I spot Santa halfway down the beach. He’s still in full fig. The poor guy, he must suffer like mad in the warmth.

“Hey,” I call out, jogging up to the man. He turns toward me, with a fluent smoothness that isn’t quite compatible with the concept of elderly ex-gardener. He’s really tall too when I finally stand before him. Nothing hunched or frail about him. And those clear blue eyes. No wrinkles, just laugh lines. Pam must have gotten this wrong. This guy isn’t a day over thirty.

He’s looking down at me, like he’s waiting for me to say something. It must look a little weird that I followed him like I did, I realize. I probably look like a kid expecting a present from him.

“Hi, I’m the father of the little boy from back in the park?” I begin. “Thank you so much, you have no idea how grateful I am. You saved my life there.”

His eyes crinkle up. I can’t see his smile under the massive beard, but it must be dazzling.

“Listen, please tell me what I owe you....”

I’m still talking when he suddenly starts undoing his belt. He opens the brass buckle, grabs one end of the broad black leather strap between three fingers, slips it from the loops on the red coat, and lets the belt drop to the ground with the lascivious flourish of a go-go boy.

I’ve stuttered into silence. His eyes fixed on me, he unbuttons the coat. This can’t be happening. But it is.
Santa is stripping for me.
And I’m watching, standing petrified.

He has opened his coat. But he isn’t shedding it, not yet. Instead, he pulls at his belly.

He’s pulling his belly from his trousers. That’s not his belly, that’s stuffing.

And that’s a six-pack. A toned, nicely tanned stomach. And that’s a tattoo. On his hip, disappearing down his pants. Something flowery. I know that tattoo.

“Hi, Mario,” Santa says, blue eyes twinkling mischievously from above the beard. And I know that husky voice too. ​...
Winking at me, he tosses the padding away like a stripper would discard his thong. The chunks of plastic foam sluggishly topple about in the wind by his booted feet. ...

“Hey,” he says. He flips his suspenders so they smack against his bare sculpted chest, like he means to make me pay attention. I jump backward as if he were a charging barracuda. “Hey,” he repeats, his voice soothing and softer than ever.

I close my eyes. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to come after you and impose on your free time, I—”

“Stop this, Mario.”

I do. It’s not the bossy words. It’s the way he says my name. As if it contained some old magic.

He holds my gaze as he slowly pulls the suspenders down over his shoulders.

The red plush pants only barely cling to his trim hips now. I can see more of the tattoo on his left hip than ever before, and I know I’m going to see all of it really soon.

I must have made some sound, because his stomach ripples with another chuckle. It makes me lift my gaze back to his face. The ridiculous beard moves with his laughter. He reaches behind his neck, undoing a ribbon, and the beard sails onto the pebbles.

He has a little more trouble with losing his pants. He has to get rid of his Santa boots for that first, and he ends up doing a lot of rather undignified- looking hopping about on one leg with the pants hanging around his knees in an attempt to kick of the boots.

I know it’s my turn to laugh, but I’m too strung up for that. And too turned on.

Finally, he stands before me in just his Santa hat and a green jockstrap with a reindeer design.

Nobody should be allowed to look so incredibly hot in such an outfit.

That must be more stuffing inside the jockstrap, I think dully. It has to be. Or maybe it’s not. What’s going to happen if he fucks you with that equipment? Sissy said he wanted to, and it sure looks like he does. How’s this cock even supposed to fit places?

“Mario?” he says, like he’s asking if I’m still there. ...