My Girlfriend is Santa Claus & Together We Must Stop the Christmas Apocalypse Based on a True Story

The North Pole does not contain insects of any sort. No mosquitoes, no cockroaches, no spiders, no creepy crawlers— unless you count the hit 1990s gelatin toaster plaything. It was one of the few benefits of living in a place where temperatures never climb above freezing. So it was quite strange when plump, black flies began orbiting around Peter’s head. Santa buried her nose in his blonde hair and took two audible sniffs.

“When’s the last time you took a bath?”

“My bedroom doesn’t have a bath,” Peter said.

“You haven’t had a bath this whole time you’ve been here?”

“It’s not like I didn’t want to. This place doesn’t have running water. There are no toilets!”

“Don’t you remember the first day you were here?” Santa asked. “The elves waterboarded you in the bath.”

“Oh yeah…”

With towels in hand, Peter, Santa, and Tchaikovsky came to the entrance of the baths. Peter, who had never undressed in a locker room before, felt a little uneasy about the new experience that was about to unfold. An elf came running in, her face and uniform blackened with soot, shouting, “Santa! We need you in the factory! There’s a thing! And it stopped doing what it’s supposed to! And now there’s fire! But the fire is like a magic fire or something and water doesn’t put it out!”

Santa buried her head in her palm, but didn’t say anything. A few moments later she emerged from her frustrated pose, and without a single hint of disappointment went off with the elf to go fix things.

“So where’s the men’s bath?” Peter asked.

Tchaikovsky looked at Peter confusedly, as if he had asked the question in a foreign language, and then pointed off to a curtained door marked with a strange symbol. He entered the locker room, and was surprised at how spacious it was, considering that he was the only male in the North Pole. As he stripped down he was also confused by the concerning amount of lacy bras and panties lying about, as if a hurricane had ripped through a Victoria’s Secret. How odd that women’s lingerie would be in the men’s locker room. What a waste it was that all this space, and all these hundreds of lockers, were all for him and only him.

Buck naked and swinging about, Peter walked past a counter of sinks and hair dryers to the entrance. But beyond the doors he did not find a bath, or showers, or any means to wash himself, but only a small steamy room with a dark portal of rushing water. Peter stuck his head into the hole and realized it was a water slide.

“Whatever.”

Peter lifted himself up into the slide and rocketed himself down. The slide was a dark, twisty, bendy tube of scalding hot water. He shrieked out a goofy “wa-hoo!” like an American Super Mario as his scrawny nude body plummeted through darkness. And why not? It’s not like anyone could hear him screaming, right? Except they could. Over a hundred female elves were in the baths, and they paused mid scrub to turn and look towards the McDonalds play-place slide looming over them as Peter’s ridiculous roller-coaster screams echoed out from the plastic tubes. He even shouted an anachronistic “kowa-bunga!” What does that word even mean?

Clocking in at 100-miles-per-hour Peter shot out of the water-slide, skipped across the surface of the bath, and for a brief moment caught a glimpse of skinny and soap covered elves in all their leggy, booby, nudy glory, and then he was underwater, feeling a weeks worth of oil and dead skin burning away. When he emerged from the steamy waters, and his ears had fully drained, he heard the ravenous voices of the elves cry out in unison, “Peter!”

The bath was full of sexy elves! They soaked, and scrubbed, and shampooed, and showered all their Christmas stress away. With soap suds and bubbles clinging to their slender bodies, they stank of flowers and vanilla and fruity fragrances. Peter couldn’t blink! The beauty before him was overwhelming! It was more beautiful than a hundred Notre Dame cathedrals combined with a hundred Hawaiian sunsets! Sexier than a million underage Lamborghini Countaches crossed with a trillion 12-cylinder Catholic school girls— if you’re into that sort of thing! So much flesh! Limbs! Navels! Boobies! Clavicles! Shoulder blades! Ribs— oh, the ribs! It was a feast of the feminine form! A fountain of elven cleanliness!

[Scriibble Huub Scribbble Hubb Skribble Bub Whipstopher Pippinsticks Scriible Hub Scribblle Hubb Scribbble Stub]

Peter’s eyes darted from one girl to the next. Yuzuka, the elven gym bunny, who spent all her time in the bath flexing her cheese-grater abs, inviting girls to squeeze her biceps, and basking in their awe, looked back at him, hands covering her nipples, surprised and suddenly very bashful. Yukina, looking pale and bony without her reindeer furs, lounged at the edge of the bath unashamed, wearing only a wide grin, approving of Peter’s break in. Yechdel turned away and pitter-pattered to the exit before Peter could get a good look at her. The other elves, who he did not recognize, caved in on him, like children before a burst piñata, eager to get a handful of eye candy. Suddenly aware of his own nudity, Peter knelt down in the steamy bathwater and hid his mini-Peter— which some say grew three sizes that day.

“Hey…” Peter feigned surprise. “This isn’t the men’s bath.”

“There is no men’s bath.” An elf grabbed onto his shoulders and sat down beside him.

“Because there are no men in the North Pole.” Another elf, from behind, rested her arms on his shoulders.

“Well, someone could have told me that before I entered… Tchaikovsky!”

“Peter! Help me wash my back!”

“Help me wash my legs!”

“You can wash your own legs!” said a jealous elf.

“Maybe I should just go.”

Peter stood up, cupping himself, but was immediately yanked back down into the oversized hot tub. What a conundrum! Surrounded by blushing, nude, fully aroused Christmas elves— perhaps he could get to second base— or third base— or a home run— or a grand slam— a perfect game? Here? With everyone watching? What would Yuzuka think if she saw him fondling and flirting with Yukina? Or vice versa? There were too many eyes. Jealousy was inevitable.

The elf girls linked hands into a great långdans line and skipped across the room to the showers like a winding serpent, pulling Peter so forcefully he felt his arm detaching from its socket. They gave him a shampoo mohawk, which isn’t a euphemism for anything, and giggled. He looked past the storm of cat-eyed nymphets bouncing around him and saw Yuzuka again, but she slinked away and submerged herself into the bath waters, uncharacteristically shy. Assaulted by loofahs, poufs, and sea sponges, Peter’s skin was forcefully exfoliated with sugar scrubs, his face was slapped with a clay mask, and then it was all blasted away with twenty steamy shower heads until he was squeaky clean. Every time he felt himself basking in the warmth of their supple nudity, he was pricked with fingernails, or an elf ran off with a snippet of his hair, and the joy of the moment was ruined— and Peter thought to himself, good thing she only took a lock of hair and nothing more precious.

Peter made his escape, but the elf girls clung onto him— tangling their arms around him, squeezing against him— unable to take no for an answer. He pulled away and flopped into the water, then scrambled over to Yuzuka. The cheesecake Adonis pulled her knees up to her chest and held her breath, her complexion bright red.

But this chapter is giving this narrator the vapors. It’s time to loosen the collar and fan oneself, and leave Peter and Yuzuka’s onsen confrontation until next time.