Free Come for Me for Christmas by E. L. Devine

 
     
     
     
    At the end of a
long, hard day, topped off by more goddamned north city snow, complete with
idiot frigging asshole drivers who can't remember from one fucking winter to
the next how to drive in a half inch of "the white stuff", about the
last frickin thing you need when you walk in the door is to see your ex's
number on the caller ID. Friggin' great. It's not enough that she'd crushed my
hopes of finally finding a woman I'd want to be with indefinitely; now she has
to twist the knife 'round a little more.
    I'm in one of
those moods where it'd be so easy to just ignore that she's even left her trace
here and deal with it later. But then I figure, what the hell?  My mood is shot
anyway, better not to risk ruining a perfectly good day tomorrow by dealing
with it when I'm in better spirits.  So I hit the button, dial voicemail, go
through the hoops that somehow with all this technology have yet to be
simplified, and finally hear her voice speak out quietly from the technological
abyss:
    "Come to me
for Christmas? Come to me for Christmas."
    I'm already
pissy so I don't really get it at first. And then I catch something in the
voice.  A timidity; a shyness; a coyness. It's not a question, it's an
invitation.
    "Come to me
for Christmas…?"
    It's really,
"[Will you] come to me for Christmas….?"
    And then,
remembering her insatiable appetite, I get the rest of it. That second half
isn't a demand; it's not a statement. It's an invitation, too:
    "Come to me
for Christmas."
    No! Not come: "Cum."
    I hit the button
again, my mood lifting just slightly, just barely perceptibly improving, and I
hear what I really didn't hear right the first time—the slightly
seductive, invitational pouty whimper:
    "Come to me
for Christmas? Cum FOR me for Christmas."
    Come to her?  Do
I? Open that whole mess up again?
    Cum for
her? Cum for her!? 
    So you want a
little present from your good Ol' Nick, do you? Well Christ's alive and even
Santa deserves his day. Maybe I'll just have to take this under consideration….
    Well shit I'm a
man and there's only so much reasoning a man is capable of doing when presented
with an opportunity like that. I'm single with no real prospects for the
holiday save for a few stops and egg nogs at my sister's house. Heck even the
parents are out of the picture this year and Sissy's dinner invitation isn't an
obligation, just something to do. Of course a roll in the manger hay doesn't
negate any of those things, anyway. It's certainly not an obligation; it's just
a lay.  What promises to be a goddamned good lay all things considered
and judging from past experience.
    But what about
my heart? My head? 
    What the fuck
about it?  She stomped on it and it took long enough to get over it, but I've
finally reached that level of complacency and resignation, and I do believe I
can honestly say that I could chance the call-back. Besides; my prospects for
sex as of late, with the exception of a few cheap bar room thrills, hasn't been
so jolly. A man needs to let off his steam.
    In a lot of ways
this actually seems the perfect middle ground.  Someone known but that I'm not
obliged to; one of the best fucks of my life bar-none so I know it's going to
be good and I don't give a rat's ass about her maintenance, and not too much
about her feelings.  I'm not heartless but I'm realistic and the way I see it
is that she sailed that ship. And let's not forget that she called me .
That definitely lets me off the hook a little more.
    I almost have
myself convinced and then my mind wanders off a little further, remembering the
look of her. Fucking gorgeous.  And I know she hasn't lost it because all the
do-gooders feel inclined to keep me updated on the evolution and continuity of
her sexy good looks over the course of the past year or so.
    And then I think
of her scent.  The real scent of a woman. The soft, light, powdery musk with a
slight overtone of flowers and a hint of something edible…like, vanilla,
maybe.