The Beat’s First Annual Bad Santa Stories.

This new column skewers our own Christmas stories
Ten Decembers ago I came across an elderly woman sitting alone at a Starbucks. Nothing in particular struck me about her except it seemed she was peeing down her leg. There was a pool of something anyway.
I walked up to her, introduced myself, and began a relationship that only recently ended with her death at age 90. We became lovers,  so I took her death hard. Yes, I know the age difference was outrageous!  but Jennie Jones was a wonderful, if slightly kinky, woman, and I was moved when the nursing home called me to come pick up her stuff.
She had nobody else. I’m kind-of the jealous type. Sorry.
In her drawers I found neatly clasped parcels of every photograph I’d given her over the years. Even the ones where she’d said I’d looked old (I know, right?) and fat. She was particular about my appearance, and insisted that if a younger gentleman escorted her about town he’d better be handsome, or at least groomed.
Even down there, if you catch my drift. She liked to do that herself.
So this holiday season I felt a great void, since nearly every Christmas while knowing her we’d spent at least part of the day together in bed.  I needed another very old woman! And fast.
I logged on to the craigslist volunteer postings and there, between hundreds of pleadings for sex tutors, Nigerian school funds, and medical marijuana donations, was a solitary posting that stood out just as Jennie had stood out that day in Starbucks.
It read:
Lonely Depressed Old Woman Needs  Companion For Christmas Day. Possible sex if chemistry there. Please call.
I called the number immediately, and reached the concerned next-door neighbor of an 88-year-old woman named Dorothy. The younger woman explained that she had family obligations out of town, or she’d, of course, have Dorothy over on Christmas.
But that might not even be enough, she continued, because she wasn’t a lesbian, or even bi.  Dorothy was in a very bad emotional state. All three of her children had died, she’d been a widow for nearly twenty years, and she was very horny.
Well this was a no-brainer. I committed right then and popped over the next day for a short visit to meet the neighbor and assure her of my (not so) good intentions. After I passed her smell test (literally), she decided Dorothy would have no say in the matter.
“Here’s who’s taking you out on Christmas, have a nice time,” the neighbor said when introducing Dorothy and I a few moments later.
Then she scooted back to her house leaving us to size each other up on Dorothy’s front stoop.
I think that went pretty well because several days later I found myself returning for my Christmas date, now dolled up like a New Orleans whore.
Apparently for Safeway, because that’s where she wanted to go.  It had been awhile since she’d had a ride to the grocery store, and not having to traipse onto the bus was a gift itself.
So we spent most of Christmas afternoon at the supermarket, which I  enjoyed,  shopping with a woman as old as Dorothy was rather zen. It took  hours, as she lingered over every piece of fruit and vegetable, often very suggestively, asking me if I like my melons over-ripe and stuff like that.  She micro-inspected every check-out boy, read the fine print on every coupon, etc.
By the time we were finished I was getting a hardon for the old tart.
But Dorothy merely shrugged. To her we were doing mundane chores. I think she mumbled something about wanting to be on top, as we got into the car. So if I had yet to see her flash a tit,  I knew there was hope.
And she did seem to enjoy a good blow job. At least I think that’s what she was doing with that cucumber.
I suggested we have Christmas Dinner first, which quickly looked to be a poor decision as we drove all over looking for a cafe that was open. By the time I parked, I had blue balls.  She put the cucumber away. It was dark and raining and even Dickensian walking the blustery streets. We huddled together. The chemistry was blistering.
Nothing was open. Or was it?  What was that amazing smell suddenly looping cartoonishly under our noses ? We followed the aroma around a corner where a Chicago-style hot dog stand magically appeared like the emerald city!
Dorothy produced her first smile, and it was a whopper. I thought her dentures were going to fly out of her mouth.
As we ordered and chatted with the hot-dog man she burst forth like a geyser with an astounding repertoire of sausage-related memories. All of them x-rated.
 We hung around after eating, as some hipster types who’d been eavesdropping had inched over and prodded Dorothy for stories about the old days, the (18)90s. Completely loosened up now, like a drunken sorority girl, Dorothy more than obliged, and we all enjoyed about an hour of hardcore old lady porn.
After (finally!) some sex in the car, and back on her stoop later, as I hugged her goodbye she admitted that while it wasn’t the best blow job she’d ever given, nor the best hot dog eaten, both certainly ranked right up there. Maybe even in the top five.  “I’m 88, do the math”, she said.
Then she slapped me on the ass and said  “See you on Valentine’s Day tiger!”
This is the Bad Santa version of this Christmas Story

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