Harry Liebermann was a Santa Claus admirer from the time he was a little boy.
That might seem strange to most folks because Harry was of the Jewish persuasion which made a lot of sense due the last name Liebermann which was about as sure a clue as a bloody fingerprint at the scene of a crime.
In fact, Harry did resemble the real Santa quite a bit with his stocky rotund figure and his snow white beard that was well groomed at all times.
Harry was a haberdasher by trade but he didn’t much sewing or cutting any more due to the terrible arthritis that made his fingers look all squiggly and odd.
He was an older gentleman now in his middle sixties and the government was kind enough to furnish him with enough income that he could put the closed sign on his door and spend most of his time writing the short stories that filled his brain with characters and scenarios all jumbled up and sometimes out of control without proper supervision.
The passing of his devoted spouse Ruth had been expected for some time and now he admonished his grandchildren with the stock phrase “What would your grandmother say if she knew you said that, did that, or didn’t do something else”.
It was like calling on the dead to be the “bad guy” in the message and absolve Harry of any collusion in the matter of unwanted advice from a person too old to be of any importance any longer.
In all honesty, Harry did feel a bit redundant in the ordinary stresses and interactions of everyday life. Sometimes, he felt that it would better for all concerned if he just packed it in and took an express bus to his dead wife’s side in another dimension.
Harry tended to pray more than he had when he was younger.
It was probably due to the fact that he wasn’t getting anything lately because of a combination of prostate shortcomings and his oppressively private nature that robbed him of the ability to draw a nubile female into his web of pleasure-seeking designs.
Harry’s hobby was writing.
Sometimes, he was even called an Author, but in his mind his scribbling was more an outlet of his internal feelings and emotions and not true creative art at all.
Still, his stories tended to be more adult targeted in the great part and some even accused him of writing “nothing but porn”.
Harry certainly didn’t feel that was the case but he had to admit his use of words like “ass” “nipple” and the ever popular “pussy” was a bit disconcerting to literary-minded readers and most females in general unless they were titillated by that sore of nomenclature in a fictional description.
His “babysitter” “nanny” and “cheerleader” stories were notorious for their erotica roots presented in such a way as to inspire both males and females to take matters in hand and put themselves in the place of the amorous characters with little scruples about matters of a carnal nature.
He had an extensive vocabulary of the design, creative use and frequency of private parts, both male and female that would cause untold numbers of eager imitators to engage in contortions of the most intimate kind in the privacy of their “behind a closed door” scenario.
Poor Harry had been living a somewhat slow sex life recently but that was understandable considering his medical condition and advanced years.
His sleeping habits had deteriorated to the point that he was uncertain when he had fallen asleep and how long he had slept the previous night or day. It was altogether adverse to his health and he planned to visit the doctor to secure some sleeping potion to aid him in his pursuit of a peaceful night’s sleep.
He started taking the ritual pill and it seemed to work well and he had a much more stable night in the horizontal position.
Unfortunately, there were some side effects to the medication that were not spelled out on the side of the bottle or even in the small print brochure that came in the same box with the pills. He was surprised to see on the internet that the pills were actually imported from the country of India. Apparently, India had taken advantage of the American pursuit of lower cost medications by use of “Generic” medications favored by insurance companies looking at their profit margins. He was not overly concerned by that fact because, after all, the success of Capitalism depended on standard laws of cost margins and supply and demand to drive the train uphill against the rising expenses of health care in a health-conscious society.
The problem that was on the back of his mind was the little blurb that stated the Indian Company was the transfer point of the medication which actually started its journey to the pharmacy in New Jersey from a small village in Central China where the ingredients could be secured at minimal cost and the labor was totally free since the workers were all serving life sentences in a re-education facility that fed them only enough to sustain life and paid them nothing for their labors. Harry didn’t think that was his problem but he did feel sorry for the workers wondering if any of them ever were allowed to return to their normal lives somewhere down the line.
The first thing he noticed was that his writing of erotica seemed to trigger some graphic scenes in his nightly dreams and in some instances were turning his usually “Mary Poppins” dreams into vivid nightmares involving some totally naked ladies running around in circles and he was not quite certain if they were running away from him or chasing him as he was far too interesting in ogling their jiggling boobs and ass cheeks.
It took a few weeks of such decadent delights for him to associate the medication to the “visions” that startled him awake with a stiff dick and a hunger for some lonely female to bend over and give him a nice target to aim at in his hour of need. Sometimes the giggling females seemed so close that he could just reach out with his trembling fingertips and touch their scented flesh. Strangely, even the illusion of female sexual scent hung in the air around his bed taunting his sense of smell and keeping his erection hard as a rock hoping for some action in the very near future.