Lately, it’s been called into question why Hallmark and other assorted profit mongers are so fond of painting the holiday season as “the most romantic time of the year” (ergo, still, theoretically, “the most wonderful time of the year”). After all, how can that possibly be the case when you’re constantly surrounded by family members that remind you of a time in your life when you were the most embarrassing version of yourself? So yeah, obviously I was a skeptic of the notion that you can be “aroused” in any way during Christmas. Not with your goddamn grandma and mom around. Pinching your cheeks like you’re still five years old and bringing out the photo albums that, for whatever reason, feature you in a handful of compromising poses without any clothes on. “It was a different time,” as people like to say. 

In fact, that’s what I found myself telling my girlfriend, six years my junior (enough to categorize her as being part of a different generation). She didn’t seem to agree, but she did her best not to shame me too much, which is a herculean effort for someone in their twenties. I brought her along after only six months of dating her, and no sooner did we pull up to the driveway of my parents’ Haddonfield, New Jersey (not to be confused with Haddonfield, Illinois) abode than I felt an especial limpness in my dick. I must have been insane to bring her to Christmas so soon in our relationship. At the same time, I figured that, if things were really going to get serious, it was better that she find out about the nature of my family sooner rather than later. It was the kinder thing to do than spring it on her, say, three years in, when she had gotten really attached. 

To be honest, though, it seemed like she already was…which surprised me as I had always been told by previous girlfriends that I was rather insufferable due to my arbitrary mood swings. It was true, I admit. One minute I could be happy as a clam, the next, mad as a hatter. In short, it took either a very “special” woman to handle me, or a very young and therefore naive one. Hence, Olivia being my current “lady.” She was far from ladylike, though, always dressing in Billie Eilish-inspired baggy clothes that made me yearn for the days of skimpy millennial attire. But I guess my own generation had found me stale, as I started attracting younger and younger women like Olivia the higher my salary got. It was like they could smell it on me. Granted, it was probably my own fault for only frequenting the most affluent neighborhoods of Manhattan (which is pretty much everywhere now but, surely, you get the picture). I was particularly fond of dining at the most expensive restaurants in SoHo, where the college girls of NYU could spot me like an open target. I met Olivia when she was still in college, as a matter of fact. She practically accosted me as I was coming out of Cipriani on West Broadway, insisting that I allow her to take my photo for her street style account. I knew goddamn well it was a line, for I had (and have) no street style whatsoever. It didn’t take long for our frequent “accidental” run-ins in SoHo to turn into a regular sexual dalliance, with Olivia happy to meet me on my lunch breaks for some afternoon delight in my very arousing penthouse apartment. The dalliance then turned into something more. Something deeper than I ever expected it to be. 

So that’s how I found myself introducing this “little girl” to my entire family at Christmas. Again, this is definitely not something I would call arousing. And yet, what I failed to take into account is that such a thing is arousing for many women. The idea that they’ve “made the cut” to the “next round” in a relationship with a highly desirable man. And, not to toot my own horn, but I do happen to be a highly desirable man. If for no other reason than my previously alluded to income tax bracket. It also helps that I’m Ken doll attractive. But before you make the joke, no, I do not have “just a nub” down there. Something that Olivia was quick to take advantage of once all the familial pleasantries had been exchanged in the hallway and my mother guided us up to the guest room, which used to be my room. And then, as if “activated” by the knowledge that it was once my childhood bedroom, Olivia proceeded to unzip my pants and pull them down without even bothering to lock the door. Almost like getting caught was half the fun of it. 

I’ll admit that I’d never really seen this more reckless side of her before and so it did, indeed, turn me on. Or rather, it turned on that thing below my waist that controls what I do. Before I knew it, we were going at it like rabbits, and me suddenly without any care about whether the door was unlocked or even wide open. In those minutes, all I cared about was how much pleasure I was getting. Which is also how you end up being walked in on by your mom while you’re jerking off as a teenager. But being caught in delicto flagrante like this would be so much worse. With that thought running through the back of my mind, I picked up the speed with which I was fucking Olivia so I could achieve the orgasm faster (I know, I know, I’m so shitty for not giving a damn about her orgasm).

Right as I was about to explode, Olivia had the “bright idea” to whip herself around for a bit of reverse cowgirl…because she clearly knew I was about to cum and didn’t want me to. Unfortunately, my euphoria quickly turned to agony in that instant as her vaginal movement caused my dick to bend in just such a way that it had no choice but to snap. Hence, I became another statistic among the spike in penile injuries that occur during the holiday season. A spike I had actually read about in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Like any arrogant man, I balked at the study, laughing about it to myself because, as I said, there’s nothing about Christmas that could possibly furnish me with what I would deem an “erotic scenario.” To me, all of it is decidedly sexless. Or it was…until Olivia came along. Only to doubly prove that Christmas is not a time to be “sexy” at all. Not when you look down and see that your penis actually does look like the fucking eggplant emoji. 

Needless to say, medical attention was immediately required, which meant everyone in my family was well-aware of what Olivia and I had gotten up to (and so quickly) in my ex-bedroom. Being taken to the hospital on Christmas Eve for a broken dick with your girlfriend and your mother at your side is probably what some might call “peak Freudian.” I, however, decided to call it “karma.” Punishment for daring to believe, even for one second, that Christmas was the romantic and sexy holiday that the movies were always trying to make it out to be.