It has to be said, again and again, if for no other reason than how fucking true it is, that there is nothing in life that I can think of which could compare to waking up on a weekend morning to find oneself wrapped round in the arms of a lover. The warmth, the closeness, the drowsiness, all the kindly characteristics of a morning's bed, plus all the cuddling potential and earthy delight of another body and smiling face to see in the beginnings of your day.
How much more so if the day in question be Christmas, and Christmas be a day you don't despise. As for me, I do despise Christmas, normally, but for one reason or another this Christmas left me feeling minorly . . . Christmasy.
On Christmas eve I and Oyku went out to dinner with a small gathering of work friends of mine, and we had a lovely dinner-and-drinks time of it. The atmosphere was great, the people were awesome, the food was fantastic . . . the only thing that could have been improved upon might be the prices, and I am only recently mature enough to realize that if all the other factors are fine, 'twould be idiocy to ruin such a rare time with worry concerning pecuniary particulars.
We even had a bit of salacious gossip to talk about, given that the night before last had been a workplace holiday party which resulted in a largish number of tipsy people corralled on a bus home at midnight, during which trip someone in the front, (thank heavens not from our department,) vomited all over himself, and then passed out (classy!!) after covering his vomit-covered self with his suit jacket, (true class = sparing others the sight of your vomit, by sacrificing your suit jacket to it,) and a simultaneously-conducted minor dispute over the degree to which it is socially acceptable for drunken middle-aged gay men who suffer from Aspergers to repeatedly make sexualized comments (and noises) to straight Turkish men 20 years their junior in front of their wives, (and a bus-load of their colleagues.)
As it happened, I was the one who asked the man in question if perhaps he was being obnoxious. He acknowledged that he was indeed being obnoxious, but then, as drunk people often do, decided to double-down on the situation, and loudly enquired why it was that straight men liked to see lesbians when watching porn, but not gays, as two vaginas together was ok, but seeing two cocks together was not. I expressed the view that our personal-porn preferences didn't really require discussion in front of a busload of our colleagues. This did not, however, serve to dissuade him, as he continued to rail against the injustice of it, and how intolerant people "need to realize this is the 21st century!"
He then told me I was known as a Don Juan, and asked why it was that if I saw a girl, I might tell her she had nice breasts, but he couldn't tell a boy he found him attractive. I was briefly at a loss for how to respond to any of this, belatedly realizing that I was apparently ill-informed of work-place mores in the 21st century, and had been displaying far too much restraint in neglecting to comment freely on the breasts of the young ladies around me. Feeling some shame at how out-of-touch I seem to have become, I could only muster the pathetic answer that He would have to excuse me, as I for one simply didn't feel comfortable commenting on a woman's breasts until at least the fourth email. This brought some snickers from the assembled gallery, and I overheard a comment from one colleague that they were glad to finally learn the accepted time to bring that up.
I was then queried pugnaciously on how I would react if a gay man came up and flirted with me, at which point a gay colleague from the back spoke up to say that he flirted with me nearly daily, and would recommend it. I said I thought everyone had the right to flirt, but that perhaps flirting ought to begin with some nice comments about John Hurt's performance in "Krapp's Last Tape," or something about Andrew Lloyd Webber, or have you read any of so-and-so. I mean - must we jump immediately to making small moaning noises and commenting on the skin-tone of our intended fun-bun? I mean, a little bit of taste, subtlety, and class might let one play the flirt-fun game a lot longer and . . . more effectively . . . than overtly sexualized comments directed toward someone who you had met 3 times before, in the presence of his wife.
In any case - the bus having arrived at my neighborhood, I took my leave and with my friend and companion to the dinner, (a certain Finbar - a fine Irish-American lad,)wandered up the hill and home.
The next day, in a fit of uncertainty regarding how the previous evening had occurred, I apologized to a couple of the nearest spectators, if I had in any way caused them discomfort. They responded that A. it was fun, B. it was a bit weird, but maybe necessary, C. they didn't enjoy it, but I only said what everyone else was thinking. So I felt . . . relieved.
I found out two days later at the Christmas eve dinner that after I exited the bus he began more vigorously voicing negative viewpoints of my self and character, until one of those nearby told him that to say such things now was cowardly, and they didn't want to hear any more about it, and such things should be said to a person's face, not in their absence. I still don't know precisely what was said, as I only ascertained that nothing had been said that would possibly impact on me professionally - I was assured it was all of a personal and subjective nature, and so found myself quite happy to let it all go.
So, after catching up on gossip, and a smashing Christmas eve dinner, and good conversation, followed by a good sleep, I woke in Oyku's arms. After a good half-hour of drifting to the edge of sleep and back again, I wormed from under her arm and out of bed, and went to the kitchen and made coffee. Then I opened the trap door in the ceiling that leads through to the roof. Taking a red fleece blanket, I plucked some red fibers, and rubbed them into the wood grain along the edge of the trapdoor opening till they hung down like a small patch of fine red hairs. I then took a boot and wet the sole so that, pressing it down on the table beneath the trapdoor it left a distinct print. Then I took Oyku's present, and hid it under the leaves of the largest potted plant, which is the size of a small tree.
I woke her with urgency, telling her this had never happened before, and to come quickly. I showed her where someone had broken into the house, and left red fibers there - which must have meant they were wearing a red jacket, and there was even a bootprint! She opined in amazement that we must call the police, and I agreed, but then I gasped in surprise to discover that . . . the intruder had left a present for her. A look of uncomprehension possibly unmatched in modern times was soon followed by a smile of epic proportions and big hugs.
After unwrapping the present, we went back to bed and watched Baz Luhrman's "Romeo and Juliet." It is a movie I am fond of - more for stylistic reasons than anything literary - though I do enjoy the turns of certain phrases.
That afternoon we went to a piano concert in the grand bazaar, and mocked the piano-player's grandiose gestures to the crowd, and had a lovely time amongst the mountains of free snacks they were handing out - it was a cold day, and a lovely one. I don't know of another Christmas I have enjoyed quite as much as this one.
This scrooge, this Christmas, says "Bah-Hah!" And may God bless us, each and every one.
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