Yeah, so the bastard left me, he left me stranded in the house in the middle of winter, snow blowing like a blinding white nightmare, right? Where the treetops listen, the children glisten, you know, just like the ones you used to know? A fucking whiteout, driving snow like a million trillion swarming stinging wasps out of those huge gray clouds, storm bashing against the windows like something out of fucking Hitchcock, clouds that smother any and all sunlight, that smother like a pillow pressed on your face . . . it’s a blue Christmas without you, honey, you’re fucking gone and I’m lonely, going crazy, right? I’m pissed and I’m horny as eight fucking flying reindeer.
It’s Christmas Day, a magical time.
And it’s not just Brandork Dorkan, gone to a fucking insurance convention in Philly. On Christmas fucking Day, no less. It’s all the fucking men, right? All the fucking stupid greedy selfish, got to pretend to be macho even though our back hurts too much to do anything but sit around flipping through the flipping channels, got to pretend to be Oh Mister Lover even though we’re too drunk to get it up, got to pretend we know better because we’re so fucking smart even though we can’t even figure out how to use the fucking microwave, all the fucking flesh-and-blood bastard asshole pathetic pissant pissheads.
So I decide to build a snowman. Right?
By the time the ambient light filtering through the big gray wasp-hive clouds starts to brighten and the damn stinging snow starts to slacken, I’ve finished a bottle of rum soaked in eggnog and I’m feeling warm and sit conspiring by the fire. Of which there is none, right? No fireplace. Just the fucking space heater.
We’ll muddle through somehow. We’ll conspire by the space heater cause it’s just too damn fucking cold to conspire anywhere else in this house. It’s Christmas time in the suburbs, the sounds of snowblowers and tires slipping on slushy asphalt. Saxophonist James White on the stereo roasting a bunch of Christmas chestnuts: “I’m just waitin’ for Christmas with Satan.” I hate holiday songs like I can’t tell you. Except for that one, right? Which I’ve been playing over and over and over. It’s so fucking dumb. And Jack Frost’s been nipping at the rum; he’s another fucking coldhearted lover.
There’s a carrot in the fridge.
And not much else. Got to go food shopping.
Got to go dig out the fucking car, shovel the fucking driveway, dash through the fucking snow, over the river and through the woods, right? O’er the icy trans-Siberian highway, only to fight all those last-minute shoppers dressed in holiday styles looking for a goddamn cheese ball, and then, right?, what fun it is to check out, and scrape the goddamn windshield, again, start the car, and what’s with the cheese balls anyway, there’s even two in the fridge, where did they come from, I wonder, these cheese balls? Brandon Dorkan? Back the car out, turn around, and laughing all the way, I’m sure, yeah, I’m laughing, slide dashing down the trans-Siberian dodging the fuckers as they rush home with their treasures.
Fuck that. Not today.
Or was that a button nose?
Who gives a shit.
Seriously.
And eyes made out of coal?
Who the fuck these days has . . . hey. All right. How about some peppermint candies that are maybe ten years old?
In with the Christmas stuff, there’s a bag of decrepit peppermint candies, they’re down in the bottom of that big Christmas box, and every year he goes and dumps that same damn bag in the candy bowl. And nobody, nobody, not even he, Dorkan Dorkan, eats the fucking things. And sometime in January or February he dumps the candy dish back in the plastic bag, scrunches it, tangles a twist tie around the hole, and throws the bag back in the box with the broken balls and the icicle lights.
So our Mr. Snowman’s gonna look a little psycho, right? His two eyes made out of big white candies with dark red swirls.
Ancient candies. Big hard psycho candies with histories.
At least, I’m not gonna give him three or four eyes. Be thankful for that.
Corncob pipe?
Corny shit. Fuck the pipe. But he’s gotta have a mouth.
Root around the house. Goddamn cold away from the space heater. But cold feels good now. Makes me hornier, that cold. Tingly. Shivery. Kinda nice.
Mouth. Right. Need a mouth.
Hehehehehe. Wax lips! Shit! From fucking Halloween! Haha!
A Mowwwwwth . . . !
And asshole’s bowtie. I’ll make that fucker fit right around his neck nice and tight. Yeah. Nice. And. Tight. Brandork Duncan.
What else?
Old silk top hat.
Where the fuck am I supposed to find a silk top hat?
Shit. Stumped.
Grab some buttons for his front. From Dork’s closet. Just rip them right off Mr. Asshole’s fancy suit jacket, why not?
Or not. A naked snowman. Or at least, shirtless?
Fucking silk hat?
Rum with a dash of eggnog. Cinnamon? No cinnamon.
Yeah. Snow. Holly. Pine wreaths. Santas, three, no, four. Fuck. All out with the decorations, my Brandork. Elves on all the shelves, not a single one looking to kill somebody.
Candy canes. Right off the branches on the stupid tree. Tear off the plastic and— Not sure. For hair? He’d look maybe a little Rasta-ish? No fucking silk hat. Well, he’s not getting any of my hats, right? No fucking way.
Now, to go outside:
Coat.
Scarf.
Hat. (Mine.)
Boots.
Carrot.
Psycho candy eyeballs.
Candy canes.
That it? Think so.
Oh. Gloves.
Right.
And out we go, into the snow. Let it snow, let it snow. Let it stop. We got enough snow to do this. Plenty fucking snow.
Huh. Get down. Ommmph. Hard on the knees. Got to be over a foot of snow. Kinda wet. Make a big snowball and roll, roll, roll. Roll, baby, roll. Like that Sissypuss guy, with that rock he rolls up the hill all the time, right? Just like Brandork, the Second Runner-Up for Cavalier Life Insurance’s Scranton District Insurance Salesman of the Year. Not the brightest bulb on the tree, my Dorkan.
Roll that ball bigger and bigger. Gonna be a big fat-ass snowman. Right up here on the hill by the fence behind the house where nobody but nobody’s gonna see him.
Ball number two, we’re gonna start over here. Good snowman snow, this snow. Nice and wet and juicy snow. This ball a little smaller than the first ball, ’cause we got to heave it up on top of that one, roll it up on top. And . . . oooomph.
Yeah. We got ya, big guy.
Now a ball for the head. Yeah. Pop it on, smush it down.
Heh. Breathin’ heavy now. Gonna smooth out the chest and stomach. Snowman’s gonna have six-pack abs. We want arms with muscles, too. Not some skinny twiggy twigs. How we gonna do that?
How about . . . how about . . . oh, yeah, I know!
Back in the house, fucking hot in here, I’m dripping snow everywhere, but it’s only fucking water, right? Open the closet where we keep the vacuum cleaner, and pop off those hoses.
Gonna just screw those hoses into that big snow torso for arms.
He’s gonna look like fucking Robbie the Robot, but we had a thing for Robbie, back when. Sexy robot thing.
Grab a shitload more candy canes off the tree.
Close the door.
Trudge out to my date.
Rip the plastic off all the candy canes and . . . arrange on his head.
Okay.
Looks weird with two dozen red-and-white candy canes sticking out his head. Doesn’t look like Rasta dreads at all. Just looks weird. But, okay, it is what it is. We accept it. And it’s not the worst hair I’ve ever seen on a guy I’ve dated.
He’s a jolly, happy soul. With no corny pipe and a carrot nose and his eyes made out of two peppermint psycho candies.
Break that carrot in half, don’t want to poke my eye out. I got plans for this man. I intend to do things with this snowman.
I’m gonna pile some snow in back for shins and feet, so he’s kneeling. A little bit of a scoop down here in the front so he’s got thighs.
Now to find a nice big icicle. There’s one fell off the gutter. And jam it good and tight between those thighs so it ain’t gonna move, right? Take a glove off and smooth out the end, nice and cold on my warm hand, rub his dick so the end makes a nice roundish bulbish blob.
And below, of course, snowballs.
Shit.
Forgot the Dorkan’s bowtie.
This is necessary.
Back in the house, dripping snow, got the bowtie, and, oh yeah, there’s cheese balls in the fridge. Cheese balls!
Snowballs, no! Forget snowballs! Fucking cheese balls! Magic fucking cheese balls! They gotta be magic, right? Or why would idiots be fighting over them in the fucking ShurSave? Why would we have two of ’em? And they appeared here out of nowhere. It’s fucking . . . serendipitous!
And I don’t even like cheese balls. Now Cheese Doodles? I like Cheese Doodles. Never was a girl for balls; me, I like the Doodles. A Doodle girl. But gotta grab those magic cheese balls! Port wine provolone cheese balls, yeah. That’s my snowman. Classy.
Gods, I’m so fucking drunk. Stumbledumble through the snow.
Red provolone cheese balls covered with nuts. His nuts!
Jam them right up there.
Wrap that bowtie tight as shit.
Beautiful. He’s beautiful. His dick shines like crystal in the frigid winter light, mystical-like. Vacuum cleaner hoses to hold me tight. Red eyes made out of candies. Carrot nose. Candy-cane hair. Port wine provolone balls. I’m so turned on I’m ripping my clothes off. Seriously.
Well, my boots and pants, anyway. Cold as fuck, right? Freezing my exposed ass off. But it turns me on, my legs all tight and pink, and I’m lowering myself, wrapping my legs around his big snowy thighs, and my whole body’s shivering, yeah, I think I might catch pneumonia but who the fuck cares, I’m fucking my snowman boyfriend!
Open my coat and shirt and rub my bare hard, hard nipples against him. Kiss those waxy Halloween lips! Nuzzle that frosty shoulder. Oh yeah! Hump that snowman! Oh yeah!
My snowman, my fucking snowman, I think I love you!
And He Came To Life One Day.
Well, no. He didn’t. Didn’t come to life, didn’t even cum. Just mushy and soft and deliriously cold between my legs, cold and hard deep inside me.
But I cum, I cum, and I cum and cum kind of like I’ve never cummed before.
So then I fall off and laugh and wave my arms and legs and make an angel in the snow.
And I look up and not only is his dick melted, but his eyes are bleeding big dark red peppermint streaks all down his cheeks. Poor dumb face-bleeding boy with melted dick and big-ass provolone balls. Just like every other fucking guy, really.
I’m a half-naked angel in the snow. I’m your angel in the snow, you know, you know, you know . . .
And he raises his vacuum cleaner arms and stands up.
And, like, what the fuck?
So I’m screaming and crab-walking backwards, right? And shit, shit, shit, he’s fucking—he’s fucking MOVING.
Running back to the house and the door’s fucking locked, I locked myself out of the house. Shit. Keys in my pants over by . . . the MONSTER SNOWMAN!
How the fuck can he be MOVING?
And now I’m running around the house and the fucking snowman is chasing me, right? Chasing me down the street, I’ve got no pants on, trying to hold my coat closed, and he’s this fucking nine-foot-tall snowman with bleeding psycho-candy eyes and crazy candy-cane hair and hoses for arms and his huge icicle dick is somehow big and hard again, and he’s right behind me clumpity clump squish, clumpity clump squish right past a cop, who hollers something right out his car window, and he turns on his lights and siren; I think he just wants to see what the fuck is chasing me, not a chance, Mr. Blue, we’re running too goddamn fast.
Clumpity clump squish right on my ass. Clumpity clump squish—
Cop’s following, now I’m hoping he doesn’t shoot my poor snowman.
Hell, hope he doesn’t shoot poor half-naked ME!
Clumpity clump squish, clumpity clump squish, look at him go, right?
Why the fuck is he moving? I didn’t even HAVE a magic hat! Okay, deal with it, the snowman’s alive. My snowman. Clumpity clump squish right behind.
Turn into an alley, and he follows me inside. He’s crying thick tears of red peppermint, and now he’s kneeling in front of me, wax lips thrust out to kiss. . . . Oh, a quick kiss. All right . . . all right.
Because you’re my snowman after all, big boy. My very own Frankensteinian monster snowman.
And I look at you and my heart melts.
But then, so will yours.
Melt.
You’ll probably die in my naked arms.
And between my naked thighs.
Unless I can fit you in my freezer, right?
Or at least, your icicle.