Santa shimmied out of his pants, but left his boots on. He had thick thighs and a hard-looking butt, and I almost forgot to zip up before turning to wash my hands. As it was, I had to bend my boner painfully to get the sides of my zipper to meet.
"Hey, kid." Oh, God! He was talking to me.
"Yeah?" He looked young without the Santa beard, maybe a few years older than me. What did he want with me? He didn't look like a pervert, but you never know, do you? Not until it's too late.
"Think you could give me a hand, here?" He clomped over with the red pants around his boot tops and leaned against the sink next to mine. I could see dark tufts of pit hair right next to my face, and I could smell him. Sweaty but yummy, like fresh jock. I started to blush, and hated myself. You can't look cool when you're blushing.
"Think you could get these boots off?" Santa said. "They're too small for me, and I think I'm stuck."
"Um, okay." How do you take off someone's boots? I backed up a little and he lifted the heel of one so I could cup it in my hand. I pulled and he wiggled, and the whole time I was staring at his clean mesh jock with stray pubes poking out the sides. I couldn't see the outline of his dick or anything, which was the only reason I was able to concentrate even a little on getting that boot off.
He caught me looking. "I wear a cup on this gig," he said, tapping his crotch with a knuckle and making a knock-knock sound. "Little kids have this uncanny aim. They climb onto my lap, like, feet first."
I shuddered involuntarily. He went back to wiggling and I went back to pulling, and now, naturally, I couldn't look anywhere but at his crotch, and I couldn't think of anything except what lay behind that cup, squashed against his body, all warm and...
The boot came off all of a sudden and I would have fallen onto the skanky restroom floor if Santa hadn't caught me around the middle. I caught a whiff of his feet added to the armpit smell, and my boner got even more buoyant.
"Sorry about that, little guy," he said, and set me back on my feet like he was planting a flag. He rested back against the sink and presented the other foot. "Face away from me this time. You'll have better leverage."
So I turned my back on him and held his foot between my legs. I was eighteen: what kinds of thoughts do you think that position roused in me? I had something that wasn't part of my body between my legs and I was aiming my butt right at that armored groin. I could barely draw a full breath by the time I got the second boot off.
"Thanks, kiddo," Santa said, and he crossed the room to pull on perfectly ordinary jeans and stomp into a battered pair of Doc Martens. I stood there staring like an idiot, watching him layer a plain flannel shirt over his wife-beater. He stuffed the Santa suit into a big Macy's bag, the kind with twisted cardboard handles, and shrugged into a leather motorcycle jacket. On his way out the door, he ruffled my hair and slapped a cello-wrapped candy cane into my hand. "Merry Christmas, kid."
He was still wearing his Santa hat.