Saving Santa (MxM)

23 Downer to Dancer

With a poof, Louie and I find ourselves in a Manhattan alley. As we walk to the main street that runs perpendicular, I know where we are. I see the line of men waiting to gain access to Moose Knuckle, a trendy nightclub in Greenwich pronounces by its regular patrons as "MmKay." I can't shake all of the second thoughts I have about the night. I stand frozen in the middle of the sidewalk as a dozen visions of my life with Brad replay before my eyes.

He had a straight bartender buddy who used to sling drinks at MmKay, so we found ourselves there once every couple of months. Strangely, I am not sure we ever had a good time even though the DJs were always awesome. Brad and I would always get into an argument. He'd accuse me of flirting too much or I would tell him he was drinking too much. Those nights ended early with one of us storming out.

"You okay with this spot?" Louie asks.

Of course not. I'd rather be anywhere else in the city at this moment, but I know I have to do this. Part of me wonders if Louie knows. Like he is trying to Yoda me through my shit so I can be a better Jedi or whatever.

"I..." I begin but realize his appearance has changed again. Louie has shrunk to a six-foot Italian soccer player. He is sporting a short, burnette Euro mullet. He nails it with the green eyes and olive skin, but it is his short-sleeve button-down revealing his perfectly trimmed athletic chest that is the real winner here.

"You good?" he asks when I take too long to continue my thought.

Without skipping a beat, I smile and say, "Fuck yeah."

And I actually mean it.

MmKay is full of hot city boys. So tanned. So groomed. So pretend perfect. It makes me miss Cal for a moment with his earthy and real and kind vibe.

That is, until Louie buys us shots of cinnamon whiskey.

Some try-hard guys stare us down as if we are the outta town hicks they have always feared. And I laugh at the thought that we are. I have not missed the uppity toxic waste of the pretentious club boys who are always judging their own community. And in this moment, they could not be funnier to me.

I grab Louie's arm and drag him onto the dancefloor. He wanted us to dance, so I am going to dance his face off. Thankfully, they play a few classics because I am definitely not up to date on current club hits. Living out in Airy Gap has been completely successful in cutting me off from the gay world at large. Popular artisits, shows, and brands are completely lost one me. And I don't think I hate it.

My dance buddy and I are a half dozen songs in when it happens. Louie tells me he is going to get us another round. I watch him make his way through the crowd toward the bar in the back corner. In the middle of hypothesizing what alcohol does to the physiological state of an elven body, my vision catches a harrowing sight. Through the flashing lights and the foggy atmosphere, I find a pair of glowing lemon eyes watching me from the crowd.

Krampus stands behind a group of guys dancing ten yards from me. He gives me a sinister smile, showing off his fangs. My lungs find it hard to do their job. I have no idea what he is capable of and I don't want to find out. But my feet are cement. He pushes through the circuit boys and raises his arm, pointing at me. Fully clothed and well kempt, the monster looks less wild beast and more werewolf of Wall Street. His hair sits in a well crafted man bun back between his nicely filed horns. Krampus's shortly trimmed chest fur shows off from the triangle of his low cut V-neck–all tucked under a gray suit jacket and slacks. Give him a gold chain and he could be a splitting image of Frank, the guy from Long Island I dated sophomore year of college.

Fuck Frank for sleeping with my best girl friend, I think. And fuck Krampus, too.

This breaks me from my hold. I ready myself for impact with the villain as he narrows in only feet from me.