I still remember the first time I caught my mom, the infamous Mrs. Claus, gazing longingly at the Easter Bunny. I was a teenager, and my naivety was still intact. I would often tease her, calling her a ‘cheating cookie-stealing ho’ behind her back. I thought it was a joke, but deep down, I was actually envious of her freedom and unashamed lust. It wasn’t until I discovered my own secret for the Easter Bunny that I realized my mom wasn’t so different from me after all.
As I grew older, my flirtations with the Easter Bunny evolved from mere crushes to something more profound. We’d meet in secret, exchanging naughty whispers and saucy Easter eggs. My mom, sensing my desires, took it upon herself to guide me through the uncharted territory of lust. We’d sit by the fire, giggling like two naughty schoolgirls, and swap stories of our escapades. We both understood that, beneath the facade of jolly old Saint Nick, our North Pole home harbored a different kind of magic.
Those were carefree days, when our love for each other was the only kind that truly mattered. We were the untold story of the North Pole, two women living, loving, and laughing in the shadows of our father’s grandeur. In those moments, I knew that my mom’s love, and I reciprocated the same, was the true spirit of Christmas: unapologetic, unbridled, and oh-so- naughty.
>Soulkyn