Page 1 of Kit
1
Kit
Carl had his face scrunched up in full concentration as he clutched his red crayon. The pad of paper in front of him was filled with letters. He was writing aDear Santaletter.
I sat facing him, tossing my stupid felt stocking on the table.
He glanced up. “Hi, Kit.”
“Hi, Carl.”
“What’s that?”
“The third stocking full of coal I’ve gotten this week. The daddy who gave it to me just now out in the hall laughed and laughed, then leered in a really creepy way. Like I’m gonna date that ass.”
“Ugh. Well, you’re the only person I know who’s been banned from the club for any length of time. Youarebad.”
“Well, you’re a butthead,” I shot back. “What’s that? A letter to Santa?”
He covered the page with his arm. “Yeah. No peeking.”
“You know Santa’s fake anyway.”
He puffed out his cheeks at me. “Just because you’re mad, and single for the holidays, don’t take it out on me.”
“It just seems like there’s no one right for me. I come to this club twice a week and keep hoping, but it’s mostly the same old dudes wanting a hook up and moving on. I’m tired of that. Is it too much to ask for something more?”
“Nope.” Carl started to write again. “Actually, it’s quite romantic.”
“Yeah.” I shoved the stocking away from me. “A lot of good that does for me.”
“If you want that something more, you gotta get a little romantic.”
“I do want more.”
“This can be a very romantic place for some.”
He was right. I knew a lot of littles and boys who’d found their husbands here, including the owner of Club 99, Mr. Winterbourne himself. Plus, the club’s head bouncer, Colin, had snapped up a new boy named Maddy this year. Maybe I needed to look harder at staff despite the rule of no fraternization with the workers.
Or maybe I needed to completely start over somewhere where no one knew me and my misbehaving reputation. But that sounded like such hard work. Especially around the holidays.
I needed to change my approach.
I sauntered off to a corner bean bag chair with a book. While I pretended to read, I began to formulate a plan to transform my image.
The earliest of several Christmas parties at the club was being held in two days. I decided I would go. But should I be sweet and cute, or maybe the elegant type of little who was a bit nerdy and dressed in formal boy shorts and a bowtie? Or should I resort to my flamboyant elf costume that hugged my ass just right?
What would a real daddy who wanted more than a hookup be most attracted by?
Just then, Carl walked by with his letter to Santa all tied up in a red ribbon. He waved it in front of my nose.
“Stop trying to be what you think others want and be yourself,” he lectured. “That’s the key. You’re too pent up. Too stiff.”
I glared up at him. “Who asked you?”
“It’s not a criticism. And you asked me if it was too much to ask for more. So I’m telling you. It’s not.”
Easy for him to say. He’d had the same daddy for six months now and they looked disgustingly happy.
