Words by Alice White

Sexy girl as Santa

I am laughing annoyingly hard as my 32-year-old friend sends me One Direction erotic fan fiction memes. They’re all the same themes and format: a picture of one of the band members with a few sentences in a dated font photoshopped on top about hand jobs and fingering (theme: sex) and Harry Styles dying while telling them that they love them (theme: death), or coming into school and giving them back a DVD they borrowed to show everyone that they’re an item (theme: possession), or crying because their fans can’t accept that they’re an item (theme: high emotion). It’s a different kind of laughing I’m doing to let’s say, a 40-year-old male stand-up comedian, who will see this kind of thing just for its surface level: weird and pathetic. This to me is the truth, it’s the most #relatable #content. I, in fact, think that One Direction fan fiction is the closest to high concept art we’re ever going to get. I love it because it’s so nuanced and reflective of everything I was when I was the age of the people making these. I’m now reminiscing of a time when giving someone a hand job was the best fantasy you could come up with. It’s a world away from my most recent ultimate fantasy, which is not giving people hand jobs. Back then all I wanted in my learners fantasies, and to an extent what I do actually want now; someone to be wildly jealous, someone to want to fuck me more than anything else in the world, and then die loving me. Very simple.

These little stories about famous people fingering you are good because, as we all know, celebrities belong to everyone, to the community, to the people. Harry Styles belongs to everyone, Zayn Malik belongs to everyone, Cate Blanchett, Bill Murray, Biz Markie, Tom Hardy, The Rock, The Weeknd… these people belong to everyone because that’s what being a celebrity actually means. It means that when I’m not talking about a celebrity’s private life uninformed and openly, I can talk about what it would be like to fuck them. When people say “I discovered that band first”, that just means they are the most unadvanced sexually. I mean they haven’t even grown into the teen erotic fan fiction stage yet, where your fantasies are shared with other people who’d quite like to bang the same person. I’d like to share some fan fiction with you guys in the name of sexual socialism, And who’s more famous this time of year than Santa.

What I’d like to know first about Santa is why he’s chosen to be old - he’s ageless, right? Like a vampire? So why has he gone for this rotund old guy thing when he could be an attractive 25-year-old hunk (presuming Santa was a hunk when he was young of course)? When I was younger I would eat a catering size pan of lasagna with a whole loaf of buttered bread and I was 98 pounds. Now I’m 27, I even have to check myself when I’m blazing mindlessly eating cheese puffs - what kind of life is that? So, if I was Santa, why would he go for this 70-year-old heart-attack vessel he’s riding around the skies in, eating all those butter biscuits and drinking all that sugary booze that people are leaving out for him. Anyone would rather be young forever and false modesty is infuriating. I think he should also have jet black hair like what Archer’s would look like if he were real. He still has a big bushy beard though to stay on brand. It’s what Coca-Cola would’ve wanted. Right, that’s it, in my fantasy Santa is 24 and has one of those TV-non-speaking-Fireman-role bodies that they put canned screaming women over.

Santa Erotic Fan Fiction, by Alice White

Santa blowing snowflakes

I’m in bed looking hot, the kind of hot that would make you want to die for me. I have flannel pajamas on, cut into the shape of a bikini. I’m sound asleep because I do not wait up for any man. He looks at his list, checking it twice. His hand trembling, not with fear but with anticipation, knowing what he has come here for, the last house on his route before the sun rises on Christmas morning [which here in Scotland the sun rises at like, 11 a.m.] but other than that he is strong, composed and his dick is rock hard. On his list “Alice… Naughty”. I had been a very naughty girl this year. [Not as naughty as last year when I took pills and shot a Camembert at close range with a BB hand gun in a flat over-looking the street parade, but reasonably bad] He’s ready for me, he knows my past, he sees me when I’m at my weakest. He sees me when I’m sleeping, he knows when I’m awake. I’m vulnerable but brave and I’m very, very wet. He’s ready to give me the white hot coal.

He puts his head at the opening of my chimney, he’s magic and could easily shrink down but he’s never willing to compromise on his size. [I presume that Santa goes head first down a chimney, by the way, like a snake in a drain]. Once the head is in he pushes himself, inch by inch, thumbing himself in when he loses concentration. Squeezing his way through my building’s smoke chambers to eventually almost drips onto my bedroom floor. [I have a fireplace in my bedroom because I earn good money in my fantasy].

Then it’s the hot bit, the bit we’ve all been waiting for, the bit where I unzip Santa’s pants and I jerk him off for ageeeeeeeeees and he’s got two fingers in me and he’s telling me how hot I am and how tight I am and how much money I earn. It’s so much fucking money. I earn so much money in this fantasy it’s basically everywhere and all my stuff is bespoke and my bed’s king size and Santa respects it. Santa tells me he’s not threatened by women who make money and I come all over and so does he (probably). He gets hard again really quickly because he’s 24 and it all happens again.

Dawn has nearly broke and Santa is crying, telling me the feeling of delivering joy to millions of children is nothing in comparison to what he felt with me. He pulls out a piece of paper, and writes something on it and puts it carefully in an envelope and leaves it on my very expensive bedside table. He kisses me on the forehead before opening the window and throws himself out, dying instantly but with no mess or legal repercussions. I open his last letter and I cry a single tear as it simply reads “Alice... Nice”.

Blizzard Santa

Alice White is a badly behaved writer and ex-sex and dating columnist from Scotland. She has the accent and everything. And also really terrific hair. Follow her on Twitter at @alicewhitey for dick jokes and public eye rolling.