|story and photography by Kenny Klein
Mrs. Claus is not a jolly fat woman in a crimson snow parka. That is a myth, first perpetrated by the Victorian English sitting merrily by warm hearths drinking grog and eating flaming puddings, then later carried on by the American media because the truth would create a scandal. Oh, Santa himself is a jolly, fat gnome who goes out on that longest night to deliver gifts that will either be cherished or forgotten. But Mrs. Claus is neither a gnome, nor fat, nor jolly.
Mrs. Claus has a name: Lorelei. She is on the tall side, and very beautiful, with sharp features and auburn hair. Styles change, and at the moment she wears her hair in a short bob. She often crimps it and holds it up with plastic barrettes that Santa brings back from trips to Hong Kong or Tokyo. Some days as the Northern sun dallies in the frozen sky she spends hours before the mirror, brushing, crimping, adding styling gel or weaving leave-on conditioner into each strand.
Lorelei's waist is long and sinewy, and she has gorgeous breasts with dark, dollar sized nipples. Her breasts move ever so slightly as she walks. There are long nights when Lorelei wanders naked through the Claus house, her delicate fingers stroking the oak beams or the cherry wood mantle, dreaming of the days when she lived in a small stream in Northern Germany. Before Christianity. Before she was Mrs. Claus. On these nights, the elves lie awake in their beds, staring at fissures in the ceiling, images of Lorelei's nipples haunting their otherwise industrious minds.
Lorelei's fingers are strong and well defined, as are her toes. She likes to wear high heeled sandals, the clunkey black sandals that are popular now in New York and Singapore. They make her feel sexy. As do corsets and kimonos, and the silk pants that Italian women wear. On some long, arctic nights, Lorelei dresses in a green bodice and black silk stockings, and paints her face white the way Japanese women do. She wears her clunky, sexy shoes and dances slowly, dreamily, in front of the tall mirror in the vestibule.
On those nights there is much commotion in the elves' dormitory.
Lorelei is not in love with Santa. Theirs is a marriage of convenience. Not that they abstain from sex. Often Lorelei will bend Santa over his stuffed ottoman and sate the fissure of his large ass with the nine inch dildo that Santa "forgot" to give a certain famous Irish author one Edwardian Christmas. Oh, the man had been very good, but when Santa saw that cock glistening in the light of a fire, stroked its length as he heard Christmas bells tolling far off in Trafalgar Square, he couldn't leave it under the tree. He left the other gifts, whale oil lube, a six inch leather cock, a toothbrush, and some very tasty fruit cake, but he couldn't leave the nine incher. He knew in his great, joyous heart that Lorelei would love the thing as much as he did.
Saanta had married Lorelei, after a century of thought and deliberation, because of her abilities to give gifts. Santa's work is the most important thing in his incomprehensibly long life, and Lorelei is an asset to him. She is able to do what Santa often cannot.
Santa gives the "good" gifts; toys, bicycles, candy, Betty Page DVDs, range rovers and salary increases. When you find yourself at the Love Parade in Berlin, surrounded by incredible German rave girls who wear nothing but coochie cutters and bikini tops, and in your mind you say "I've been a good boy all year. Please, please let this beauty come back to my hotel room and have passionate monkey sex with me," and she does, suddenly turning to you and out of nowhere saying "let's go fuck" in German, that is Santa. When you have been slaving away for two years to please a maniacal boss who hardly knows you exist and takes full credit for your ideas, and one day you get a call out of the blue and a voice says "one of our people was in to see your boss last week and was very impressed with your work. We're hiring management right now. Are you interested?" that is Santa's work.
But Lorelei exists to give other gifts. Her long years in a German stream were spent weaving spells, casting charms, doing the bidding of Goddesses whose interest in humans demanded a very different humor. When you wish and wish and wish that your boss would die in a horrible flaming airline disaster, and he does, that might be the Fates of course, but often that is Lorelei. When you pray that your failing business would burn to the ground so that you can collect the insurance, or that the mob would hit your neighbor, and it comes to pass, that's the gift of Mrs. Claus. When people lie in hospital for months on life support, a vegetable, then die suddenly with no explanation, Lorelei has been to their machine filled room. When you desperately need money and you find a briefcase lying next to a dead fat man in an Italian suit in an alley behind a pizzeria in Brooklyn, you have been gifted by Lorelei.
The media continues to perpetuate the chimney myth. Every year, we hear of how that old, fat gnome slides down the chimney with his bag of gifts. But in these days of gas heat and high rise condos, Santa hardly goes out on Christmas Eve. He knows parents buy those gifts, and they're made by Mattel, not by elves (Santa's elves are usually busy these days whispering nuclear secrets into the ears of sleeping scientists, suggesting software ideas to programmers in Seattle, or planting the seed into the brains of board members at Adidas that women can actually excel at sports). Santa goes out often, throughout the year, giving gifts in ever more creative ways. That ten bucks that the wind blew down the street right to your feet. That hotel room that came available just when your flight was canceled. That cowboy waiting tables at the restaurant in Laredo that, out of nowhere, asked you if you wanted to learn to two step, later, after closing, and just when you were thinking your mother might be right, you're chubby and you might be single forever. Those are the ways we get Santa's gifts in this modern world.
So as Santa travels the world, Lorelei has a lot of free time. Time to ruminate, to dream, to fantasize. Crimping her hair, adding gel, stroking the defined curves of her hips and the soft expanse of her waist, Lorelei thinks about being fist fucked by limping Hephaestus, or of the way Sappho once sucked her pussy for hours after reading Ovid's poetry to her on a hot day on the balmy Mediterranean shores. Lorelei remembers a warrior in Nuernberg who buggered her ass so hard that she cried as she orgasmed, over and over, and she was sore for a week. He died soon after in a battle against the Roman legions, but his last thoughts were of her. As she thinks these things she leans over the gilded sink in the Claus' bath, wearing nothing but wooden platform sandals from a sweat shop in Taiwan, and runs her long thin fingers along the opening of her anus. She gasps a little, pushes at the opening with a fingertip, then strokes the round handle of her hair brush. Lorelei kisses her reflection in the mirror with her full, bee stung lips as she pushes the brush hard against the soft lining of her anus.
On a cool day close to Christmas, Lorelei came to New York City. She wanted to shop. At least that is what she told Santa. She wanted a feather boa to go with a very small pink hot pants outfit she'd bought in Milan, and perhaps a long chinchilla coat to keep her warm on the New York streets. And she wanted to dance at a disco in Brooklyn, where the Long Island Ice Teas were served very strong, and men with gold chains glinting beneath unbuttoned polyester shirts treated her well.
For this trip Lorelei needed a shopping companion. She thought of Freya, great beauty of the North, but then shrugged the thought off. Then, as often happens, she received her inspiration, her longing to give her gift. That's often how it works.
There was a girl named Precious living in a squat on Avenue D at the time, a junkie with long hair that had once been silky and soft, but was now breaking at the ends. She was so thin her joints creaked when she walked. She would shoot up in her ankles so that as long as she kept her socks on, her johns never saw the tracks. Lately she'd been remembering being twelve, in her family's house in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. She had let the bath water run on her pussy, and had experienced her first orgasm. She had taken many baths that summer. The summer before mom remarried. The summer before her life became this hell. She had been wishing she could still orgasm. Just once.
Lorelei found the girl nodding off on the sidewalk near a café on Mulberry street. She took the girl by the hand, and entered the café. Lorelei ordered Precious an espresso, and made her drink it all, though Precious screwed up her once beautiful face at the bitter taste. Precious came to herself, and was about to ask who this stranger was, this long, beautiful stranger sitting across the little round table from her, dressed in an Italian silk blouse and a burgundy hat with a white feather. The words almost formed on Precious' lips, but then, instead, she told the woman a secret, about a tree house she'd climbed into once when she was twelve, and how she'd found dozens of photographs of some family and wished it was her family. The woman smiled, and took Precious' hand and kissed it. "We're going shopping" the woman told Precious. And they left the waiter a ten dollar tip, walked back out into the December chill, and hailed a huge checkered cab, the kind of cab that has folding seats on the floor to seat more people than the large leather back seat can hold. It had been years since Precious had sat in a well oiled leather seat just to enjoy the ride. She buried her face in the black hide, and a tear fell down one cheek.
Macy's was chaos, filled with last minute Christmas shoppers. It took twenty minutes just to get up the escalator. In the Junior's department, Lorelei smiled a haunting smile at Precious as she held a pants suit up against Precious' emaciated frame. "We'll try it on you," the woman said. Her lips were so thick that as she said it, Precious' eyes fixed on those lips, watching them move in waves like the ocean.
They waited for a dressing room, and went into one room together. Lorelei helped Precious slip out of her jeans and the faded tee shirt that she'd been wearing for a week now, and Precious stood in the carpeted dressing room wearing only thick purple socks. There was a wooden chair, and when the woman sat Precious down, the cherry stained wood was cold against the girl's flesh. The woman squatted between the girl's legs, and smiled that haunting smile. Precious felt a finger slide up inside her, then another. The woman grabbed Precious' neck and thrust her head forward, their lips meeting violently. But the lips that met hers were so soft, and the fingers were not like any John's or like that wicked man's, but insistent, pulsing, shooting fire inside her. Precious moaned, a sound she heard herself making and then remembered herself making once before, long ago.
Now the woman had three fingers inside Precious, and was kissing her
chin, her neck, her sagging small breasts. Precious stretched her legs,
wrapped them around the woman. Her purple clad feet pushed at the woman's
back, met the silk of her blouse. The woman's lips moved slowly down, kissing
navel, kissing hips. Suddenly there was a kiss on that tiny, long-unremembered
button, and with the velvet softness of that kiss, another flame shot up.
In that split second of passion and pain, Precious felt the movement, and
it was seconds later that she realized that as the woman had placed soft
lips on her
Precious squirmed, squealed, grabbed the edges of the wooden chair with the tiny strength left in her too thin arms. Her orgasm flowed through her like hot whisky. Her feet convulsed, heels beating against silk and the strong muscles of the woman's back. In those seconds Precious spewed words out, not remembering until later that she had cried out the name of a boy from junior high school, the only boy who'd ever told her she was beautiful. Back when she was called Amy, and when the world was young and happy. When she would come in from playing in the sunshine and count her freckles in the small mirror in her bedroom.
A knock came on the dressing room door. "Everything alright?" It was a saleswoman's voice. Precious tensed, but the woman squatting between her pencil thin legs giggled. "Fine," the woman called out. "These pants are a little tight." The woman looked at Precious, shared a knowing smile, then kissed the girl full on the mouth. "We are a tiny song," she whispered in Precious' ear.
She bought Precious the pant suit.
On that New Year's Eve, Lorelei was seen dancing at a bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans with a man whose tattoos were odd colors, like the shimmering of a Chinese lantern when the wind blows it in and out of a shaft of sunlight. Patrons of the bar watched the pair swing dance to Zydeco music, and as the beer took hold, they were more and more certain this was the finest dancing they'd ever seen. Lorelei only disappeared for a few moments, and several women visiting New Orleans from Indianapolis went to the restroom, certain they'd run into her there. But the tiny restroom was empty except for a tube of pink lipstick someone had left atop the toilet paper roll.
It snowed in New York City that New Year's Eve, thick snow that left flakes on the heads and caps and scarves of revelers in Times Square. In an abandoned building on avenue D, with no heat or electricity, the police found a girl. She was so thin it only took one paramedic to carry her out, but there was really nothing they could do for her, and she died of her overdose on the ride to the Hospital. The morgue was full of Jane Does that month. When the coroner undressed the body to perform an autopsy a week later, the writing on her left arm had nearly rubbed off. Removing the expensive pant suit, the coroner read what was scribed on flesh stippled with fading freckles. The letters were written with lipstick, a bright pink shade, and spelled out a boy's name. No investigation was ever made.
In the North Pole, New Year's found the elves sleeping soundly.
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