Son, I will not be mailing your Christmas wishlist to the North Pole this year, please have a seat. Over the years your mother and I have told you all about Santa, how he watches you all year to see if you’re good, how his elves build you toys at his workshop, how he visits every home in the world in a single night. I’m sure, by now, you’ve seen some cracks in the facade. You must have asked yourself at some point “How does he do it all in one night” or “How can a schlub like my dad satisfy a smokeshow like mom?” The answer to both questions is, he doesn’t.
Son, Santa Claus, and the implied monogamous bounds of my marriage to your mother, are just myths. Sometimes, parents need to make stuff up to encourage their children to be good or mask the deviant psycho-sexual proclivities of their particular, unique bond. We just wanted you to get the most out of being that age where you can believe in things like flying reindeer and Santa coming down the chimney and your old man having the endowment a stamina to keep up with your hellcat mother. You only get one childhood after all.
I know right now you’re thinking “If there’s no Santa, who was the guy in the red suit who surprised us Christmas morning when I was seven?” Son, that was just an actor we hired. Maybe you’re thinking “Then who was the guy plowing mom when I opened their bedroom door unexpectedly?” Well, that was the same actor, who your mother easily seduced while I listened from the bathroom. And before you ask, yes, the fact that we paid him for his acting services beforehand blurred the line between what is and is not a contractual sexual relationship and added a tantalizing layer of taboo for everyone involved.
You’re a smart kid, I’m sure on some level you’ve pierced all of this together long ago but to confirm, yes — your mother and I got you all of those presents, and your mother’s constant infidelity, far from scorning me, arouses and delights me more than any drug on the face of this earth. Believe me, I’ve tried them all.
We just feel that you’re getting a little old to be believing in things like Santa Claus or staying in the dark about your parent’s sexual lifestyle. You’re in your late 50s now, practically a man, and your mother and I would like to turn the den into a dungeon/kink community space. Please leave.