The Wrong Gift

Christmas is coming but then you’ve probably heard that already.

This year much like last year and the year before, I won’t have to find or even think about a present for that special someone. I won’t have to rack my brains trying to figure out what is going to be the best thing that will bring joy to other half and yet represent me in such a way that would make me proud. I don’t have to think about getting jewelry or designer clothing or exclusive cologne made by nuns in hills of Spain. Although, when I did get those things for my partner, they were never really appreciated anyway. I think I’ve said this before; he would give me a list of things that he wanted and asked for a list from me. I always thought it took the spirit of gift giving for me but it was what he wanted so I went along with it. When I think back though, having a list from someone sometimes avoids you from getting the wrong gift.

I’m not sure it was around Christmas, but I remember one year when there wasn’t a list of things that I wanted he gave me a vibrating bullet. It wasn’t the one that pictured here, but one made out of that cheap white plastic that your mother’s Tupperware used to be made from and I thought to myself, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” But I said nothing and took it home with me.

Later that week I sat naked on my bed and decided to try the bullet out. After turning the thing on and rubbing it up and down my penis and not really getting anything from it, I figured perhaps that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be used. So I put some lube on it and shoved it part way up my anus. I turned it on again and “schloop”, that thing went all the way up my ass like it had found a special home for itself.

So there I was sitting, holding onto an electrical cord coming out from between my cheeks with one hand and stroking my special friend with the other wondering how, if something happened, I would explain this to people and what was the point of it all? Feeling like a fool, I also wondered why didn’t any instructions come with the bullet and why didn’t it come in a box or a plastic bag? ...And then it came to me. I wasn’t the only ass this little bitch had been in but I knew then that unless someone was to go through the garbage, I would certainly be the last.

That was the wrong gift.

Gift giving at Christmas

My first name is Ian and my middle name is Kevin and I remember when one Christmas my father gave me a small Totes umbrella and a box of handkerchiefs from Pierre Cardin, a French designer who was old and out of style at the time. The handkerchiefs were embroidered with the single initial “K” and I was furious. That cheap bastard, I swore if I didn’t look like him I would have sworn that my mother must have cheated on him before I was born because we couldn’t possibly be related.

I told someone about it later on, a friend, family member or girl-friend I don’t remember, but they said that he probably couldn’t find something with the initial “I” on it. And I said or thought, couldn’t he have dug deeper in the bargain bin at Woolworth’s or whatever cheap hell hole he dragged it from. I was upset, I was disappointed.

If I were to tell this story to my mother now, she would say that I was ungrateful and perhaps that I was the bastard instead of my father, but she would also say that I was someone who is always difficult to buy gifts for. She would say that I was too fussy and that whatever I got, it would never be good enough, and that is why she always sends me a check to go out and have a meal somewhere or get something else that I want. But I think she would be wrong, at least partially.

There was another time when I was involved with someone and he asked me what I wanted, my first pair of leather pants, after he told me what he wanted, a leather messenger bag by some designer in SoHo that no one has ever heard of since. For one reason or another he was unable to come with me to find the pants so he gave me the cash and I went to the leather store on Christopher Street in the Village; the one where they make them so tight that they tell you to take off your underwear so that you can fit into them. So after I sported my semi as the salesman felt and rubbed my thigh up while he told me it was a good fit, after all of that was done and my thrill was over, I felt kind of jilted. There would be no unwrapping of Christmas packages, no hidden treasure trove, no junk and no need for me to say “this is nice” between clenched teeth and a fake smile. All of that was taken away from me and I didn’t like it.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to think about the things that I want. I want to be surprised by the thoughts and care that people have about me. I want to know that someone has taken the time and effort to think about what it is they can do for me and not what’s most convenient for them. I really don’t care if someone gives me a bag of shit or a Maserati, well that might be a little extreme, but as long as there is some thought behind it I’ll be a friend for life.

Oh and by the way, yes I still have the handkerchiefs. I've had them about 20 years now and it's been about 5 years that he's been dead and they are still in the damn box, but what are you going to do, it’s from my father.

Merry Christmas everyone.