A Story About Christmas

What I read for Tense Mag's Christmas event

Here is a story about Christmas:

It is Christmas day and it is snowing so much. I’m on my way to a trendy cafe to meet up with Axel, my boyfriend. He is 22 years old and he is woke and he has spiky brown hair with black streaks in it and an eyebrow piercing with a green sparkly weed leaf dangling off it because he smokes weed. The cafe is called Starbucks.

We go into the bathroom of Starbucks and start popping pills because we are pill poppers and we like to get high on pills. It’s cool, giving someone a drug then taking some and getting high off it. Axel starts smoking weed out of a bong in the bathroom at Starbucks and says, “I’m getting so high off this kush.”

“That’s so cool and sexy of you,” I murmur, letting my eyes close for a moment. I reach into my bag and retrieve some of the heroin that hurts. It’s like normal heroin, but instead of making you feel good, it really hurts. Me and my boyfriend are addicted to it. I inject half a syringe of the heroin that hurts into my arm and then I pull it out and inject the rest into Axel’s arm. We start feeling immense pain inside the Starbucks bathroom and we are obsessed with how painful it feels because we are gothic.

We leave the bathroom and head to the counter. The combination of pills and kush and the heroin that hurts makes the Starbucks menu look so… trippy. Admiring the kaleidoscope of festive beverage offerings, I order a Tall Gingerbread Oatmilk Chai and Axel orders a Venti Peppermint Mocha. I see a snowman cookie in the display case and I ask the barista for one of those as well.

“Don’t order that,” Axel growls at me, his grip tightening around his seasonal beverage, crushing it with his immense strength.

“Why?” I ask, as black angel wings sprout out of his back and he starts crying blood.

“Eating cookies from Starbucks is ghetto and ratchet,” he hisses wokely. “You should only purchase cookies from local bakeries.” His sharp vampire teeth shine under the moody Starbucks light. Axel coaxes me into the darkest corner of Starbucks and brushes my bangs aside. He pins me against the wall and my Gingerbread Oatmilk Chai flies into the air and splatters all over the rustic tiled floor. He pulls down his black skinny jeans and thrusts his enormous throbbing gothic member into my private area as I gasp in shock.

“That escalated quickly,” a queer person of color peering into our dark world remarks, chuckling and finishing off the last sip of his Trenta Cran-Merry Orange Refresher, typing furiously onto his 12” M2 16GB MacBook Air.

The barista starts hooting and hollering and asking what that ruckus is all about. Axel ignores his cries, the same way he ignores my whimpers, forcing his hand over my mouth and continuing to make rough, passionate love to my body.

The barista walks over to the shadowy, sexual corner of Starbucks. He shrieks in pain. “I am horrifically furious with you,” he says. “I am non-binary and I am woke, and I am going to call the police.” I start to scream from fear, but Axel pushes his strong hand even harder against my small, hot, wet mouth, causing me to sexually climax uncontrollably.

“I myself have something of a gendered past,” Axel growls at the barista as he continues thrusting into me, his pace quickening as his rage grows. “I was trans once. And woke, you say?” He chuckles. “Woke, woke, woke… you don’t know the meaning of woke. Woke = healing my girlfriend’s sexual trauma by fucking her hard (with penetration) at Starbucks, her favorite trendy cafe. Woke is me. Woke is my girlfriend. Woke is US,” he bellows, before looking the barista dead in the eyes and howling: “Calling the police is NOT woke.” I gasp as Axel flings my body against the communal wooden table, no longer hiding our love in the shadows, sinking his vampire fangs into my neck.

“Okay you just gagged him,” I say to Axel in between moans, thinking to myself, this chile just spilled the tea – and that’s on the BRAT album.

“That’s not the only thing I’m going to spill,” he warns me with a grin, taunting me with his vampire mind-reading abilities. Axel removes a double-barreled shotgun, which is the same size as his member, from the waistband of his black skinny jeans and shoots the barista to death.

This only infuriates the barista further. There is my blood and barista blood and seasonal beverages spilled all over the floor as Axel spills his dark vampiric seed into me and his eyes turn red and my eyes also turn red.

We head back into the bathroom of Starbucks. I work on some stuff on my MacBook while Axel crushes up an Adderall and snorts it.

“What are you working on?” he asks.

“Just a story,” I say. “A story about Christmas. A story about love. A story about, well… a story about today. This has been the greatest day of my life.” I smile, looking up from my MacBook into his glowing red eyes. “It’s just a story,” I repeat. “A story… about us.”

The End