I Wish I Were Santa

Oh, how I wish I were Santa, the most popular man of this season.  Girls from around the world would come from far and wide, and stand in line to sit in my lap, snuggle up to me, and tell me their every wish and desire. I would listen attentively, as if I existed for no higher purpose than to give them what the want -- to make them happy. 

Of course I would listen, for I would be Santa -- the magic man who can make your dreams come true.  Pour your heart out to me, put your trust and faith in me, and all that you want can be yours.  You exist for no higher purpose than to be overwhelmed by my generosity.

You spend most of your nights shut away from the world.  You keep yourself safe in your home behind your secure fences and reinforced, dead bolted doors.  The mat on your doorstep may say "welcome," but that mat is a lie, isn't it?  Isn't your home decorated with bars and chains and other ornaments that say, not "welcome," but "go away"?  

We both know that the bars and chains and deadbolts are not for me.  They're for others; not Santa.  They are there to protect your from all the other dirty old men prowling through the night, who would like nothing better than to break into your house to violate your virtue.  For me, you leave cookies.  You not only welcome me into your home, but you eagerly anticipate my arrival.  Even though I may not arrive until you are fast asleep, and even though you may have no idea what it is I do after I have violated the sanctity of your home, you welcome me.

It is your avarice that makes you welcome me, even if it would otherwise be against your better judgment.  For years, I have come in the middle of the night bearing gifts, having listened to you as you share your deepest desires with me.  So, you  have come to trust me, and to see me as your friend.  You've been told that I am a voyeur at heart, and that I see you when you sleep and know when you're awake, but you find that thought comforting.  After all, I know you better than any any other man could possibly know you, for every time you sit on my lap, you give me a piece of yourself.

And, yes, I do know when you are good, and when you are bad.  I know all of your secrets.  Every time you tell a lie, I know.  Every time you touch yourself, touch someone else, or someone else touches you, I am watching.  And I am rendering judgment.

Up to this point, you may have been assuming that you've gotten away with it.  Or, perhaps, you may have assumed that the "naughty list" is nothing more than an empty threat.  You have probably been expecting that you would be able to go on with your sinful ways indefinitely, while I do nothing more than give you gifts every year.  I am afraid, however, that there comes a point in ever relationship when the honeymoon is over, and reality sets in. 

So, yes, I will come to your home tonight.  I will accept your welcome, eat your cookies, drink your milk, and enjoy your hospitality, whether you are sleeping or awake.  And, as usual, I will come with my big red sack, which I packed full of gifts before I left my workshop.  However, this time, there will be no gifts in that sack for you -- only for me.

You see, you've been told that I do not single-handedly make the presents that I hand out in homes throughout the world.  You've been told that I have helpers -- thousands of elves who are always at my beck and call.  And what you've been told has been true, except for one thing:  They aren't elves.  They are, instead, naughty girls like you, who have collected the fruits of my generosity without earning them.  When I arrive to your house tonight, you will leave with me without any of your material possessions.  Just your nude body, folded up in my sack.  I will take you to my workshop, and when I am not enjoying your nubile body, you will spend the rest of your days working every waking hour making toys and games for those who will one day join you, and you will wonder no more why I am such a jolly old man.

Oh, how I wish I were Santa.