The Night Before Christmas 1

Chapter 1

’Twas the Night Before Christmas and Nick Wanted to Be Invited to His Parents’ Party

I didn’t turn eighteen to still be treated like a kid. That was my opening argument to Harley, my sister, who was stretched out on the couch scrolling her phone. She had that look like she couldn’t be less interested in whatever I was about to say.

I had only just turned eighteen a few months earlier, but it was Christmas Eve, and my mom’s annual party had always been off-limits to me. My sister had been permitted to go the previous year and I wanted to be invited – I didn’t care what happened there. I just wanted the validation that I was an adult now – even though I still rode a bicycle everywhere and was still in high school.

“Nick, I just don’t think it’s possible,” she said, not even glancing up. “You can ask Mom, but she didn’t invite me until last year. And honestly? It’s really not your scene.”

“That’s what makes me want to go!” I said, leaning forward. “What is it? Drinking? Wild dancing? Strange religious customs? Are y’all sacrificing a reindeer or something?”

Her thumb froze mid-scroll, and she raised an eyebrow at me. “Sacrificing a reindeer? Really?”

“I’m throwing darts here,” I said. “You’re not giving me anything.”

She put her phone down and sat up, looking at me like I was some annoying kid asking too many questions. “It’s just not for you, Nick. It’s adults only. End of story.”

“But I’m eighteen now,” I argued. “That’s legally an adult.”

“Yeah, well, TECHNICALLY, an adult is more like it. I was eighteen before I got to go, and I wasn’t invited until last year. You’ve got at least another year to wait.”

“That’s not fair,” I said, crossing my arms. “What is it, anyway? A swingers’ thing? I mean, I wouldn’t care if it was—”

“Nick!” she snapped, her face turning red.

“What? I’ve seen guys come over when Dad’s not home, and Mom’s, you know, extroverted. Flirty.”

She threw a pillow at me, hitting me square in the chest. “Stop talking about Mom like that!”

“Alright, fine. Sorry.” I smirked. “But you’re not saying no, so…”

Harley groaned and threw her hands in the air. “What happens at the party, stays at the party. I’m not playing this game with you anymore.”

“So, it is a swingers’ party,” I said, grinning.

She grabbed another pillow and hurled it at me. “Nick! Go ask Mom if you’re so curious. But good luck with that.”

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.”

The smell of pine and cinnamon filled the house. Mom was humming softly to herself near the fireplace, hanging stockings and fiddling with some garland. “Ba-rum-bum-bum, newborn ba-rum-bum-bum,” she sang under her breath, her Georgia Peach accent sweetening every word. This was her favorite time of year—she practically glowed with excitement.

I didn’t sneak up on her, but when I walked in and said, “Hey, Mom,” she startled anyway.

“Oh, Nick, don’t do that!” she said, clutching her chest. She turned to face me with a laugh, a strand of tinsel dangling from her fingers. “You scared me half to death. What do you need, sugar?”

I pointed at the extra stockings she was hanging, two marked with a fancy embroidered “D” and “E.” “Who are those for?”

Mom’s eyes flicked toward the stockings, then back to me, and her smile grew just a little mischievous. “Never you mind. It’s a surprise.” She turned back to the fireplace, adjusting the stocking holders with care.

“What kind of surprise?” I pressed.

“The kind that doesn’t concern nosy little boys,” she said playfully, flicking a bit of garland in my direction.

I decided to shift tactics. “Can I go to the party tonight?”

That made her freeze for a moment. She didn’t turn around, but I saw her shoulders tense.

“Mom,” I said, stepping closer, “I’m eighteen now. I can handle it.”

She finally turned and looked at me intently with her baby blue eyes, “Oh, honey, it’s really not for you.”

“But Harley got to go when she was eighteen,” I argued. “That was just last year!”

“And she was in college,” Mom said, brushing a stray hair out of my face. “You’re still my baby boy. Maybe in a few years.”

“A few years?” I groaned. “But I’m an adult now! What could possibly be so bad about this party?”

“It’s an adults-only party,” she said simply, turning back to the stockings. “And that’s all there is to it.”

“Is it a swingers’ thing?” I asked bluntly. I had struck out with Harley about it. I thought I’d just come out and ask my mother for a straight answer to what I had suspected anyway.

Her hands froze on the garland. She didn’t turn around, but I saw her take a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “Nick…”

“What? I know about the upside-down pineapple stuff.”

This time she spun around so fast her blonde curls bounced. “Enough!” she said, her Southern charm momentarily replaced by the kind of tone she used when I forgot to take the trash out.

“I’m just saying,” I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered something to herself before opening her eyes again. “Okay, fine. Yes, your father and I are swingers. But that’s not a conversation I’m prepared to have with you right now. And this party has nothing to do with you. Understand?”

Her voice was firm, but not unkind. I nodded, even though I didn’t fully believe her.

“Now,” she said, her smile returning as she smoothed out the garland, “go pack a bag. Your brother’s already spending the night at a friend’s house, and I’ve spoken to Hunter Johnson’s mom. You can stay there tonight.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but she cut me off. “I’m not debating this, Nick. Be back by nine in the morning, and we’ll have a wonderful Christmas breakfast, alright?”

I stood there for a second, not sure what to say. She leaned in and kissed my forehead, then turned back to her decorating, humming again like nothing had happened.

“Is it really a swingers’ party?” I tried one last time to get a straight answer.

Her humming stopped. She turned her head just enough to give me a sharp look. “Go,” she said, Mom’s sweet southern accent dripping with the finality of the decision. I was relegated once again to the role of a kid too wet behind the ears to join in any adult fun!

I didn’t want to throw a tantrum or pout, but I did on the way out the door – I couldn’t help myself.

“The children were nestled all snug in their beds”

It had snowed earlier that day, leaving the streets crisp and glittering under the streetlights. Perfect weather for Christmas Eve, right? Wrong. The scene might’ve been festive, but I was riding my old banana-seat bicycle to the Johnsons’ house like a second grader.

“This is undignified,” I muttered as I adjusted the scarf Mom made me wear. “I may as well have streamers on the handlebars and baseball cards in the spokes. My parents think I’m immature? This is what they’re making me do!”

The wind cut at my cheeks as I pedaled, the squeaky chain rattling with every push. I imagined Harley laughing it up at the party right now, probably sitting by the fireplace with a glass of wine while Mom teased Dad about his sweater. And me? I was on a banana-seat bike with a neon-green frame that screamed “childhood embarrassment.”

When I got to the Johnsons’ house, Hunter was already sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, setting up some ridiculous video game. It was the kind of game where you moved cartoonish characters around a virtual living room, picking up objects to “decorate” while your parents had real fun somewhere else.

“You’re just in time!” he said, handing me a controller.

I stared at it like he’d just handed me a kazoo. “What is this?”

“Winter Wonderland Party!” Hunter said, like it was the coolest thing ever. “We have to collect as many ornaments as possible before time runs out!”

“Great,” I said flatly, sitting down as Mrs. Johnson walked in with a tray of snacks.

“Do you boys want Chickey-Chicky Nuggies?” she asked sweetly. “Or I’ve got Lunchables!”

Hunter’s face lit up. “Nuggies!” he said, looking at me like I was an idiot for even hesitating.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said, pushing the controller aside.

Hunter gave me a confused look but went back to enthusiastically decorating his fake living room. I sat there watching him, stewing in my frustration. This was ridiculous. Harley was probably at the party sipping eggnog and cracking jokes, and I was stuck here playing kiddie games with nuggets on the menu.

That’s when I realized I had to get out of there.

“I forgot something at home,” I said abruptly, standing up and grabbing my jacket.

Mrs. Johnson turned from the kitchen; her hands dusted with flour. “Oh, do you need me to call your mom, hon?”

“No, no, I’m good! I’ll be right back!” I called over my shoulder before anyone could stop me.

The cold air hit me like a slap when I stepped outside, but I didn’t care. My bike was still in the driveway, coated in a light frost. I swung a leg over and pedaled hard, my mind racing.

“I shouldn’t have asked permission,” I muttered. “I should’ve just gone down there and demanded to be let in.”

A burst of wind made my scarf flap as I coasted down a hill. The houses were glowing with Christmas lights, but all I could think about was what I was missing.

“Okay,” I admitted to myself, “maybe demanding to be let in wouldn’t go too far.” I pictured Dad crossing his arms and Mom with that sharp look she gave when she meant business.

I adjusted my plan. I didn’t need to storm in. I just needed to peek. Just enough to know what was really going on.

“It might just be them drinking wine and watching Die Hard,” I reasoned. “But even if it’s not, there’s no way Mom and Dad would let me force my way in.”

As I rode toward the house, my breath puffing in little clouds, I clenched the handlebars. “I’ll just take a look,” I told myself. “No harm in peeking, right?”

“Away to the window I flew like a flash.”

The house was alive when I got there, glowing with warm light that spilled out onto the snow. From where I stood in the yard, I could hear faint music and laughter muffled through the thick double-paned windows. It didn’t sound like Die Hard to me.

I dropped my bike in the yard without bothering to lock it up. My fingers were already cold from the ride, and I didn’t have time to fumble with the chain. The backyard gate creaked as I opened it, and I winced. If Mom or Dad caught me, I’d be dead, but I wasn’t about to walk through the front door and announce myself.

The kitchen window was my first target. I crouched low in the snow, creeping up like I was on some kind of covert mission. My heart thudded in my chest as I peeked over the ledge.

Inside the kitchen, sitting on the table with her bare bottom in a glass punch bowl of eggnog, laughing and handing out mugs of something steaming -was my mom.

Nope, the body language, it was unmistakably my Aunt Daisy – I hadn’t seen her in years. My mother’s identical twin!

I couldn’t believe it! Blonde hair, curvy figure, that same smile that lit up a room—but her energy was completely different. Where Mom had an air of polished Southern refinement, Daisy was loud, lively, and unapologetically bold.



She was bound in red and green rope, Christmas bells, and playful ornaments attached to her naked body, but only for decoration. She could move her arms and even kicked her feet freely and playfully while singing a song I couldn’t hear.

Her shoulders were bare, her cleavage on full display, and she was perched jauntily on the table, sitting IN a pot of eggnog like a cinnamon stick; my Aunt WAS the garnish to the punch bowl. She stirred and ladled the creamy white substance when partygoers came up to her, holding an empty mug like she was a human eggnog dispenser.

The rest of the kitchen was just as lively. I immediately recognized a couple of them from my mother’s charity. They call themselves the DSL, all of them—attractive, vivacious, tits fully on display, wearing only Christmas decorations -tits out, pussies bald, big bare asses in red heels and decorated in Christmas ornaments.

One of them was building a gingerbread house, humming along to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” as she worked.