I saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus — Mummy’s perspective

Much has been written about that fateful night. December 25. My decision to lock lips with a man who was not my husband. The man colloquially known as Santa Claus. Once and for all I would like to set the record straight. Here, for what it’s worth, is my version of events.

Christmas Day has always been a fraught time for me. When I was six years old, it was on December 25 that my father told us, his family, that he believed wasps controlled the media. I was only eight years of age when on Christmas Day I witnessed my aunt hurl a turkey — raw and pink as a newborn baby — out of an upstairs window after my mother spoke disparagingly of her jumper. Christmas six years later brought with it the news that my parents were finally to divorce. My mother blamed my father’s gambling and wanton disregard for the feelings of others. My father, as ever, blamed the wasps.

I am reluctant to ascribe too much significance to the following incident but I think it was probably formative. I was 19 when I lost my virginity — at college to a sweet boy who smelled of pesto and with whom I am no longer in contact. It was indistinguishable from any other sexual encounter between two awkward teenagers. Except in one respect. As he reached his moment of ecstasy, I couldn’t help noticing that what emerged from his mouth was not the shuddering series of primal grunts television had taught me to expect. What my lover blurted out instead were the following words: “Then one foggy winter’s eve, SANTA CAME TO STAY.” Buoyed by waves of adrenaline, I acted instinctively, passionately expressing my agreement: “Yes! Yes, oh boy did he come to STAY!” Only afterwards did the exchange strike me as profoundly strange. It slid without assistance into the mind folder marked ‘Weird Christmas shit’.

Years later, once I had reached adulthood and failed to shake my morbid fixation with Christmas, it was a different man, not my teenage lover, who would impregnate me with his seed. His name? Nicolas. For many years my relationship with Nicolas bobbed along pleasantly, no jagged rocks puncturing our love boat, but deep down I yearned to be sexually awoken by another man. We loved our child, Noel, and it was he that kept us together when things otherwise looked remarkably bleak. Our other children — Robin, Rudolph, Ivy, and Gift Wrap — helped as well.

One Christmas Eve nine years ago, we had been preparing for the festivities as a family. Noel was the last of the children to go to bed, and, after I had read him his favourite passage of The Brothers Karamazov, turned off his light and walked downstairs, Nicolas said that he needed to slip out onto the porch for a puff on his bong. Once upon a time that bong was one of the reasons I fell in love with him: it was risky; it was exciting; it was a bong. Now it hangs like a long glass albatross around the collective neck of our marriage. As he, a 48-year-old credit analyst, took long, indulgent drags on his moof, I heard a noise at the back door. I raced over to shoo out what I was sure would be a bevy of raccoons, but I was stopped immediately in my tracks. Standing with the doorknob in his hand and an endearingly lecherous grin on his face was the man himself. Santa Claus. Mr Claus. Six foot six and all of it Christmas.

Of Santa Claus they say that he knows whether you have been naughty or nice. I realised there and then that Santa knew I was about to be naughty. “Well well well,” he said, caressing his enormous beard with one hand and cradling a bottle of Jack in the other. “What have we here?” He moved towards me and, instead of taking a step back, I walked forward. This pattern continued for some time. (We have a large kitchen.) Caught in the magic of this inexplicable moment, I felt young again. I was a sexual being once more. Desire filled my body like stuffing being aggressively packed into a turkey. With my eyes I implored him: “Take me.” With his eyes he told me: “I’m Santa.” We met under the mistletoe and lunged at each other like hyenas fighting over the ballooned corpse of a hippo. Tongues everywhere. Wet. Urgent. Yes. Santa. Oh. My. Santa. Lips. Tongues. Christmas. Claus. Santa. Wet.

After minutes of sweet kisses, it was Santa who alerted me to the presence of my son. With my back to the stairs and my kimono around my ankles, I had no idea he had crept down. I thought he was tucked up in his bedroom fast asleep. I swung awkwardly around in time only to see his little feet scurrying up the stairs. I realised that not only would he have seen us slobbering erotically all over each other, he would also have been privy to the moment I decided to tickle Santa under his beard — an impulsive action I still struggle to account for.

Santa and I looked at each other. “He’ll probably write a short song about that,” he said. I knew he was right. But truthfully? I didn’t care. “Yes he will,” I said, as I held onto a fistful of his beard and swung myself around his body several times. “Let him.” I cared about only one thing at that point: I wanted Santa on me, in me, and all around me.

I am forever grateful that my son did not linger long enough to see what occurred after the kissing was over. Because Santa and I made love on the kitchen table. It was hurried, frantic, ugly lovemaking, over almost as soon as it had begun. When Nicolas walked in and laid his bong on the sullied kitchen table, I had only just finished patting down my hair, and I could hear the last of Santa’s footsteps as he tiptoed down the garden path. I smiled, brushing away a grey hair on my cheek. Nicolas had no idea — until my soon released the song and we had to file for divorce, just as my parents had when I was a girl. When I told my father the news, he asked how the wasps’ reach managed to extend so far.

I never saw Santa again, of course. But I don’t regret our sweaty moment of bliss, not for a second. I am a sexual woman and I will not be shamed, even in song, for having carnal urges that my husband was self-evidently failing to fulfil.

Merry Christmas.

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