A Christmas short with Joey and Brian from Heaven. Present day, 2013:
“hmmm hmmmm Last Christmas, I gave you my heart but the very next day you gave it away-ay-ay”
My eardrums cringed. (Don’t say that eardrums can’t cringe—you haven’t heard my husband’s singing) Joey tried to add a few soulful notes to top George Michael but he was (as usual) woefully out of tune. If he were ever on one of those singing show competitions, Simon Cowell would probably tell him that his dog could sing better.
But my husband’s singing wasn’t the only reason my ears were cringing. Joey had been playing the Christmas radio station for two or three days straight and I swear they had fifteen Christmas songs at this station—that they played over…and over…and over. This was the 567th time they’d played Last Christmas, and yes I was counting. (Ok not really, but you get the picture.)
I was going to comment—okay, complain—but glancing up and seeing my husband shimmying and shaking his cute little butt as he sang shut me up quick. I decided to just be quiet and enjoy the view.
It was two days before Christmas and horror of horrors, our tree was still not decorated. So Joey was a blur of color and energy as he moved around the huge eight-foot tree, climbing a stepladder and back down to one of the many boxes strewn across our living room floor. Then back up and lickety-split—another branch was now adorned with something flashy and shiny.
This was the beginning of the busiest time of the year for Joey. Award season was underway in Hollywood, and as a well-known fashion stylist with several A-list celebrity clients, it was a frenzy to find the perfect dress for every client for all of the different events. One of his clients was nominated for a Golden Globe, an Oscar, a SAG, a Pulitzer and the Nobel peace prize. (Wait, not really the last two, I don’t think…the character she played won those, so maybe she still gets them by default. I don’t know, Hollywood’s a weird place.) Years ago I had suggested we hire someone to come do all the decorating for us. He paused long enough to give me the eyebrow raise before going back to running around the house with lights and pine boughs. The next year I decided to try and help him by putting everything up myself. I give him credit, he plastered on his best fake smile and was effusively enthusiastic, showering me with kisses and (ahem) other forms of gratitude. Then as soon as I was asleep he was up the whole night moving and reworking everything I’d put up. He claimed an earthquake happened while I was asleep and knocked everything loose so he had to put it all back up. Yes he really expected me to believe that.
That was the first and last year I involved myself with the decorating. I have the “Yes dear, it looks beautiful,” response down pat. He rolls his eyes at me and then continues doing whatever he wants. Everybody’s happy.
As an accountant, the end of the year is a busy time for me too, though most of my work can at least be put off until next week, as long as all paperwork gets filed before the 31st. Most of our clients are closed or off work this week anyway.
Which is why my butt was firmly parked on the sofa, surfing on the laptop for fun, while enjoying the show of Joey shaking his ass.
All too soon George’s voice was fading out and I returned back to my computer screen. Familiar chimes rang out for the next song and right on cue, Joey was “ooh ooh-ing” and bopping over to turn the radio up. Who would have guessed Bob Geldof’s act of charity to bring awareness to the famine in Ethiopia thirty years ago would become a classic, iconic Christmas song, played every year since. “Do They Know It’s Christmas,” by Band Aid, the group of current (well, current in 1984) British pop stars Sir Bob assembled to plead for all of our help to “Feed the World.” It was one of Joey’s favorite songs because of course, these were the singers and bands we listened to as teenagers. A lot of the participants were his idols of the time—Duran Duran and Boy George were all over his wall in his bedroom, and he had every one of their records in his collection. Sting of the Police was also on the song as was another up and coming singer, Bono, from a scrappy little start-up Irish band called U2. The Police and U2 were two of the very few bands both Joey and I both liked.
Charity super groups became the hot thing after that, but Bob Geldof and Band Aid would always be the best, in our humble opinions. Hearing that song on the radio always took me back. I remember Joey rushing over to my house, yelling at me to turn my radio on, the first time we heard it played. And then there was the video that ran on MTV all the time. Joey still to this day knew every single word and could pick out each voice and name exactly who was singing what line.
Joey continued to wail about “spreading smiles of joy” and “putting our arms around the world at Christmas time.” Wow he was really lucky I loved him so much…and that he had never tried to pursue a career in music. We’d have been homeless on the street in five minutes. (Shh, don’t tell him I said that or I’ll make sure Santa has your name on the naughty list this year. And don’t tempt me, I know him personally—even Santa needs someone to do his taxes.)
“Hey babe, what do you think? I think I’ve got too many blue balls on this side of the tree.”
I answered without even looking up. “It looks beautiful dear. But I have a couple of blue balls over here that could use some attention.”
A huge bunch of fresh holly hurtling through the air knocked my glasses crooked as it landed on my head.
“Owwww!! Watch it, you coulda’ put my eye out!”
Joey just rolled his eyes and continued fidgeting with the tree. “Oh hardee har har,” he grumbled under his breath.
“Hey baby! Come here a minute and look at this.”
“I don’t have time for your balls, Brian, there’s too much to get done! Watch some porn or something.”
Snickering, I pressed on. “No, seriously, come over here, you’ve got to see this. On the computer. It has nothing to do with my balls, I swear.”
Joey let out a loud dramatic sigh, grumbling as he strode over to the couch. I shifted up to a sitting position so he had room to sit next to me on the short end of the sectional.
“What?” He asked impatiently.
I handed the laptop over to him. “Look, this guy with a blog posted all these current pictures of 80’s new wave bands and singers.”
The looks that crossed my husband’s face, were hilarious to watch, each more horrified than the last. Frowning, eyebrows together…mouth open…grimacing…head turning away from the screen. You’d have thought he was watching some horrific, bloody car accident.
“Ooh!…ugh…oh my gawd! Oh now she looks fabulous, but I bet she’s had some work done. Lord, what happened to him! Oh now, of course Nick and Roger and John still look stunning. But ooh! Simon! What is that fuzzy thing on your upper lip? Gross…Oh Adam Ant! You look like a fat biker Johnny Depp! Oh good lord, Robert Smith! He looks like that old bag lady that hangs out on the Sunset Strip. Aww, look at the B-52’s! Adorable. Ugh, David Byrne and Bob Geldof have white hair! White! And Billy Idol—he looks like he’s eighty!”
Joey closed the laptop quickly and stared into space. “They look so…old,” he said, sounding like he’d just lost his puppy.
I shook with laughter. “Well, baby…they are older now. What did you think, they would stay the same age they were in the 80’s?”
“Yes!” He swiveled around to face me. He was pouting and then suddenly his eyes got big as he clutched my wrist. “We don’t look that old do we?”
I shook my head. “Honey they are all what? In their fifties by now? Maybe a few are in their sixties? We’re only in our forties.”
“Forty’s not that far from fifty!” His hand flew up to touch his face.
I smirked as I ran my fingers through his hair. “Well there are a few gray hairs up here.”
“NO!” He bellowed and ripped my hand out of his hair. “Alexandria just colored it last week!” One thing that had never changed in the last thirty years—my husband still loved changing up the color of his hair. I think the last time I saw his real hair color on the top of his head was when he was fifteen.
I collapsed back against the sofa laughing uncontrollably.
“Stop it!” Joey punched me on the arm.
I finally got myself settled down. “Joey, we all get older, that’s just how it goes. I have gray hair. Do I need to color it?”
Joey reached up and flicked his fingers through the hair at my temples. In the last year, the hair there had been slowly lightening from my natural dark brown. “No! It makes you look distinguished.” He slowly smiled and his fingers moved over to lightly touch the smile lines around my eyes that were deeper than they used to be. “You’re perfect,” he said softly.
“And so are you,” I responded and leaned in for a kiss. He pulled back before my lips could hit their target.
“Will you still love me when I’m old and gray? When I’m fat and flabby?”
His expression was so serious my heart squeezed. “Darling, first off, you will never have gray hair. Even when we’re in our rocking chairs in the nursing home you will be the only old geezer there with purple hair. And as for flabby,” I paused to reach around and slip my hand down into the back of his waistband, grabbing a very healthy handful of his perfectly round ass. “You will never be fat or flabby.”
He squirmed at my touch but didn’t move. “Stop it. I’m serious Brian. You’ve always been hotter than me. You’re going to age gracefully into Sean Connery level hotness. I’m going to end up Robert Smith-laughable.”
I leaned back to really look him in the eye. He was really serious. Geez I was sorry I’d shown the blog pictures to him now. He had always been the most confident, strong person I’d ever known, and his moments of insecurity—so few and far between—always took me by surprise.
“Joey Whitcomb-Davis, I have known you since we were six, I have loved you since we were eighteen. How could I ever stop loving you? We pledged for better or worse. You’re stuck with me. And I would never let you turn into Robert Smith. Cause that would definitely fall into the ‘for worse’ category. Now…can I kiss you please?”
The smile was back on his face. “No, and please get your hand out of my pants. I have to finish the tree! If you’re still going to be around when we’re in the nursing home then there is plenty of time left for kissing later.”
I did not take my hand out of his pants. I did reach behind me with my free hand and pulled up the holly he’d thrown at me earlier and held it over our heads. “Mistletoe! Kisses required!”
“That’s not real mistletoe—”
My lips shut him up before he could protest any more. It was often the only way I could get him to shut up. I tossed the holly/mistletoe somewhere behind me and pushed him down onto the sofa, trapping him under me. With my other hand, (still in his pants) I squeezed his cute butt again and pulled his hips into mine. And discovered an early Christmas surprise. A very hard Christmas surprise.
Finally pulling my lips away from his, leaving us both breathless, I raised my eyebrows and smirked at him. “Somebody got excited by the mistletoe.” For further emphasis I ground my hip into his, eliciting a breathless groan from him.
“Well your damn hand has been groping my ass for the last hour, what do you expect? Now let me up, I don’t have time for this Brian. Later—”
“Oh but I think we need to celebrate our youth and enjoy every moment we naturally can, while we can. It won’t be long before we’ll need extra help from little blue pills and who knows what else.” I moved against him again, pressing my whole body to his while giving his ass another squeeze. His cock moved in his pants and he pressed against me with a moan.
“Oh you are so evil,” he breathed out.
I smirked and smothered his mouth again with mine until I felt his body give in and his legs hitch around mine. Merry Christmas to me.
~~~ The End ~~~
The tree got finished…eventually.
For fun reference:
Last Christmas by Wham:
Do They Know It’s Christmas by Band Aid: