Happy Fucking Holidays

It’s a new year.
Big fucking deal.
An enormous, gaudy ball will fall in Times Square. People will party. Numbers will shift on the calendar.
It never changes. Holidays keep coming, one after the other, all year long, all life long. Am I the only person who sees the futility in that?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not immune to the hype. I’ve gotten caught up in it once or twice – convincing myself this season to be jolly would hold something in it for me of the magic.
But, generally speaking, holidays suck, and I know it.
Christmas is something I get through with gritted teeth and a tight hold on my wallet. Halloween is for children. Valentine’s Day is for getting laid, and Thanksgiving? Well, fuck Thanksgiving; it’s just a day to kiss ass and eat turkey. Not an appealing paring.
Other holidays are too stupid to even discuss – St. Paddy’s Day? President’s Day? Easter? Yeah right – green beer, democracy and people rising from the dead and getting worshiped for it (see Halloween, above).
The only saving grace in Christmas is the presents, and this year I decided to give myself the ultimate gift – I set out to fuck the only woman I’ve ever been completely, irrationally, helplessly, infatuated with – my mom.
Yeah, I know. I’m a sick and twisted fuck. I never hid that from you, so don’t gripe now. Stop reading if you can’t handle it. I’ll tell you this though; everyone has a secret hidden away, a side nobody else knows about. Here’s a rare chance to see one, so stick around if you’ve got the guts and don’t mind digging a stick through your own furtive inner-workings. Discussing these sorts of thing results in self-examination, if only to feel superior in one’s own homogenized, morally correct world.
So, yeah, where was I? Right. I wanted to fuck my mom, ring in the New Year, and toss out the old. I figured it’d be a combo present – Christmas, New Year’s and Valentine’s Days all rolled into one. Maybe Thanksgiving too, if all went well.
I wanted to embrace myself for the first time, to celebrate the new year my way, to say fuck pretense and holly jolly and chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and balloons and fireworks and let’s all drink until we puke. Fuck it all. I wanted to make this the holiday of Joe getting what he really wants – himself. I wanted to dig deep down into the meat of me and hug it, like on Arbor Day. They hug trees then right?
So, I invited her out. “Hey mom! We’re going out on the town. Doing it up right.”
“Oh, Joe! That’d be so nice!” Having no clue of my plot, she sounded overjoyed, touched even, that I’d want to spend time with her on such a “special” evening.
I sent her a dress for the occasion, one she’d never buy for herself. It was my special day, and New Year’s Eve, so I bought what I wanted to see her in – a red-hot slip of a thing with a back that dipped all the way to China, and a matching thong. She’d be shocked, but she’d wear it for her darling boy.
“Hot damn, Mom!” I whistled, when I saw her. “You look good enough to eat.”
“Ohhh, Joe!” She blushed as ruby as her dress.
I took her to Narsisse Rojo, the perfect place under the circumstances. The opulent nightclub was filled with mirrors, constant reminders of why I was here – me.
We ate fusion, frou-frou concoctions mom cooed over. I sprung for the Cristal, and got her a little drunk. I figured why make my job any harder than it had to be?
While we ate, I thought about women I’d fucked: Boyish Jenny in the 7th grade – my first –  a frantic dry hump against an elm tree. Teri the cheerleader, in high school – in my first car, a Dodge Dart with broken springs that added bounce and squeak to the fucks I gave her in the back seat. Joann – a sweet, shy thing with a secret hankering for sucking my dick. She liked it rough, and I liked to see her on her knees, so it worked out just fine. Julia – the one I’d thought I loved, who banged one of her co-workers daily for a year before running off with him on our wedding day. All things considered, I’m grateful she hadn’t married me and confessed her indiscretion years into a vaguely unhappy marriage. Imagine how fucked up I’d be then. Things are bad enough.
There were others, some with names I remember, a lot more with names I don’t. Hand jobs, blow jobs, rim jobs, fuck-overs and do-overs.
Mom’s mouth moved at dinner, but I didn’t hear a thing she said. Instead, I heard echoes – a litany of women’s voices reminding me why I was here, why this was going to be the year of Joe.
“You bastard! How could you?”
“I hate you!”
“You’ve got no soul Joe, no heart.”
“I loved you, and you fucked my best friend?”
“I never want to see you again.”
“Yeah, remember when Todd and I’d come to your office to pick up paychecks? Well, we’d go back to his place after and fuck”
“You’re not the marrying kind, Joe.”
“You’re a child, Joe.”
“Go fuck yourself, Joe.”
I could go on, but it’s boring. I know. That’s why I stopped tuning in, and maybe that’s the reason it just continued, with one woman after the other. I used them like towels in the men’s room, tossing them on the floor, sometimes walking all over them. I know it sounds like typical man-talk bullshit, but honestly, some of them liked it, for a while anyway.
It would take years more therapy to figure out the why of it, the why of me, and why bother? It’s in the past now. Tonight, it’s all going to change. I am going to fuck over the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ll be purged, free to start all over again. Maybe this time I won’t make a complete mess of it.
had thought about trying it a different way. I’ve never done the hearts and flowers, couple’s counseling way. I could find a nice girl, a girl who would beam at me and fix granola in the morning before we did yoga together. We’d hold hands every night and declare, “Today was a great day, and tomorrow is going to be even BETTER.”
I could learn to like football and children and the missionary position in our nice family-sized bed. I could even live with the cute little pillows I am sure a woman like this would have everywhere.
I could buy a minivan, and stop jerking off. I could lie in the wet spot.
But, wait a second. That’d all be going against the grain, against the JOE.
I keep needing to remind myself of what I really want and have never been quite in touch with myself enough to admit, much less act upon. It’s always been easier to be the cad Joe, the asshole Joe, the Joe with the slick pickup lines in bars that make women melt all the way from their bar stool into my bed, or car, or the nearest bathroom.
I’ve never been too picky, and that, my friend, is the crux of what’s been wrong with Joe until now. While fucking everyone else, I’ve fucked myself the hardest, the worst, and the most.
I’m going to end all that right here, and right now. Too bad mom is going to hate me afterward.
“Mom, I’m gay,” I confess, after the cheese but before the fruit.

0 thoughts on “Happy Fucking Holidays

  1. O,

    Yes, I suppose it could be viewed that way. It helped me, writing it, to have the inspiration of a friend, who’s never been happier, now that he’s come out. This is his story, and he laughed when he told it.

    Z

  2. Wow. This hit me very hard, chilled me like cutting winter winds, because the tone of the story reminds me very much of someone I know. The story up to the ending. And maybe even including the ending, except the reveal would be different.

    Thank you for the new year's gift of a new story. Thank you for being back. I missed you.

    o.g.

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