I’m fifty-three years old and my life has evolved into something comfortable. It wasn’t that way thirteen years ago. At the risk of sounding like a country song, I lost my job, the bank reprocessed my truck, my wife divorced me and she took the dog with her. All in the same year before the trees turned colors and dropped their leaves. To add insult to injury, my hair turned white almost overnight and, when I stopped shaving, my beard was white as well.

A year later, forty-one years old, unemployed, single and living in a one room, barely furnished, studio apartment with more worn and dirty clothing than would fit in the one tiny closet, I was on the verge of ending it all. One rainy autumn afternoon, sitting on the floor in front of the one window I had, looking at the brick wall across the alley contemplating how to end it all with one of the two sharp knives I owned, I changed my mind. I still wasn’t feeling any different. I just didn’t want to end it all with a knife. I imagined the first stab would hurt like hell and not do enough damage that a second and probable third stab would be necessary and not possible. Someone was sure to find me before I died but not before I made a horrible mess.

I needed to do something to make enough money to at least buy a gun and one bullet.

I needed work. Any work would do. The holidays were coming. Retailers would be hiring for the end of year sales staff. I might get lucky. I bundled up and walked to the nearby mall.

Back then, I didn’t have the well proportioned male physique that I have now. I was prematurely gray with a full white beard and underweight. My skin had assumed an unhealthy ruddy complexion probably due to the consumption of cheap, fast food. I wandered the mall, seeking help wanted signs. I filled out several employment applications and spoke to two store managers. Nothing seemed even close to a possibility. Face it, my appearance wasn’t the image most retailers wanted to showcase their establishments.

I was sitting in the food court, nursing a cup of hot coffee, preparing for the walk back to my apartment, when a gentleman in a three-piece suit spoke to me. “Excuse me,” he said.

I looked up from the fascinating surface of my coffee, where I had been watching the coffee consume the last swirl of milk, unsure if the gentleman had been talking to me.

“Excuse me,” he repeated. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?” he asked.

I motioned to an empty seat at the table. “Sure,” I mumbled.

He sat. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “but you look as if you could use a break.”

“That obvious?” I asked.

“I have an inkling of what you must me feeling,” he said. “I was where you are myself once.”

“Hard to believe you’re still alive,” I said morosely.

“I understand,” he said. “At the time, I thought suicide was my only option. My guess is that you’re having similar thoughts.”

“The world does suck,” I commented.

“Can I offer you an alternative?” he asked.

“I have nothing else to do,” I admitted.

“Okay, I’m Simon Davidson,” he said and put out his hand.

“Nickolas Myra,” I responded and shook his outstretched hand.

“Nick,” Mr. Davidson said. “Let me get right to the point. I’m the manager of this mall. I need help and you seem to need work. I think I can solve both of our problems.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Work for me,” he said.

“Okay. What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“I need a mall Santa for the holidays.

“And you think I resemble Santa Claus? You’re eyesight needs to be checked,” I stated.

“Actually, with some minor adjustments, you’re the perfect Santa Clause,” Mr. Davidson said.

“By ‘minor adjustments’ you mean a full body replacement, like with someone else,” I suggested.

“With a shower, hair and beard trim, new clothes and some Santa-like accessories, I think you’d be almost perfect. Add an attitude adjustment and a smile and you’re more than believable. You’d actually be Santa. What do you say we give it a go?”

“I’d like to be part of your fantasy but I don’t have the funds for the haircut never mind the rest,” I admitted.

“I can manage that part,” Mr. Davidson assured me. “Let’s start with the hair and beard trim. There’s a salon in the west wing of the mall. Come with me. My treat. Then we’ll talk some more.”

Forty minutes later, I was sporting a shorter beard and trimmed hair, both blown dried to a fluffy, Santa-like appearance. I had to admit, in the mirror, with a pair of rimless glasses and a red hat, I resembled Clement Moore’s poetic Santa.

“What do you think?” asked Mr. Davidson.

While I was thinking about it, a child’s voice from the mall aisle in front of the salon cried out, “Look mom. Is that Santa getting a haircut?”

“You may be right,” I admitted.

Great,” expressed Mr. Davidson. “Go home, clean up, put on some nice casual clothing, black shoes and meet me in the mall office at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll fit you for a Santa suit and the rest of the accessories.”

“That’s easier said than done,” I commented.


“A big one. No funds,” I explained.

Mr. Davidson took five twenties from his wallet and handed them to me. “This should help,” he said.

“I’d rather not take your charity,” I said.

“No charity,” he said. “A salary advance.”

“It would take forever to pay you back.”

“Quicker than you think. You’ll play Santa from noon to eight in the evening, seven days a week and receive five hundred dollars a day from the Friday after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve. That’s a $14,000 payday,” outlined my new boss.

I showed up the next morning in clean freshly pressed slacks and shirt courtesy of my elderly landlady, Peggy Mitchell’s washer, dryer and iron and new, shiny black shoes. Mr. Davidson met me in the mall office with a gentleman who measured me and specified alterations to a Santa costume he had with him.

“You’ll be working with four elves who will handle the lines, sales and photos. All you have to do is listen to the children tell you what they want for Christmas and respond appropriately. Never make promises. You don’t know the financial realities of their parents. One of the elves will take notes and give them to the parents to handle,” explained Mr. Davidson.

“If a child wants to sit on your lap, that’s fine. Just don’t make any child do something they’re uncomfortable with. Let the elves and parents handle problems with the children,” further instructed Mr. Davidson.

“By the way, how are you with children?”

“In general, I like children and they usually relate well to me,” I answered.

“That’s all it takes,” agreed Mr. Davidson. “And, you can call me Simon in the future.

“Thanks, Simon,” I said. “I really appreciate your confidence in me.”

“I flatter myself with my ability to read people and I think you’re going to be fine,” Simon told me.

Thanksgiving was the next Thursday. My landlady, Peggy, and I shared turkey sandwiches and a cheap bottle of red wine. I arrived at the mall at eleven in the morning the next day. I left enough time to change into the Santa costume and meet my elves.

Simon’s taste in elves was as good as his ability to judge people. They were young college coeds wearing short red and white outfits that showed off their obvious attributes. Eye candy for the fathers bringing their children to see Santa and they were overjoyed to be working with Santa.

It would have been an understatement to say that I was nervous that first day. Fortunately, the day started slowly and by the time the lines began to form, I had the butterflies in my stomach flying in formation. All the kids were anxious to see Santa. Most wanted to sit on my lap when they listed their wants for Christmas. Only one little guy had a boisterous breakdown at the concept of meeting Santa. His mother was pushing him to sit on my lap without success. Fortunately, the elves were helpful in calming him down and, when I sat on the floor to talk to him, he stood calmly in front of me and told me his dreams of gifts for Christmas.

On Monday, Simon handed me an envelope. He told me it was an advance against my pay. Later, when I checked the contents, I found fourteen hundred dollars, pay for my first three days less the hundred he had loaned me earlier. I shared my windfall with my landlady. I handed her two hundred for her kindness in helping me get ready for my first meeting with Simon. She responded and I soon had a larger domicile, with a separate bedroom and a larger closet. “You clean up really nice,” she commented.

Payday was Thursday. I got the remainder of my first week’s pay.

The elves and I shared a dressing room to get into our costumes. It was a mostly bare room with several chairs, lockers for our costumes and street clothes and dressing tables for the elves to check their makeup. We were all uneasy the first couple of days, changing into our costumes in front of each other. By midweek, the comfort level was vastly improved and the elves were frequently topless in front of me changing into their elf costumes that didn’t require a bra and I was comfortable in my Fruit of the Looms changing into my Santa Suit. It didn’t seem sexual although several of the elves had breasts I’d love to explore and I had to turn my back several times when my man parts responded inappropriately.

We settled into a comfortable pattern, Santa and his elves greeting wide-eyed children and their proud parents. Tuesday of the second week provided a sudden, welcome change in the routine. Early in the afternoon, I noticed three young women hanging around the North Pole area. They gave me the impression that they were coeds at the local university. They were dishing with each other and seemed to be daring each other to see Santa. After about an hour, one of the coeds, the one with the largest breasts, got into the line behind several five to eight year olds. Her companions laughed and pointed to her and she gave them a sly middle finger salute when she thought no one was looking.

She paid for a picture and eventually stood in front of me. I looked at her, confused by her presence. “Can I sit on your lap?” she asked.

“Of course,” I told her. I’d have been a fool to refuse.

She settled on my lap and squirmed around until she was comfortable. I was decidedly uncomfortable. She had managed to maneuver my penis into the space between her cheeks squeezed into her tight shorts with the expected results. She put one arm behind my neck and said, “Hi, Santa. I’m Sara.”

“Hi, Sara,” I said. “What can I bring you for Christmas?” I asked.

“I think I’ve found it already,” she said and wiggled her ass against my budding erection.

“I’m not sure that’s available,” I told her.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I was just checking if Santa wanted anything for himself for Christmas.”

“And, what did you learn?” I asked.

“That everything about Santa is exaggerated,” she said.

Speechless, I turned her toward the camera for her picture. She smiled for the photo and slid invitingly off my lap. “Thanks Santa,” she said as she left.

Julie, one of the elves whispered in my ear, “That was interesting.”

“It certainly was,” I whispered back.

“I can see that,” she responded. “Maybe I’ll tell you what I want for Christmas some day.”

I was speechless again so I turned to the next kid and her mother. Fortunately, the little girl didn’t want to sit on my lap and the few minutes I spent with her gave me the time I needed to relax my potential embarrassment.

The next day, the three coeds were back. They engaged in the usual banter with each other before the two who hadn’t seen Santa the day before got into line. I had a good idea what was coming and I took a short break to arrange myself into a position I thought would avoid the events of the previous day.

My effort was ineffective. Molly, the first to get to me, sat in my lap and, when she was unable to get as comfortable as she wanted, she brazenly used one hand to reposition me, hopefully unnoticed by anyone nearby. Sara, watching from the sidelines, almost collapsed in laughter.

Satisfied, Molly expressed her desire for Christmas and I told her I was pretty busy that day and I was sorry to disappoint her. She left and I was sure she wasn’t disappointed. Sue, the third coed of my experience, quickly replaced Molly with similar results. When she left the three of them blew kisses in my direction and walked away arm in arm, asses wiggling as they disappeared down the mall.

Next was a woman with her son. He appeared to be about six years old and his mother in her late thirties or early forties. The boy sat on my lap, unaware of my extended body part, and told me his extensive list of Christmas gift requests. After we got his photo, one of the elves led him away. His mother paused in front of me.

“Can I tell you my Christmas wish?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Great,” she said and she turned to sit in my lap. No way was this going to be comfortable for either of us.

I was wrong, she was very comfortable with what she discovered. I imagined I could feel her heat through Santa’s trousers.

“Those young ladies were a challenge,” she commented.

“True,” I admitted.

“They’re too young for you,” she continued.

“Possibly,” I said.

She laughed quietly. “I’m not,” she said.

“Oh,” I managed to say.

She turned on my lap for her photo. She used one hand on my leg and the other directly on my erection to lift her body to make turning easier.

“I’m not wearing panties,” she told me after the photo. “Do you want to check?”

“Not here,” I said.

“A wise decision,” she said. “When do you get off?” I wonder if she was aware of the double entendre.

“Eight,” I continued with my one word responses.

“Meet me at Applebee’s bar out front when you finish here,” she offered.

“Okay,” I said without thinking.

“Good,” she said. “Then I can tell you what I want for Christmas.”

When she left, my favorite elf was back again. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Do you need a break?” she asked looking at my expanded package.

“No, I’ll be fine,” I said.

“I’m sure you will be,” she said as she left to attend to the next family.

After eight, the atmosphere in the changing room was noticeably friendlier. I removed the top half of the Santa costume and hung it on a hanger in the locker. I removed my shoes, lowered the bottom half of the costume and sat in a nearby chair to complete the removal. I was sitting in my t-shirt and briefs for a second, when Julie came over and sat in my lap. She was topless and wearing only panties. It was impossible to hide the shadow of her pudenda or my reaction. “See anything you like?” Julie asked.

“You already know the answer,” I told her.

“I do,” she said and I think we should explore the possibilities further.”

“Julie,” I said, “Not tonight.”

“I know. You already have a date,” she said. “I just wanted you to know that Santa is entitled to gifts for Christmas too.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“So would we,” she said.


“We! Before Christmas,” she asserted.

“The nights are short before Christmas,” I said.

“Okay,” she agreed. “After Christmas but before New Year’s.”

She left to talk to the other elves while I dressed in civilian clothes.

I got to Applebee’s near eight thirty. The lap sitting woman of my afternoon was sitting at the end of the bar waving to me. She looked different in the light of the bar. She was wearing the same clothes as the afternoon and appeared to be in her late thirties. She wasn’t overweight but she wasn’t morbidly thin either. I could admire some of her more promising attributes that escaped me in my earlier confusion.

I sat next to her with my back toward most of the restaurant and she turned slightly toward me to ease conversation. “Hi, Santa. I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.”

“Hi,” I responded. “I wasn’t either but I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

The bartender came by and she ordered a Sapphire martini with no vermouth and olives. I ordered a pint of Guinness.

We said very little to each other until the drinks arrived. “Thanks for wearing the same outfit as this afternoon. I might not have noticed you otherwise.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m wearing the same outfit and I’ve added nothing,” she teased me.

“So,” she said, “tell me about your curiosity.”

“You did offer a hard to resist opportunity,” I told her.

“So,” she said.

“So?” I questioned.

“Are you going to check?” she asked.

“Here?” I asked, a more inviting repeat of my concern earlier in the day.

“Why not?” she asked. “This is less public, the lighting’s dim and I don’t think anyone is watching.”

When I didn’t move, she moved her stool closer to me until our knees were touching. “Give me your hand,” she ordered.

I offered my hand. She took it and placed on her knee under the hem of her skirt and separated her legs invitingly.

I still didn’t move.

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

“Here we are, having an adult conversation and you’re suggesting I slide my hand up under your skirt and verify something I already know is true and I don’t even know your name.”

“I guess I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. Angela,” she told me.

“Angela,” I repeated. “I like Angela. Can I call you Angie?”

“Angie,” she mulled. “No one’s called me Angie since college.”

“It seems were on the way to repeating things we haven’t done since college,” I commented. “So, Angie it is.”

“I can live with that,” Angie said. “And you are?”

“Oh, how careless of me,” I admitted. “Nick.”

“As in St. Nick?” Angie asked.

“Only between noon and eight, every day until Christmas,” I said.

“And Nick is your real name?” Angie asked.

“It is,” I confirmed. “Any further resemblance between me and St. Nick is merely coincidental.”

“Angie and Nick,” said Angie. “I think we make a nice couple. Tell me, do you have a car outside?”‘

“No,” I said. I live nearby. I walk to the mall. Why do you ask?

“I like the idea of repeating some my college hi jinks but I draw the line at getting laid in the backseat of a car ever again,” Angie explained.

I had no response. I took a sip of my beer with my free hand.

“I’m still waiting,” said Angie.

“Waiting?” I asked.

“For you to check,” she said.

“As you request,” I said. I moved my hand between her legs, turned my palm up and slid my hand slowly between her thighs in the direction of her crotch. I confirmed the absence of panties. I also confirmed swollen labia and a damp and heated space between them. Satisfied, I began to remove my hand. Angie grabbed my hand through her skirt and held it in place. She slid her body toward me on her stool. I extended two fingers and Angie continued sliding forward until my fingers were between her labia and inside her up to the first knuckle.

Angie closed her eyes and we held that position for several moments. Angie opened her eyes and let go of my hand. I reluctantly removed it from between her legs. Not knowing what to do about the residue on my fingers, I put them in my mouth and cleaned them off.

Angie closed her eyes again. Her knees pressed together and I saw her tremble slightly.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

“Did I miss something?” I asked.

“No, you caused something,” Angie said.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“When you licked your fingers,” Angie explained, “I had a small orgasm. Something that usually leads to something larger. That’s never happened before,” she asserted.

“You’ve never had an orgasm before?” I asked.

“No. I’ve had thousands of orgasms, just never sitting on a bar stool watching some guy taste me rather than wiping his fingers on a napkin or his pants.”

“You’ve done this before?” I asked.

“Actually, I haven’t,” Angie said. “I’ve never been this brazen. I think I like it but I’m a bowl of jelly inside.”