Santa Creeper

There’s nothing wrong with a little holiday creepin’.

The last two years of my teens I worked as Santa Claus over the holiday season and used my Kringle clout to work my way into the pants of many MILFS and non-MILFS alike.

Some were high class, some white trash, some single, and some were married or in serious relationships during my stints at Gerrity’s Supermarket in Clarks Summit, and the Wyoming Valley Mall in Wilkes-Barre in 2001 and 2002 respectively.

All, however, had the vulnerability of a crack addict. Thanks to the stress perennially associated with the holiday season, they needed somebody to comfort them. And who better than a Santa Claus, who could pass for a teen idol?

It didn’t matter that I hated children, wasn’t fat, and was at least forty years younger than most Santas. I was him.

On the first day I inhabited the role, I was insulted.

“You’re not real like the other Santas,” an elf told me.
“No… But I’m a close personal friend of the real Santa,” I replied.

Being Santa is a conversation starter with built in hype. I would convert the initiated contact into riffs on my latest acting role, while also demonstrating my love for the children. The little fuckers are excellent wingmen and wingwomen.

Once I established a rapport with the ladies in the suit, I would pay a visit in street clothes. Here’s an excerpt of holiday creepin’.

ME: “We know each other.”
GIRL: “We do?”

I looked around, leaned in, and whispered with the covert nature of a CIA spy.

ME: “I’m Santa.”
GIRL: “Oh my God… No….”

I smiled.

GIRL: “You are.”
ME: “Shh… You’re the only one who knows.”
GIRL: “Really? OK. I could keep a secret.”

I played off the mysterious celebrity that went with the coveted gig, while making them feel like they were special — which they weren’t.

Be forewarned: If you’re the actual fat, white bearded, drunken hobo with tar covering the few teeth you have left that typically finds work as a Santa, you might not have the same luck that I did. In fact, many would call you a dirty old man and try to steer clear of you, no offense.

Actually, I often joked with the girls I was working (some of which were elves) about the disgusting nature of most Santas, who looked as if they drove vans you wouldn’t want your children to go near.
My most memorable scenario was when I closed a classmate’s married whore of a mother in my truck in the Gerrity’s parking lot, while wearing the suit.

I always wanted this cougar and had heard rumors of her promiscuous nature, but I needed the Claus mystique to finish the job. She wore a Santa hat over her frosted blonde hair and had scandalous red lingerie covering her fake D-cups and voluptuous bottom.

“Leave the beard on,” the forty-something commanded.
ME: “OK.
XMAS HO: “Fuck me Santa! I love your sleigh.”
ME: “Ugh this is a Chevy S-10… Although it is red.”
XMAS HO: “Ohhhh Santa! I wish you were really fat.”
ME: “Yeah, yeah… Ohhh. I’ll work on that.”

The spectacle may have been traumatic for some children who walked by, but we relished the Christmas miracle.

 

If you enjoyed this read more of my uncouth adventures in my humorous, erotic, autobiographical novel “The Wingman Chronicles,” and come see me live when my comedy tour comes to your town!

My filthy novel The Wingman Chronicles available in EBook & paperback on Amazon.