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A few weeks back I invited readers to share their most horrifying true stories of desperate and/or depressing holiday sex. As promised, the author of the best horrifying true story of holiday sex—as determined by me—wins a $75 Toys in Babeland gift certificate. See if you can spot the winner before you get to the end of the column. . . .

When I was in eighth grade, my cousin Donna from Wisconsin came for Christmas. She and I were the same age and she had sprouted some major hooters. After dinner, with our extended family sacked out on couches, I found myself alone in a bedroom with Donna. Without saying anything, I started pawing at her tits. My hands were shaking like crazy, fearing rejection, but she didn’t mind. I pulled her tits out of the top of her dress and she got on her knees, undid my zipper, and took my dick in her hands. I shot my very first load all over Donna’s tits. Then someone said, “My Lord!” It was my very uptight aunt, Donna’s mother, standing in the door. Horrified, I mopped up Donna’s breasts with my shirt while her mother stood there watching.

—Jacked By Cousin

I moved away from my friends and family last year to Seattle. As I left work on Christmas Eve, the homeless people were having a trash-can-fire, plastic-bottle-liquor ho-down on University Avenue. I figured what the hell, and decided to join in. I wound up sharing a bottle of cheap vodka with one particularly attractive homeless girl. My judgment eroded, and I invited her back to my apartment. Before I could protest, she invited two of her friends to join us. My Christmas Eves until this point in my life were Norman Rockwell-ian clichés. This particular year, I had an all-night drunken orgy with three homeless girls. We fucked our brains out, baked cookies naked, and fucked some more. When I woke up in the early afternoon, the girls were gone. So were my wallet, most of my food, my toiletries, and my CDs.

—Finally I Love The Holidays

Last Hanukkah I decided to tell my mother I was a lesbian. Around the table was my mother, her husband Phil, and a couple who my mother and stepdad are friendly with, Don and Mary. “I have something I want to share with all of you,” I said. “I’m gay.” My mother gave me a supportive look before turning the attention to herself. “Well,” she said, “I’m really happy you told me that because now I feel comfortable exposing a part of my life to you. When Phil and I first started dating, we found that we both enjoyed nudist resorts. We met a lot of people with whom we’re still friends. Don and Mary are two of the people we met there. We’ve been together with them for three years now.” Later that evening I was out on the porch having a cigarette. Don came out on the porch. “So you’re gay,” he said. “Would you be interested in getting together with us some time?” I left before my mother brought out the carrot cake.

—Freaked Out Then, Freaked Out Still

Last year, my husband’s folks were visiting us in New York for Christmas. My husband decided to treat me to something I’d always wanted: A session with a female dominatrix. I’m not a lesbian, but it had always been a fantasy of mine to be dominated by a woman, tied up, and, you know, other stuff. So my husband made an appointment for me early in the day on Christmas Eve, thinking it would relieve the holiday tension—and the tension of having his parents around. So I go, and halfway through a rather lame, not-living-up-to-my-fantasy domination session, the woman I’m “serving” starts to cry. She’s all alone for the holidays, and she’s depressed. Wanting to reach out to a person in need, I invited her to come to our house for dinner. Big mistake. When I introduced her to my in-laws as “a friend from work,” she got bent out of shape. She’s not ashamed of who she is or what she does, she announced, and then she told my husband’s parents just exactly when we met (that very day) and how (kinky sex for money). She lectured me about being ashamed of my masochistic and homoerotic desires (in front of my in-laws!), then stormed out of our apartment. My in-laws think I’m the whore of Babylon now.

—Could’ve Died

My ex-girlfriend was in town from college and called to ask if we could meet up for a beer. Eventually the Coronas became tequilas. After we staggered out to my freezing car, she pulled my face down to her crotch. After I had gone down on her for five minutes, she lifted my head up and, sobbing, told me that she couldn’t do this, that she had a boyfriend that she loved. She begged me to take her to a payphone so she could call him and apologize. I drove around for a while, hoping that she would calm down and not make the call. But when we drove past a gas station, she demanded that I stop. After she was on the phone for a few minutes, she motioned for me to get out of the car. “He wants to talk to you,” she sobbed. Here’s how our conversation went:

“Hello?” I said.

“So, what happened there tonight?” he said.

“What’d she tell you happened?

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Went to a bar. Ate your girlfriend out. She started crying. That’s about it.”

“That’s what she told me. Put her back on.”

I handed the phone back to my ex, got back in the car, turned the music up and waited for her to return so I could drive her back home.

—Prefers To Give Than To Receive

You want a depressing/horrifying holiday sex story? This girl has never had sex or anything remotely like it on or near any holidays. For everyone out there who thinks they have it bad because the sex they had during the holidays was horrifying, I say this: At least someone was looking forward to having sex with you.

—Sexless Holidays

No holiday sex? Good or bad? Ever? That’s horrifying! If anyone needs a $75 gift certificate to Toys in Babeland, it’s Sexless Holiday, so . . . you win, SH! Your gift certificate is in the mail, and I recommend you blow your dough on a Hitachi Magic Wand. A Magic Wand isn’t a lover, of course, but look at it this way: a vibrator won’t tell your in-laws what you’ve been doing with it, it won’t break down sobbing, and it won’t come all over your cousin’s tits. Enjoy.

Send your Savage Love questions to mail@savagelove.net


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