me tenderly on the cheek and gives me a sweet, sad smile.
“Until next year,” he says before opening the window and climbing out, off into the night. I stumble out the door, back to the party. I will have to wait and see what’s been left under my tree; I have a feeling that whichever option he chooses, naughty or nice, I’ll still be getting a special present from Santa this year.
Come to think of it, I already have.
Return Policy
Tenille Brown
Catherine took a deep breath, then pushed the plastic bag across the counter. She held up one finger to the red-haired lady in glasses who started to peek inside—the shiny tag on her blouse indicated her name was Ellen—and Catherine slowly, calmly began to speak.
“Let me preface this by saying, Ellen, that I know your return policy and I will understand if at the end of this you still tell me no. But before you say anything,” Catherine said softly, choosing her words carefully, “let me just explain.”
Ellen cocked her head and parted her lips as if to speak, but she remained silent and leaned forward, pressing both freckled elbows down on the counter.
Catherine began. “First of all,” she said, “I’m not the type to return things—gifts especially, Christmas gifts even less so. I think it’s rude and borders on tacky.” She tossed a mass of heavy, dark curls across her shoulder and tugged at her jacket. “Even though I’m the one who bought the thing and could stand here in front of you and tell you any old lie—that it didn’t fit, that it malfunctioned, that it irritated my skin. But, you see, I’m just not that way.”
Catherine ran her tongue across her thin, faintly glossed lips. “This is the way that I am, Ellen. I am a woman who only has her husband’s pleasure in mind,” she said. “I’m giving, never selfish. I wasn’t thinking of myself at all when I tossed on that trench coat and dark sunglasses and darted into this place in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. I was thinking of him, you see, my husband Tim.”
Catherine paused. She glanced over her shoulder at a young woman with her head down, browsing through a pile of fishnet pantyhose.
“Not that I think anything is wrong with this place,” Catherine continued, her focus back on Ellen, who had folded her arms tightly across her chest.
“To each his own is what I always say, though, it isn’t my taste, personally.” Catherine sighed. “But…I am a realist and have been married nearly fifteen years and I know that twenty minutes in the sack every Wednesday and Saturday just won’t do…not any longer. Not with all those things on television and DVD these days. See, over the years, I’ve come to realize that it takes more.”
Catherine pulled the garment from the bag then. It lay in a crumpled, red and white fuzzy heap on the counter.
“So one day I made my mind up and I came in and bought this.”
And Catherine couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw Ellen smile.
“It’s cute, right? And you probably sold a lot of these. Remember that lovely Christmas display you had in the window?” Catherine didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course, you do.You probably helped put the display together. It may have even been your idea.You strike me as the creative and imaginative type, Ellen.”
Yes, it had been a smile. Catherine was sure of it now.
“Well, when I first saw it,” Catherine said, “I laughed. I actually stopped right there on the sidewalk and had a good chuckle because even the idea, to me, was so corny. And then I thought about it more, and I thought,‘Who am I to think my sex life is so good it couldn’t use a little spicing up, even if it is in a cheesy little Christmas outfit from a novelty shop?’ ”
Ellen opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, deciding against whatever it was she was going to say.
Catherine didn’t miss a beat. “The funny thing is, I don’t even like red and I’m sort of against fur. But it was obviously faux, so I figured it was all right. And Tim’s reaction, well, I figured it might tickle him a little if nothing else, and then, well, in the end, all we really want is for them to take the thing off us, right?” She shrugged now. “Anyway, I put it on. It was after he opened all of his other gifts, while he was busy reading instruction manuals and hooking up gadgets. I stepped into our bedroom and slipped it on. And the thing fit quite nicely, if I must say so myself. And I pulled on these black knee-high boots I had picked up down the street—and I never wear boots; they’re not my style. I skipped the fishnet hose—have to draw the line somewhere, you know. But when I stepped back into the room, Tim’s reaction, well, it was shocking to say the least.”
Catherine stepped closer to the counter.
Her voice became a whisper.
“We didn’t even make it to his parents’ for Christmas dinner. Of course, that was fine. We see too much of them, anyway, if you ask me. And I had wanted to hang around the house and work on getting the decorations down because there’s nothing worse to me than riding through the neighborhood and seeing lights up after Christmas. But he wanted to…all day. I mean, this thing was like Viagra to him. I finally had to take a thirty-minute shower just to get a breather.”
Ellen’s face had softened. Her eyes filled with interest, her body language screamed of curiosity.
So Catherine gave her more. “I’ve worn lingerie for Tim before. And he usually likes what I pick out. But he had never, ever reacted like this. I’d never seen him so—” Catherine leaned forward, her eyes darting to the left and right of her. Then she whispered, “Hard.” She took a breath. “And the thing about it was the Mrs. Claus suit never came off. He went under it, he went around it, he pushed it to the side. It was like it had to be in his sight, in his hands, around him in some way. But, of course, I don’t know that to be true… Well, I didn’t then.”
Ellen leaned in, peeking from side to side at customers browsing the racks.
Catherine continued. “Tim finally got tired around five. His mom sent around some plates—we had called and told her he wasn’t feeling well, you see—so we ate, watched a little television, and drifted off. I tell you, Ellen, we both slept till noon the next day. And when he woke up, he wanted more.”
Ellen held up her finger and stepped to the side. “One minute…customer.”
She charged a middle-aged man thirty-five dollars for two DVDs that he kept covered with his large, pale hands.
Catherine smiled politely until the man took his black plastic bag and headed out the door. Then she spoke. “Don’t misunderstand me, Ellen. I had no problem with giving in to my husband’s sudden burst of sexual energy. And I still wouldn’t have a problem with it today, except—”
“Except?” Ellen arched her brows.
Catherine took a deep breath. “Well, it happened gradually. A few days later, I had put the Christmas things away—the tree, the lights. I took the candles out of the windows, took down the Nativity scene in the front yard. The Mrs. Claus outfit, however, I just hung in the back of the closet. I had no plans to bring it out next Christmas or anything, I think that type of thing has an expiration date, so I just put it there out of the way, you know, until I could figure what exactly to do with it.”
“Okay…” Ellen said, the curiosity in her voice rapidly giving way to frustration.
“Well,” Catherine said. “Tim just wouldn’t leave it be. He still wanted to—use it. And, of course, I thought that was a little odd. Not to mention that some people say it’s bad luck to keep Christmas things out after the holiday, but besides that…I wanted to be obliging. I wanted to give him what he needed, so we continued to use it. But the strange thing was, Ellen, I would notice the thing always pressed between us when we went to sleep after sex. Then I’d find it on the bathroom floor when I was sure I
left it in the hamper. Or I’d find it tangled in the sheets when I came home from business trips. And then, one day, I caught him.”
“You caught him?” Ellen asked.
“Yes, I came home early from work. I had this terrible headache. I wasn’t expecting Tim to be there. He should have been at work himself.”
“But he was there. He wasn’t in the living room, though, not even in the bedroom. I opened the bathroom door, however, and there he was. He was standing there wearing the outfit.”
Catherine ignored Ellen’s smirk.“I was appalled. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I could have been anyone walking through that door—the plumber or the exterminator. And what then? What would they think?”
Ellen’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Well, what did you think?”
“That he looked just as good as I did wearing it, if not better. My husband, you see, he has the cutest little ass. And he has great legs, for a man.They’re not big and bulky, not like you would think.They’re not even that hairy.”
Catherine was biting on her fingernails now, a twinkle in her eyes, her lips turned into a half smile. “Yes, he looked quite sexy, if I must say so myself. But, Ellen, I didn’t know what to do. I stood there for every bit of ten minutes, and he didn’t even know I was there. All he had to do was look up in the mirror and he would have seen me standing there, but he couldn’t see past his own reflection.”
Ellen’s interest was obvious. “And you didn’t stop him?”
“Lord, no. I didn’t interrupt him. Far be it from me to try and make him feel bad about it. I mean, we all have our…habits. Mine is smoking, and I guess his just happens to be…well…”
Ellen touched her freckled skin, pulled at her curly red hair, and folded her lips tight.
Catherine continued, her voice soft and low. “Anyway, Ellen, I’m sure you can sympathize with my need to dispose of this.” She pushed the outfit across the counter toward her.
“So you think returning the outfit will somehow break his…habit?” Ellen picked up the garment, shook it free of wrinkles.
Catherine shrugged. “Well, I’d never seen him in any of my other things. Sure, panties go missing here and there, and sometimes I forget exactly where I’ve hung my dresses. But it’s this outfit, I know it is. And I know it’s safe to return it now. It’s out of season and out of stock, and there will be no special order.And since it’s been…worn, you’ll have no other choice than to get rid of it, right?”
Catherine didn’t wait for an answer.
She said, “Look, Ellen, I understand if you don’t want to give me a refund. I understand if you don’t want to give me store credit. But you must, you simply must take it back. Either you take it back or...”
“Or?”
“Or there will be many more days, many more nights when I walk in and he’s wearing it. And you can just imagine what it’s doing to me.” Catherine’s pulse quickened, her face flushed. She placed a shaky hand to her chest and blinked her eyes. “Seeing him there like that, all dressed up.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can imagine.” Ellen’s skin was equally as flushed. She pulled her sweater tight over her chest, doing nothing to conceal her hardened nipples.
“And we can’t have that, now, can we?” Catherine narrowed her eyes.
“No, ma’am, we can’t,” Ellen said.“But you do realize that our return policy is ten days and it’s been nearly a month since you made this purchase?”
“I realize that,” said Catherine,“and I do respect your policy, but, Ellen, I believe you can work with me in some way…” She pulled a glossy Polaroid from her purse and pushed it across the counter. “Can’t you?”
For the first time within that hour, Catherine was nervous. What if she had been mistaken, had pegged the woman completely wrong?
Ellen glanced down at the picture, bit down on her lip, and pulled the bag to her. She pushed the wrinkled contents back inside and placed it under the counter.
“Consider your purchase returned,” she said. “But before you go.” She nodded behind her toward a display in the center of the store. A curvy mannequin wore a lacy nightie with red satin garters and fishnet stockings.“Could I interest you in our Valentine’s Day special? We have it in red, since that seems to be your, um, color, and it photographs well.And if for some reason you would need to return it, say for another of our seasonal items,” Ellen glanced toward the picture on the counter, “I’m sure we could work out some sort of trade.”
Ellen’s hands disappeared beneath the counter, beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. Catherine nodded, took the outfit one size larger than her own, and slipped out the door.
A Visit from the Man in Red
Jean Roberta
I’m not a Christian, honey, so I don’t celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday. In my day, there wasn’t a church that could tolerate homosexuality.
But there have always been miracles. And one of them happened at Christmastime, back before anyone I knew had heard of gay rights or women’s lib. Or AIDS or global warming or crystal meth. It was a different world then.
It was 1968, and Canada’s prime minister was known for being hip. He liberalized divorce and decriminalized sex between men by saying,“The state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation.” The guys could still be arrested for fooling around in public spaces, including washrooms, but the government had taken a step toward sexual freedom. Lesbian sex was never officially illegal here. Most dykes I knew thought that the law hadn’t caught up with us yet.
In the fall, I met Tanya in a hotel bar where hippie biker types, gay guys, and women who didn’t want to meet men hung out together. Our bar drew a lot of lonely souls who had grown up like unwelcome weeds in prairie farm villages. They had all moved to the city, which happened to be the national headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
The Mounties didn’t accept women, and their standards for male recruits were high, but that didn’t prevent gay folks of all genders from imagining themselves or their tricks in the red serge jackets, the leather belts, and the tall boots.
Tanya was telling some funny story when I came in with the ex-farm girl I was dating. Tanya was the center of attention, but her soulful brown eyes flicked over us, her shiny black poodle-perm catching the light. She had healthy curves and wore a bold red shirt that set off her smooth, peach-toned complexion. She looked like trouble, yes, but she also looked like a lot of fun.
After Tanya finished talking, everyone at the table took turns telling each other their childhood dreams. “I wanted to be a cop,” laughed Tanya, waving her cigarette in the air.
“Me, too,” sighed a slim guy lounging beside her. “So I could hang out with them.” Everyone snickered.
Someone fed the jukebox. “Wanna dance?” Tanya asked me. She seemed to have no fear of rejection. She stood up, which made her heavy breasts bounce, and I saw that she was no taller than I was, which I liked. I didn’t like to be looked down on.
Ignoring my date, I followed Tanya to the dance floor where we shimmied and shook to the rock ’n’ roll that was upsetting straight types all over the world. I hoped that Tanya liked me, hoped that she found my long brown hair, my girlish face, and my red stretch pants to be utterly groovy.
She cut to the chase. “Do you have to go home with the chick you came with?”
“No,” I smiled. “We broke up a while ago and then got back together because we didn’t want to be alone. I think she’s looking for someone new.”
Before closing time, Tanya bought me enough draft beer to make the rest of the evening a hazy memory. There was some yelling when I told everyone else at our table that Tanya would be driving me home, but I didn’t care.
I wanted her, and I felt elated when we escaped onto the street together, running to her car like crazy teenagers. If only she wanted me as much, I thought, I would never have to regret a thing.
The next morning, I awoke in her bed. I was naked, my head was pounding, and I couldn’t remem
ber what had happened between us.
Tanya was wearing a sweatshirt and a tight, ragged pair of jeans. I thought her outfit made her look sexy and tough. Her mouth was clenched.
“Someone smashed my windshield last night,” she spat out.
Fear sent a shiver up my spine. “I’m sorry,” I blurted. “It was probably because of me.” I couldn’t believe that my ex-girlfriend was capable of such violence, but she might have had help. An impression of numerous staring eyes came back to haunt me.
“Naw, babe, it wasn’t your fault,” she crooned, crawling back into bed with me. “Some asshole doesn’t want us to be together.” She scooped me into her arms, and the touch of her sweaty hands on my breasts drove all the guilt out of my mind. She kissed each nipple like a courtly suitor, then looked at my face to see how I was reacting.“No one likes gay girls,” she told me, “because we have more fun than anyone else.”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed.
She kissed her way down my midriff to my belly button, which she tickled until I squirmed. When she found my clit, she gently sucked it between her teeth. I grabbed her curly hair and came suddenly, mostly from nervous surprise. “Like that?” she grinned, showing me her wet face. I thought she was a sexual wizard.
