Free You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas by Augusten Burroughs

you were.”
    I narrowed my eyes, on the brink of pointing out it was
possible
that alcohol was not the only contributing factor to my impotence.
    But then, I couldn’t do that, because apparently I had come here
willingly.
As in,
by choice
. As in,
“Yeah, the repulsive slob in the nubby Santa outfit—over there, the French one propping himself up against the piano, snapping his fingers out of time, that’s the one.
Of course
I’m sure, Wrap him up!”
    Santa then said, “Besides, you just wanted more, more, more of that Kahlúa,” with an exaggerated frown of disgust on his face.
    Okay, enough was enough.
    I was drinking
Kahlúa
?
    This was more alarming than waking up naked with Santa.
    The only time it was okay to drink Kahlúa was if you were thirteen, your parents were out of town, and you needed something to break the ice so you could have sex with your homeroom teacher. Kahlúa was medicine for teenagers; not a drink for grown-ups.
    “Well, thanks for keeping it top shelf,” I muttered.
    The French fucker looked quite pleased with himself, but at least he’d draped the sheet over the more offensive regions of his body.
    I said, “The only other thing is, are you
absolutely fucking positive
nothing happened,” and I nearly wept finishing the sentence, “between us?”
    The nasty old thing looked at me as if I had accused him of lifting fifty bucks from my wallet. Which, now that I thought of it, I should inspect.
    He started yammering at me in French. I’d never learned French because, even though it pisses the French off, they will speak English eventually.
    I waved my hands like a traffic cop. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on
Monsieur Santa,
no more of the romance language while I’m in the room, okay? Let’s try it again in the nice, universal
English
.”
    His face was red with indignation.
“Comment osezvous, vous vingt francs pute?”
he spat. “I did
not
take advantage of you.
You said I could
. You said,
‘I don’t care, do whatever.’
Those were your precise words.”
    It was better when he was speaking French and I didn’t know what he was saying.
    “Um, okay. So. What, exactly, did you do?” I tried to make this sound friendly and nonaccusatory but it came out bouncy yet maniacal. Like Mr. Rogers opening up his vest to reveal his torso strapped with explosives.
    Dirty French Santa looked kind of pissed, to be honest. He had folded his hairy sausage-arms across his chest and was pouting. I wanted to repeatedly slam his face into the toile headboard.
    Instead, I smiled at him and nodded encouragingly.
    Still pouting and with his bottom lip protruding like a five-year-old’s, he admitted, “I put hair conditioner from the bathroom on your back. And I rub.
That is all.
”
    I was going to throw up in my mouth.
    I took a deep breath.
However.
    It could have been worse. A lot worse. So in a very sad and ugly way, this was great news. Technically? I had not been
defiled
by Santa. And this was a huge accomplishment for me, given the circumstances. It was, incredibly, something I could be proud of.
    Relieved, I smiled at the sad old sack of mess, which seemed to
inflate
something within him.
    He added, “And as I was rubbing, you kept shouting,
‘Fuck me, Fuck me Santa. I want to go blind. Make me blind!
’ ”
    There had been many instances throughout my life when I felt I had actually earned an Academy Award, but there had been nobody there to witness the obvious triumph of my performance. My smile did not falter, and I continued to look at him with sincere kindness. Though how I wished for a handgun.
    Finally, I said, “Now, Santa, that isn’t true and you know it.” I
no-no-no
’ed my index finger at him. “Naughty, naughty old man. It’s not nice to make up stories.”
    That
really
pissed him off.
    “How dare you accuse me of lying?” he roared as he removed his reading glasses. “I am a member of
Le Conseil de Prud’Homme
s. I will not be insulted by an American alcoholic with