Next year, I’m asking Santa for aloe and a fire extinguisher.
I love Christmas. I love it so much I once got an STI in a public nativity scene. Something about fairy lights and frenzied consumerism just does it for me. So when my friend Jasper invited me to his annual “Ho Ho Homo” party, promising a sexier Secret Santa and more abs than a Crunchwrap Supreme, I was already halfway inside my slutty elf costume.
I’d modified it, obviously. Think more “Elf on the Shelf After Dark.” Green mesh crop top, velvet hotpants that jingle when I thrust, and a candy cane-striped cock ring that left me tingling like a Hallmark heroine with a foot fetish. I even brought a sack. For gifts, yes, but also in case someone wanted to fondle mine.
Jasper’s party was predictably packed. Glittering gays spilling spiked eggnog, mistletoe making people do things that would put Santa on a watchlist, and one guy aggressively caroling into a dildo mic. It was heaven. Or at least the weird sex club version of it.
And then I saw him. Tall, scruffy, reeking of pine needles and probable emotional unavailability. Dressed head-to-toe in a Santa suit so tight it looked spray-painted on. His sack? Massive. Like, orthopedic risk levels of massive.
“Want to see what I’ve got for naughty boys?” he asked, voice low and honeyed like molasses poured over sin.
Reader, I took that candy cane bait faster than a toddler on red cordial. We snuck upstairs, past a group doing poppers in a nativity tableau, and into Jasper’s guest bedroom. The lights were dim, the bed was festively unmade, and I was about to find out if Santa really did come more than once a night.
We started kissing. Hard. Hands went places. Clothes came off. The candy cane cock ring made a festive ping as it hit the floor. He bent me over beside the fireplace and whispered, “Wanna see how I slide down a chimney?”
Honestly, I should’ve paused there. But I was already halfway to the North Pole, and his “sleigh bells” were ringing against my taint.
What happened next would go down in history. Just like Rudolph. But messier.
Now, I’ve done some freaky things in my time. I once got rimmed in a bounce house. But nothing, nothing, prepared me for Fireplace Santa.
As he eased me onto the hearthrug, he produced a tube of “Cinnamon Fire” lube from his sack like some deranged sex-magician. I, being dick-drunk and novelty-lubed on holiday spirit, didn’t question it. Cinnamon? Festive! Fire? Sexy! We were one jingle away from a Hallmark porno.
The first thrust was fine. Glorious, even. I saw stars. I may have sung the first line of “O Holy Night.” But by the second thrust, something… shifted.
The heat hit me like a war crime. A sudden, searing sensation bloomed across my hole like I’d farted a Carolina Reaper. My entire ass was a yuletide bonfire. I screamed. Not in pleasure. In full, banshee-level agony.
“Are you okay?” he panted, mid-thrust.
“I’M NOT OKAY,” I shrieked, launching myself off his candy-cane cock like a cork from a shaken Prosecco. “WHAT IS THAT STUFF? WHY IS MY BUM AN INFERNO?”
He blinked. “It’s… warming lube.”
“No, babe,” I hissed, crawling toward the bidet like a man seeking holy water, “this is arson in a bottle.”
Turns out “Cinnamon Fire” was not just a cute name. It contained capsaicin. You know, the chemical that makes chili peppers hot. My sphincter was experiencing the full Scoville scale. I was a human Hot Pocket. From hell.
I tried to douse myself with water. It only spread the pain. My balls started burning. My hole sizzled like bacon in a skillet. I sobbed. I sang “Silent Night” through gritted teeth.
Santa was trying to help, bless him, dabbing my ass with a dish towel like a remorseful pyro. Meanwhile, downstairs, the party was in full swing. Someone was playing “Last Christmas” on a loop. I was living the lyrics.
And then, horror of horrors, Jasper burst in holding a tray of pigs in blankets. He froze, saw my flaming nether-region steaming beside his fireplace, and dropped his sausages.
“What the fuck?”
I looked up, cheeks tear-streaked, hole aglow like Rudolph’s nose, and whispered, “Santa came down my chimney and brought fire.”
The next hour was a blur of pain, shame, and peppermint-scented towels. Jasper, ever the chaotic hostess with the mostest, fetched aloe vera and a frozen bag of Brussels sprouts from his freezer and applied both to my flaming hole while humming “Jingle Bell Rock.” Santa, whose real name, it turns out, was Kevin, kept apologising and offering to lick it better, which felt more like a threat than a solution.
At one point, Jasper suggested calling emergency, to which I replied, “What are they going to do? Prescribe me a snowman to sit on?”
I was camped out ass-up on Jasper’s bathroom floor, cooling my ring with sprouts and contemplating my life choices, when the party decided to come upstairs. Nothing brings queers together like the scent of regret and cooked veg. A crowd formed. Someone filmed it. Another offered to set up a GoFundMe for “Anal Recovery Support.” One guy tried to christen me “Blisterella.”
By 3 a.m., I was wrapped in a fleece throw, sipping tepid eggnog, my rectum comfortably numb thanks to a combination of frozen stuffing balls and tequila. Kevin Santa had gone home in defeat. He left his sack behind. I didn’t touch it.
“Why didn’t you stop when it started burning?” Jasper asked, gently massaging my feet like the true friend he is.
“Because,” I whispered, eyes glassy with trauma and lube residue, “I thought it was just really good dick.”
He nodded solemnly. “We’ve all been there.”
By morning, my ass looked like a Sainsbury’s ham after glazing, and I had to Google “Can you get third-degree burns from novelty lube?” The answer? Technically yes. Merry crisis.
Two days later, I was able to fart again without seeing the Virgin Mary. I unwrapped a gift from Jasper that said, “For future emergencies.” Inside? A plush snowman-shaped ice pack and a bottle of unscented, non-heated, doctor-approved lube.
I still can’t sit near open flames. And every time I hear “Santa Baby,” my hole winces.
Moral:
Always patch-test your festive lube. Cinnamon is for cookies, not your colon. 🎁🔥
Also, read the ingredients label every single time and do not assume “warming” means “gentle.” Avoid products with capsaicin, menthol, or anything labelled “tingling” unless you have tested a tiny dot on your inner arm first and waited to see what happens. Use body-safe, unscented lube that is actually designed for sensitive areas, and if something burns, stop straight away, rinse carefully, and be kind to your poor beleaguered bum. Communication is hotter than chemical warfare, consent includes stopping when it hurts, and nothing kills the mood faster than needing to cool your ring with frozen sprouts on Christmas Eve. Stay festive, stay filthy, stay safe.
