Story by By Sabrina Cognata - sabbyc@gmail.com Photos by Icarus Blake

Lon Gisland Dolls Photo ©Icarus Blake

When I think of Christmas, I tend to think of the places I’ve had sad, lonely people sex on Christmas Eve. At this point, it’s my most palpable Christmas ritual. The twenty-third of December I go out and get ripped and spend the early morning of the twenty-fourth degrading myself beyond human comprehension.

There was Kevin. He had a thing for asses. Like everything to do with asses. He called my ass a honey baked ham. He rubbed his leg against me in the bar while I did shots of vodka. Later, the bar would tell me they found me without a shirt on in their storage room and handed me over to Kevin to act as my keeper. By the time we got back to his place, I was sobering up, so we decided to grab fourties before 7-eleven stopped selling booze.

A Bit of Bondage Photo ©Icarus Blake

Like a real American hero, Kevin tripped on the way back to his place, which vaguely reminded me of the house on Paper Street. Blood poured down his face while he drunkenly put his hands down my tights. I got naked and held a compress against his head. “I think you have a concussion.” Instead of telling me where else it hurt, he responded by going down on me. For whatever reason, this solidified my growing hatred for him. Instead of stopping him and leaving, I managed to contort my body so that I leaned over the arm of the sofa to keep drinking.

Bob threw a holiday party on the twenty-third, “O Holy Night” indeed. I went because, worst-case scenario, I’d bang him. That night, I met his girlfriend while we played tawdry version of drunk Pictionary. I smiled and she drank the eggnog I made. Two parts whiskey. One part rum. Mix and regret. She drunkenly cackled with her shitty group of friends and I blew Bob in his Ford Explorer. He came all over my tits while I wondered what my mother planned to make for Christmas morning brunch.

Hudson Noir Photo ©Icarus Blake

Colby couldn’t afford to go home for Christmas to see the girlfriend he’d abandoned for dreams of stardom in Hollywood. Over the phone, his voice dragged on like a hangman’s noose, so I told him to come by and listen to records. We started with hot toddies, which rapidly morphed into straight whiskey shots. He held my hand the whole time.

Eventually, his friends texted and asked if we wanted to meet them at a shitty bar in Koreatown where everyone looked like they were extras from a never before released David Lynch film. We walked over, stumbling really, Colby slurring his words trying to express feelings for me. I asked him about his girlfriend. “That’s suh-oh over.” He attacked me, pressing his body against mine and smashing his face into my breasts. He feebly attempted to initiate sex, but was too drunk.

Serious Dehydration Photo ©Icarus Blake

We got to the bar and I slinked into a booth with his friends. Colby immediately passed out, hunched over and snoring loudly. After a couple of drinks, one of his friends asked if I wanted to see something neat. I followed him to the bathroom and he fucked me up against a mirrored wall. I never learned his name.

James got it in his head to take me home for Christmas. His parents made us sleep in different rooms. It was like playing Ozzie and Harriet. I sent him text messages about the sex party we’d been to during family dinner. His mom’s head was a giant blonde mess of hairspray. I hated her. The neighbors were over and mommy dearest was trying to hold court. The wife just had a baby and wanted to talk about the priorities of being a working mother with me like I planned to create life inside myself, or something. I smiled while working my leg under the table against her husband, never locking eyes with him once. James’s mother asked me if I planned to work when I had children and I answered, “Oh, I am never having children. I’ll throw that thing in the lake like an unwanted puppy.” James did a spit take at the table while I rubbed my foot against the neighbor’s erection. We broke up in the New Year.

Urban Winter Photo ©Icarus Blake

Lindsay’s parents raised him in a hippy commune, so he never cared about the holidays. It’s like the holidays came and went without him ever noticing. We were in an open relationship and I was super positive that polyamory was going to solve all my issues with men, while providing my libido and complete lack of self esteem with everything necessary. On the twenty-third, I found Lindsay working on a song and asked if he wanted to go to the bar. He ignored me, looking down at his guitar like, “Can’t you see I am in the middle of something.” I left in a huff and burst into tears on my walk to the bar where I effectively began planning how I would approach getting fall down drunk. I later woke up wearing my sweater as pants, passed out on the floor in a strange house. I don’t have any recollection of what happened and I never located my panties. Sometimes it’s better that way.

Sarcastic Orgasm Photo ©Icarus Blake

Max was my Christmas mistake the year I lost my license. We’d get stoned waiting for the bus and ride it to seedy underground bars, rail lines in the bathroom, and fuck anywhere we could get away with it. My sister broke up with her boyfriend and became our third wheel. The three of us were a nonstop party train, making poor decisions and wearing them like flashy jewelry. On the twenty-third I found out they had been sleeping with each other and I overdosed on heroin. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

The next year was filled with clean and sober mayhem, swinging from extremes and AA meetings, which is where I met Barry, a motivational speaker and former sex addict. He bragged about being sober for the past six years. On our third date, I blew him in a crowded bar while he had a drink to celebrate. The twenty-third consisted of a lot of crying and screaming of “BUT I LOVE YOU!” We hate fucked and, before I left, I told him maybe we should spend some time apart. When I got home everything I owned had been smashed to pieces, sort of like my life.

I’ve got less than a month left to decide how to dismantle my life. Less than a month to make a change. But, if you’re lucky, I’ll probably see you the twenty-third. I’ll be the single girl at the end of the bar wearing a little too much makeup and trying a little too hard to have a good time. You can be my next great mistake. It’s not like there can be too many.

Follow me to Hell Photo ©Icarus Blake

4 Responses to “Christmistakes”

  1. M.K. Hajdin says:

    None of these dreary gropings have caused even a flicker of happiness, in fact just the opposite: they make the narrator feel ever emptier inside. But she seems to know the world doesn’t care about her pain, it only wants to collectively perv over the sexual details, so that’s what she gives ’em – in hard-boiled tough-guy style that seems like such a sad attempt at feisty independence.

    How sad it is that women are made to feel like the only way they can get attention is by telling the world about the many ways men have degraded them. Like it’s the only thing the world cares about.

    To the narrator I say: There’s more to life than this. I hope you find it.

  2. Sabrina says:

    I hope the narrator finds that peace too. Wherever the fuck she exists.

  3. […] Sabrina Cognata/Christmistakes […]

  4. John Barrymore says:

    “hate fuck” – love that phrase

    My father used to say that “A grudge fuck beats a mercy fuck any day of the week.” Later on I fucked one of his exes, both of us doing it primarily just to burn his ass. When he confronted me I reminded him of those words and pointed out that he was right. I also told him I was getting a little tired of hearing how much better I was than him in the sack, just to rub a little salt into it.