something that butt-ugly and useless. The store owner boxed it up and wrapped it in red foil paper.
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy it,” the man said.
He’d better , Ben thought, trudging out of the store.
The ride back to his apartment dragged on just as endlessly, and Ben felt oddly self-conscious sitting there on the bus with a frilly piece of porcelain on his lap, although only someone with x-ray vision would have known what it was. He shrugged off his ridiculous sense of embarrassment. It didn’t matter what he thought of the French whatever-whatever. The important thing was that Kai loved it, and Ben loved Kai. Or at least, he was very fond of him. Kai was familiar, like a favorite pair of sweat socks you wore every day for thirty-six days in a row during a hitting streak, or… something like that.
By the time Ben got back to his building, Santa had taken his kettle and gone home, which was a relief. He jogged up the stairs to his apartment, looked around for somewhere to put the gift box, and finally dumped it on the kitchen table. All he had to do now was call Kai. He picked up the phone, got voice mail, and left a message. Kai’s probably just busy , he told himself.
* * *
Two weeks, and about three dozen phone calls later, Kai still couldn’t be bothered to give Ben the time of day. The holiday get-together Kai had (kind of, sort of) agreed to had yet to be planned. The box with the compote still sat on the table, silently mocking Ben, coming as close to calling him a pathetic loser as an inanimate object could.
Ben drew a line at making a thirty-seventh phone call—even a man with his pride in tatters had a breaking point—so he sat down at the computer to send an email instead. He was blindsided by the message lurking in his inbox: Have yourself a merry BIG Christmas!
“Oh, God,” he groaned out loud.
A sensible person would have just deleted it without looking, but no one had ever accused Ben of having sense. He double-clicked.
There it was, the XXX ad for penis enlargement with the pornographic Santa costume... only the picture was of somebody else, somebody blond and square-bodied, decidedly Scandinavian. He sat there blinking at the screen, his mouth gaping open. Of course, it should have been a relief. He’d been paid for the job, and yet his cock wasn’t the star of a million inboxes. This was totally win-win by any sane accounting of the situation.
Possibly, Ben wasn’t as sane as he’d once been.
He fished Gavin’s card out of the pile of papers on the kitchen table, where he’d been trying to ignore it. He dialed the number, drumming his fingers restlessly, his nude male model’s pride seriously affronted.
“McNally,” said the terse voice on the other end of the line.
“Was my dick just not big enough for you?” he blurted out, without any sort of preamble, or even so much as “hello.”
There was a beat of silence. “Ben?”
“Yes!” Ben said, exasperated. “How many guys call you with concerns about the size of their dicks? Actually, don’t answer that. I just want to know why there’s some Swedish guy playing porno Santa and not me.”
“I, uh—the film got ruined,” Gavin said in a funny voice. “My mistake.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes!” Gavin said, sounding a tad defensive. “It could happen to anyone, okay?”
“Um, okay?” Ben said. “I just—I wanted to make sure it wasn’t me. You know, that I didn’t screw up the shoot or something.”
“No, no,” Gavin said quickly. “You were great. Amazing, actually.”
Ben fidgeted, a familiar warmth settling in his stomach. “Um, so, are you working on anything interesting right now?”
Gavin snorted. “Big hairy guys wearing nothing but strappy sandals. I’m the photographer of choice to the fetish community.” He let out a breath. “Whatever. It’s a living, right?”
“At least you have a marketable skill.”
“Hey, I’ve seen your cock. You definitely have assets of your
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy it,” the man said.
He’d better , Ben thought, trudging out of the store.
The ride back to his apartment dragged on just as endlessly, and Ben felt oddly self-conscious sitting there on the bus with a frilly piece of porcelain on his lap, although only someone with x-ray vision would have known what it was. He shrugged off his ridiculous sense of embarrassment. It didn’t matter what he thought of the French whatever-whatever. The important thing was that Kai loved it, and Ben loved Kai. Or at least, he was very fond of him. Kai was familiar, like a favorite pair of sweat socks you wore every day for thirty-six days in a row during a hitting streak, or… something like that.
By the time Ben got back to his building, Santa had taken his kettle and gone home, which was a relief. He jogged up the stairs to his apartment, looked around for somewhere to put the gift box, and finally dumped it on the kitchen table. All he had to do now was call Kai. He picked up the phone, got voice mail, and left a message. Kai’s probably just busy , he told himself.
* * *
Two weeks, and about three dozen phone calls later, Kai still couldn’t be bothered to give Ben the time of day. The holiday get-together Kai had (kind of, sort of) agreed to had yet to be planned. The box with the compote still sat on the table, silently mocking Ben, coming as close to calling him a pathetic loser as an inanimate object could.
Ben drew a line at making a thirty-seventh phone call—even a man with his pride in tatters had a breaking point—so he sat down at the computer to send an email instead. He was blindsided by the message lurking in his inbox: Have yourself a merry BIG Christmas!
“Oh, God,” he groaned out loud.
A sensible person would have just deleted it without looking, but no one had ever accused Ben of having sense. He double-clicked.
There it was, the XXX ad for penis enlargement with the pornographic Santa costume... only the picture was of somebody else, somebody blond and square-bodied, decidedly Scandinavian. He sat there blinking at the screen, his mouth gaping open. Of course, it should have been a relief. He’d been paid for the job, and yet his cock wasn’t the star of a million inboxes. This was totally win-win by any sane accounting of the situation.
Possibly, Ben wasn’t as sane as he’d once been.
He fished Gavin’s card out of the pile of papers on the kitchen table, where he’d been trying to ignore it. He dialed the number, drumming his fingers restlessly, his nude male model’s pride seriously affronted.
“McNally,” said the terse voice on the other end of the line.
“Was my dick just not big enough for you?” he blurted out, without any sort of preamble, or even so much as “hello.”
There was a beat of silence. “Ben?”
“Yes!” Ben said, exasperated. “How many guys call you with concerns about the size of their dicks? Actually, don’t answer that. I just want to know why there’s some Swedish guy playing porno Santa and not me.”
“I, uh—the film got ruined,” Gavin said in a funny voice. “My mistake.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes!” Gavin said, sounding a tad defensive. “It could happen to anyone, okay?”
“Um, okay?” Ben said. “I just—I wanted to make sure it wasn’t me. You know, that I didn’t screw up the shoot or something.”
“No, no,” Gavin said quickly. “You were great. Amazing, actually.”
Ben fidgeted, a familiar warmth settling in his stomach. “Um, so, are you working on anything interesting right now?”
Gavin snorted. “Big hairy guys wearing nothing but strappy sandals. I’m the photographer of choice to the fetish community.” He let out a breath. “Whatever. It’s a living, right?”
“At least you have a marketable skill.”
“Hey, I’ve seen your cock. You definitely have assets of your
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