I don’t want a lot for Christmas. Christmas. The light of my Douglas fir. The fire in my chestnut-roasting hearth. Christmas. Christ. Mas. The mouth says it with such subdued glee that one can barely recognize the giddiness stirring within the loins of its accepted perversion. Presents are coming. Santa has made his list; he checked it not once, but twice.
And the only question for you, reader, is this: have I, Humbert Humbert, been too naughty?
There is just one thing I need. The sweet breath of my young babe on the nape of my elderly, yearning neck. I clasp my liver-spotted fingers around the cold, unalive baking tray and thrust a batch of sugar cookies into the oven so that they may bake – nay, mature – to their ripened crispness of which I long to taste.
And yes, what you’re smelling is, in fact, a subtle hint of nutmeg.
I don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree. Santa, the Red Witch of white worlds, cannot slake my lust with his rosy jowls, lapping the saliva from his frosty beard as he oogles the sugar cookies I’ve left next to the fireplace – a glass of milk for him and carrots for the reindeer. His sooten boots and hearty laughter only make me want Lolita even more. She’s so hot. Hotter than these fresh-out-of-the-oven nutmeg sugar cookies.
I just want you for my own. Humbert Humbert does not share his young chickens and their yolk of near-womanhood with others. Speaking of eggs, I’ve made a delightful egg casserole to eat before opening those useless, unsatisfying presents. Like a madman, I pull Lolita’s used undergarments from my jacket pocket. Now things are starting to smell a little more like Christmas.
Make my wish come true. Baby, all I want for Christmas… oh Christmas, why does it tease me with such falsities of joy and pleasure, this foolish holiday of mistletoe and tinsel-gilded greed. Dear reader, I must confess, all I want to unwrap this holiday is my sweet-footed, curly-haired Elfin and barely-pubescent wood nymph in her loosely fitting satin frock. Yes, my dearest sweet Lolita… all I want for Christmas is you.
