Christmas Comes But Once A Year

by Dr. Oliver Sex

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In our continuing mostly perverted adventures to prepare ourselves for the coming of the baby Christ, our resident medical man wonders what a case of erotic fixation says about our devotion to the holiday season?

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Christmas Evans was born on December 27, 1979. People call him Chris for short, and few people are aware that Christmas is his full name. A name like that is not without precedent; a popular character on the TV show Three's Company (number one in the ratings when Chris Evans was born), played by Suzanne Somers, was named Christmas "Chrissy" Snow. The date of his birth gives an indication of the intentions of his parents as well.

When Chris presented himself in my office, he told me his mother was particularly obsessed with the holiday, and desperately wanted to give birth on the day itself. Unfortunately, nature did not cooperate. According to Chris, when his appearance delayed itself, and he entered into the world as neither a Christmas nor a New Years baby, this disappointed his mother to no end. His birth after two days of excruciating labor seemed to her as a mark of her failure. She never forgot this.

I relate all this background because the condition that Christmas Evans presented is one that I had yet to run across in my practice: an erotic fixation to the Christmas season. As Chris got older and older - he is twenty seven now - his, for lack of a better word, fetish for all things related to Christmas grew and grew, to the point where he needed to seek my help after an arrest for masturbating on a dwarf at the Macy's Christmas grotto late last year.

Christmas Evans is an unassuming white male. You'd walk past him on the street in December and not know the dirty thoughts running through his head. "The day after Thanksgiving, I've got my first hard-on of the season," Chris told me during one of our sessions. "It became an exclusive thing. Eventually I couldn't get it up at all unless it was Christmas time."

One of his earliest memories is of sitting in Santa's lap. Santa had a hard-on. So did Chris. When he was 9, his parents found him sleeping naked under the tree on Christmas Eve. When he was 11, he pooed in the family's Christmas stockings, an act that went unnoticed until Christmas morning. In the course of his troubled youth, he had sex with a fruitcake, a mince pie, a figgy pudding, and stuck numerous candy canes of varying sizes up his ass. He's the only person I know who has received fellatio from a nutcracker soldier doll.

Chris blames his mother for the way he turned out. "It's all her fault. I was born too late, and it wasn't that she hated me for it," he reasoned, "she hated the truth. She made me live a lie. No matter what I did, I could never be Christmassy enough for her. Never." And so the die was cast.

Mistletoes bring out the worst in Chris. For a brief period of time he was gainfully employed, until the night of the Christmas party when he was found drunk and incoherent, standing under the mistletoe, masturbating. He was fired on the spot, though he managed to finish before being escorted out.

Loss of work is not the only deprivation Chris as suffered as the result of his condition. "I've received restraining orders from malls, from department stores, from iParty," Chris admitted. "I've been known to skulk around the Christmas tree lot, rubbing myself on the branches. I've rubbed myself in holly. This is clearly not an obsession for the faint of heart. I'm not doing this for fun, you know. Do you know how much it hurts to fuck holly?"

"I'd imagine you'd have to Go Lightly," I responded puckishly. He then beat me about the face with his holly-pocked schlong. I deserved it.

The internet opened up a number of new outlets for Chris's condition. Under the handle "10inchYoolLogg" he trolled public forums spouting anti-Hanukkah and Kwanzaa hate speech. He was a denizen of underage AOL forums where he posed as a 10-year-old boy in order to get pedophiles to buy him presents via his Amazon wish list. He eventually ran afoul of NBC's Dateline "To Catch a Predator" unit as he was keeping most predators so busy they weren't showing up at Chris Hansen's sting operations anymore.

Eventually he was banned from the internet completely, which had the unintended side-effect of reintroducing his fetish back into society, back into the brick and mortar shops he had been run out of years before. It was at this point that he was found in the Christmas grotto at Macy's, hiding behind Santa's workshop, furiously masturbating while fondling a dwarf dressed up as an elf, or maybe it was an elf dressed up as a dwarf. Honestly, I can't remember which is which. Considering I'm a doctor, you would think I'd know the right terminology to use, but I don't! LOL!

This condition of Christmas eroticism is not unknown and is certainly not exclusive to my one unfortunate patient. It received Hollywood attention a few years ago in a movie called Bad Santa. In it, a waitress, played by Lauren Graham of the Gilmore Girls, receives gratification through having sex with the mall Santa character played by Billy Bob Thornton. "Fuck me, Santa," says Graham's character repeatedly as she mounts a drunken and disheveled Thornton in his Santa costume. The imagery here is potent. When this movie arrived in his town, Chris went to see it again and again. In his words, he "saw the Pee Wee Herman-shit out of Bad Santa." There was, in fact, another arrest, for public lewdness, after other theater patrons complained about the guy in the corner of the theater rhythmically jostling his popcorn tub.

So what does this case of erotic fixation say about our devotion to the holiday season? I haven't got a clue. I didn't write that part. And, as it was a cognitive disorder and not a neurological one, there wasn't much I could do to help poor Christmas Evans. But I listened to his stories. He caroled me often, both at home and in the office. I endured his cock slappings, perhaps even growing to enjoy them a bit. I suggested that perhaps as a course of detox he should enlist in the Marines and go to Iraq, thinking that time spent in an Islamic nation would curb his impulses, a Christmas turkey of the cold kind. And I suppose you could say it worked, as he was killed by a mortar round in Tikrit at the end of October, and is no longer bothered by a Christmas fixation, or anything of the sort really.

It wasn't the best result I've ever had with a patient, but oh well. Even a quack who ends up killing all of his patients can claim to have a 100% success rate in curing them, if you look at it a certain way. What can I say? I've been coasting on royalties since Awakenings came out. If you need a real doctor go get House or Patch Adams or someone. Now, if you don't mind I'm going to go fuck a festive Christmas ham.

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David Pardue - you didn't really think we'd associate with "people" that practice "medicine", did you? - is author of the forthcoming movies Dawn/Juan, Eels on a Submarine, and Rainbows & Unicorns. He lives in West Hollywood and is currently spending his time trying to convince various Hollywood producer-types that they should come forth his god damn movies already. Previously, he played the role of a reincarnated Hunter S. Thompson.