Blizzards and Bastards

by C.M. Stunich

Hair the color of chestnuts roasting over a bedroom fire, the eyes of someone who is definitely on the naughty list, and the presence of the holy spirit.

My brain—whose switch was totally flicked by Crispin, remember?—starts fantasizing about him riding me from behind, coming inside, and making me scream my favorite Christmas carols.

Crispin seems like the sort of man you want Santa to leave under the tree, but probably fucks like he was abandoned by Krampus.

“Have you ever had a can of pepper spray nut in your eyes? Candy-scented poison jizz. It fucking hurts.”

I wasn’t kidding about that sandwich thing either. If I’m thirsty, I get a drink of water. If I’m horny, I … screw a random rockstar on his tour bus.

My eyes find that one, special hole in Crispin’s jeans. He’s tanned everywhere, isn’t he? I want to know if he has any tan lines at all. I bet even his dick looks like a Hawaiian vacation. Mele Kalikimaka, Crispin Fox.

Cyan is the sort of sad that doesn’t know it’s sad. She thinks she’s happy, perky, and upbeat, but I imagine she’s terribly underappreciated and horribly lonely.

“If you don’t start writing something then you’ll never write anything,”

What is the threshold for pain? When is it worth feeling, and when is it something that should be pushed aside?

“It’s okay to be sad,” Vale tells me, like we didn’t just meet yesterday. “Even if you think you’ve got it too good to complain. Sometimes, the most difficult prisons to break out of are the ones made of glass. When they shatter, they cut.”

Wouldn’t that make for a fun time? All I want for Christmas is group sex. Hah. If only.

That’s all that I want for Christmas. Cyan Fallon. A girl I just met. That’s it. I’m chasing Frost down myself. We need to tell her.

“Is this a yeti? I was joking about his frozen dick. I don’t want it in me.” “My name is Frost,”

“You’re either treating Cyan like shit or trying to marry her over the holidays. Can we try for some middle ground here?”

A good girl. One who loves books. Who curses like a sailor and fucks like a queen (according to Frost).

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t treat people better than they treat you and let resentment fester. You should drop to their level and only respond if they put forth effort first.

Merry Christmas, Stalker. Sincerely, Inked Pages. P.S. We love you. Your kiss is a gift of starlight (and your thighs, they’re the moon).