Christmas Pussy
Rick is my only real friend. Ever since we graduated and went off to different high schools, I’ve been a complete loser. Everyone at school hates me, and I hate them. That’s why it’s so special when we hang out. It’s only once a month or so, and we don’t really do anything that cool. Mostly we just sit around in the parking lot in front of the strip mall. We watch the cars, watch the people, maybe grab some soda with Ricky’s allowance. Still, he makes me feel like I’m in grade 5 or 6 again. That was the last time I was happy.
What’s nice about Ricky is that he’s easy going: no matter what happens he just sort of laughs it off. Sometimes it’s annoying, like when I try to tell him about my problems, but it’s something I love about him. Last year, when he got hit by a car and broke his shoulder, the first thing he said was that he couldn’t jerk off anymore. I was jealous of him, the way he smiled so weakly through the pain.
After sitting around for a bit, we started to walk around the Walmart, going nowhere in particular. The dumpsters stank with overfilled trash. “Hey, D, check this out!” he said. I turned around and saw him reaching into a big pile of garbage.
“That’s nasty,” I said, waving him off.
He pointed an object at me. It looked like a gun with a satellite dish for a barrel. All its parts were round, and it was made from a super reflective light blue chrome. A prong with a spherical purple tip projected from the dish.“Freeze!” he said. I put my hands up slowly, and started to giggle.
“I’m sorry officer,” I said. “I won’t do it again.” Meanwhile I inched over toward a nearby trash can, measuring the distance from my left hand to the lid. “No you won’t, because I’m gonna shoot ya!” He pulled the trigger, and I snatched up the lid to use as a shield. A violet beam sprung from the gun with a quiet hum, like a microwave. It bounced off my shield and hit Ricky square in the chest.
I ran through the din of the metal lid, left clanging on the ground, and held him in my arms. He screamed when he was hit and fell to the ground in shock.
“Am… Am I okay? I feel okay.” He lifted one arm then the other, the same weak smile on his face.
“Rick, you’ve got a pussy on your chest.”
It’s true. He looked down and saw that a vagina had formed right in the middle of his sternum. I’d only seen them in anatomy books, but he confirmed it was the real thing. Because he had had a t-shirt on, the pussy was composed of both shirt and flesh, all pulled together. The fabric-flesh composite puckered at the edge. We were stunned for maybe ten, twenty minutes. Who knows. He recovered his senses first, handed me a twenty, and asked me to go into the Walmart to buy him a shirt.
We couldn’t decide if we should go to the hospital or tell his parents first. Nothing seemed to hurt, nothing felt off, he just had a pussy on his chest. Mostly, Rick had said, he worried about the way the fabric had mixed with his skin. He said he’d have to cut out a hole around the pussy if he wanted to take his old t-shirt off. It was red, and said “Loading… Thoughts” with a half filled white meter.
I took a look at the gun. We started calling it the Pussy Gun. At first, I thought it was just a children’s toy, but it had a real heft to it. It was made from super reflective metal that was totally unscathed, despite being left in the garbage. It was obviously a product of alien tech, we both agreed.
“Hey,” said Rick, after a while. “Wanna fuck my chest pussy? My chussy, I guess.”
“What?” I walked away from him, he knows I don’t like jokes like that. When people joke with me I can’t tell if they’re serious or joking, unless it’s really obvious.
“No, I mean it. Come back!” He started to follow behind me. “Look, you’re a virgin, right? And you’re hopeless with women. This could be your only chance for your whole life. And, well, I kinda wanna know what it feels like.”
Rick took off the shirt I bought him so I could take a look. Up close, the chussy was dry and intimidating. Rick stopped me from stripping when I started to pull my pants off. “That’s not how lovin’ works,” he said. “You gotta get me some flowers first, ease into it, you know. Use your tongue and fingers, and stuff. You gotta be gentle with her.” He pointed at his chussy. “Look, she’s not excited at all.”
I won’t describe this part in detail. We walked to a park that’s really more a little forest, and wandered for ages looking for a spot obscure enough. Eventually we crouched behind a series of thorny bushes off the main path. Romantic enough, I suppose. I gave him flowers, kissed him gently. I did everything Rick told me to do. It was the first time I’d ever been that close to someone. Ricky told me afterward that the female orgasm was way better: his whole body quivered down to the tips of his toes.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “I hope this thing just goes away on its own, if not we’ll figure out what to do.” He grabbed the Pussy Gun and gave it to me. “You keep it, your parents never go in your room.” The gun felt like a burden in my hands.
“Should we hug or something?”
“Fuck no, don’t be gay.”
Dad asked how my day was, about what Rick and I got up. He didn’t really care, he never did. When he asked stuff like this he never really wanted the details, it was just out of a sense of obligation, so I told him nothing. Except for dinner and going to the washroom, I spent every minute I could in my room in front of my computer. Mom was out, as always: she worked all the time, and when she didn’t work she avoided Dad by staying out, drinking with her ‘girlfriends.’
I spent the rest of the day watching YouTube video essays. School is a drag, so I do most of my learning online. I learned lots of stuff online. Politics, economics, medieval history, how to be a man, stuff like that. The kids at school always make “jokes” with me, but I know they really hate me. They think I’m less than them, even though I know way more about the truth of this world. It pissed me off, most of them are probably virgins anyway, I thought.
Who was I kidding, my best friend let me pity fuck him.
I couldn’t sleep that night, I never can on Sunday night. My parents force me to go to school even though I hate it there, just because society expects me to go to school. I reached under my bed and took out the Pussy Gun, felt it in my hands. The gun begged to be used. I pointed it at the ceiling: what kind of texture would a ceiling pussy have, I wondered?
I pulled the trigger once. The pussy mound was barely visible in lamplight. I squeezed the trigger again, watched the beam hit the ceiling, listened to its hum. I missed, just a bit, and created a second pussy next to the first. They joined together where they touched. I kept firing—maybe a hundred times I fired. All the ceiling pussies I made eventually joined together into one massive vagina; its huge lips each a world in themselves. I don’t know why but I decided to call it Christmas Pussy. It made me feel safe.
I fell into a broken sleep with strange dreams. Christmas Pussy’s voice rang through my head. It opened to me like a flower, glistening in a blaze of white moonlight that beamed through the window. It showed me its clit, larger than an eyeball.
“I am Christmas Pussy,” she said. Each word sounded like a long slow note on the violin. “I am going to make you happy. Will you be happy?”
“Yes, Christmas Pussy,” I said. It dripped on me, and I let myself be saturated in its wetness.
“You will use the Pussy Gun, you will use it on everyone who has ever slighted you. Their skin will become crowded with pussies. I want you to do this for me. Will you?”
“Yes, Christmas Pussy.”
In the morning Rick told me the pussy on his chest was permanent. He sounded really scared. Good, I thought: let them all have pussies forever.
I wore a jacket even though it was t-shirt weather. It was easy to hide the Pussy Gun underneath it, no one paid attention to me anyway. When I looked around I thought of all the ways I’d been insulted. Every student was guilty: of ignoring me; of laughing at me, or just standing there, when I was bullied; of not inviting me anywhere ever; of not giving me a chance. The teachers were guilty, too. They talked to me like I was stupid, even though I’ve seen every Metatron video on YouTube.
So I shot them. The Pussy Gun was easy to use. It had no recoil and didn’t need to reload. I shot them between 1st and 2nd period, as students filed down the hall toward the locker bay. At first people were confused, no one really knew how to react. Mr. Buchanan got a pussy on his forehead, looked at his reflection in a window and screamed. I drove the students away like great herds of buffalo. Even the jocks, the “chads” that bullied me the most, ran from me. It was the best moment in my life until the alarm started to go off: my Pussy Gun and I were an active shooter. They would all remember my name, even if the media tried to hide it they would eventually know my name. I savoured that thought. I smiled and laughed the whole time, like I was a kid again, playing with Ricky in the park.
I even got a police officer. His body armour twisted into pussy lips. I saw it as they blew my brains out with their assault rifles. They had made a backdrop with the big windows overlooking the soccer field on the second floor. Bits of skull and brains stained the field, an eyeball broke from its stalk and landed in the grass facing the front of the school.
I was so pleased watching reporters gather at the front of the school with that eyeball. It was a bit tough to see through the blades of grass, but I could just barely make out a black reporter with long straightened hair.
“Experts aren’t sure if we should consider this the thirteenth school shooter this year,” she said, “or the first school cooter in history.”
By evening, my parents received the mangled remains of my corpse from the police. My corpse was allowed to spend one night at home so they could say goodbye. They put me on the dining table. The low angle made their mouths and chins look huge. This is what meals must see before getting gobbled up at dinner time.
“We will return you to the Christmas Pussy,” said Dad. “I didn’t love you when you were alive, but I love you now because you gave us the Christmas Pussy.”
“Yes,” said Mom. “I will go with you into the Christmas Pussy. She is better than my husband. She doesn’t tell little lies, like claiming to have swept when she didn’t sweep, and she always tells me I look beautiful. She never says, ‘you look really good today, but not quite beautiful.’ She never says anything like that.
“Son, we will give you back to the Christmas Pussy,” said Dad. “I gave up on you when you were young. It was so hard to raise you, because you never seemed to get it. So instead I sat you in front of the iPad and then the computer so that I wouldn’t really have to pay attention to you. Once you were old enough to take care of yourself I started pretending I never had had a child in the first place, and only thought of you when I went grocery shopping, or got a call from your school. I was always ashamed of you, and I don’t believe how you turned out was my fault.”
“I always wished Rick was my son,” said Mom, “especially now that he has a pussy on him: Christmas Pussy told us. You died without ever giving yourself a pussy. Isn’t that kind of sad? You got Ricky, thirty-eight students and faculty, and one police officer. You never did it to yourself. Oh well.”
“I would follow you, “ said Dad, “but someone has to work and pay the bills to keep Christmas Pussy safe. I will always be a good grandfather to Christmas Pussy. I am a grandfather to her because you made her, and you are my son. So she is my granddaughter. Maybe one day I will get sick of working for Telus and I will crawl inside the Christmas Pussy.”
My Dad set up a step ladder under the Christmas Pussy. My Mom held my limp corpse in a fireman carry and let the both of us be subsumed. Christmas Pussy was so happy, and so was I.