A cautionary holiday tale

When the fiendishly handsome meets the terminally plain…

The holidays are here, and Wally is alone, as usual. But tonight is different. A devilishly sexy waiter from a local Tex-Mex restaurant has invited him to dinner. The man’s eyes, and the blatant outline of his growing interest, promise the fulfillment of his most ardent wish—to enjoy the greatest sex ever.

Forgetting he’d jokingly promised his soul in exchange for just such an opportunity, Wally accepts the dinner date. What happens next is a Christmas Eve he’ll never forget.


A very young man—Wally guessed from his stained shirt he was probably a bus-boy—guided him to a table right next to the kitchen. He wanted a booth, and he wanted a quiet corner. And he wanted a certain waiter. But he stifled his objections and sat, squirming on the hard chair, absently playing with the plastic menu.


“You have come. I am happy.”

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Wally looked up into black-on-black glimmers of fire, inviting him inside to explore the deep unknown. The mustache wore a slight smile with just a hint of sensual sneer.


“Um, gracias.”



Wally felt like a twelve-year-old at a porn film festival.

“I think I shall take you for myself. Come to my station.”

He followed the server’s dark silk shirt that seemed to be made of almost invisible sparkles. Like the Power Hi-Lights in his hair, they promised secrets yet to be whispered. He sank into the deep cushions of a large round booth, clearly a space for half a dozen people.

“May I bring you a margarita?”

Wally was not a drinker, but tonight was different. It was an occasion. “Please. Easy on the salt.” He giggled and then felt embarrassed for giggling.

After the man left, Wally tried to peer into the surrounding darkness. The hot salsa coming from the ceiling speakers was even louder than usual, and the beat seemed to make the table throb. The only close light came from an often-lit candle inside a slender golden orb set in the center of the table. He could barely see the writing on the menu.

Mister Mustache was back, sliding a tall glass in front of him, the rim pierced by a single wedge of lemon. Drops of condensation ran down the side, pooling on the polished table.

“Very easy salt,” he said in a tone that suggested he could have made it even easier, if only Wally had asked. “If you have not decided, I will come back. I will not rush you. Ever.”

It took a few long moments before he trusted his voice.

“What do—um, what do you suggest?” He tried very hard to read the small name badge on his shirt.

“The Dos Muchachos is a favorite.”

“I’ll have that…ah, what did you say your name was?”

“Pablo.” The way he said it, the way the “b” and the “l” slid together in his mouth, made it sound more like “Paolo.”

Wally liked that name. He practiced it. “Thank you—Paolo.” His lips formed a suggestive pout trying to say it right, and for the first time he saw a real smile steal across the man’s face.

“You sound like a native. Perhaps you will say my name often this evening.”

Before Wally could react to that, Pablo disappeared into the darkness embracing the table.

Oh, shit. His dick stirred. Feeling the pearly precum seeping into his brand-new Snug ’Ems, Wally unfolded a paper napkin and set it over his rowdy crotch.

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