I gotta tell ya about the cub I saw last night gulping a drip coffee outside my local Starbucks:

Imagine Santa Clause, somewhere in his early twenties. Even though this is Hawaii, the weather in Winter can get a little (snicker) chilly. So this boy was wearing a black and white plaid, lightweight flannel shirt with jeans, hiking boots and a worn black leather vest. Now when I say leather – as sexy as it definitely is – imagine more a ‘regular guy’ kind of leather. Worn for comfort as much as look. This cub sported a perfectly trimmed, full beard. Not too thick, but no wispy attitude fuzz either. I had just finished work and was dragging my ass, feeling old and too beaten to do any good to the world. As I approached the front door, something in my crotch commanded my legs to stop working. Both feet planted just outside the front door. And there he sat…my Young Santa Clause. Let’s call him Chris(as in Kringle), ok? Humor me. This boy held his cup like a lumberjack grips his axe. The muscle in Chris’ hand bulged with an intensity that told me he was fueling with caffeine for a night of hard, hard work. God, this is exactly how I always imagined a young buck Santa to look.

“Excuse me.” Shit. The fat lady behind me needs to get her coffee, Kurt, move…your…legs. Santa Cub will be there when you get out. Get some coffee, go outside and stare at the young stud all you want. So that’s what I did. I stood in line, peaked no more than 50 times to check out the future Father Christmas, got my cup-a-joe and turned to leave. I hurried to the fix-ins bar, blew a shot of liquid sugar into my cup, stirred barely twice then headed for the door. My cock was already hard. THIS is my reward for a night of hard work – Christmas Eye Candy. So I pulled the door open, pushed past two teenaged Latte junkies and…FUCK!!! Santa..I mean, er, God Damned Chris Fuckin Kringle Junior was no longer there! No eye candy. No lumber jack toy maker. No cheap, coffee shop Christmas cruisy for Kurt. DAMN! This was my lump of coal. My list had been checked twice and I was undeserved. Figures. Ho, ho, fuckin ho. So I turned to go home.

WHAM! “Excuse me.” I walked right into the leather-covered torso of ‘his truly’. “Oh, sorry, man.”, I spat. “No worries, bud.” , he offered. And with that socially correct exchange…he smiled. That perfect beard and amazing set of facial features came together in an unbelievable display of holiday magic. This kid smiled and my heart melted like a well-sucked icicle. “Merry Christmas, man.” (pause for Christmas goose bumps) He said it! He actually said it. I mean, of course he did. Right? What would you expect? So I said it back. “Merry Christmas to you too”.

Christmas will never be the same again.

What's your name?: Simon (I'll keep my surname as a secret).

Where are you from?: Spain. From somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember.(and I'm not joking)

Where do you live now?: Seville in southern Spain.

What's your ethnic background?: White European.