The Narrator In "Santa Baby" Reflects On Why She Got Coal This Christmas

Dear friends, admirers, and enemies:

I write to you with a dire warning. As you may have surmised from my hit holiday tune, “Santa Baby,” earlier this holiday season I was carrying on a rather indiscreet affair with the man with the bag, Santa Claus himself. I have reason to believe that this song might have made it seem like having a sexual liaison with Father Christmas is a good way to ensure the presents under the tree are not the typical socks and books and board games, but, rather, luxury items. 

Alas, this strategy did not prove as sound as it seemed at the time. Like many men before him, Santa Claus, the dirty louse, enjoyed my numerous carnal delights only to leave me with coal in my stockings this Christmas. Literally. And they were La Perla. 

In retrospect, I can admit there is some logic in my placement on the naughty list. I could see, for example, why I might be perceived as greedy. My list of material wants was almost as large and encompassing as my sexual appetites. The deed to a platinum mine would probably be more than little old me could handle all by herself. The staffing alone: Where does one find all those miners? Is it even a safe work environment? There are probably a lot of permits. 

Then there’s the sable coat. Yes the winter outwear is the height of glamour, but sables are adorable little snow foxes. I shudder to think of how many would need to perish to cloak my womanly form in their heavenly fur. And, admittedly a single woman probably doesn’t need her own yacht; I ought to have asked to charter someone else’s vessel instead. 

Then there are my actions. When I said to think of all the fellas I haven’t kissed, that’s because it was certainly the shorter list of men. And if you knew the men whose lips I’ve touched with my own — I’m not proud! (I’m a little proud.) But if there’s one thing actual good girls don’t say, it’s “I’ve been an awful good girl.” Good girls also don’t record their seasonal ballads of seduction and then play them on the radio, where their paramour’s wife can easily and repeatedly hear. To Mrs. Claus especially I would like to apologize for my lascivious behavior.

But as I lie in bed on this cold winter’s night, warmed only by the dying embers of my fireplace, it strikes me that the blame for all this lies on one man: Santa Claus. While Santa never explicitly said that I’d receive gifts in exchange for sexual favors, it was deeply implied. I never would’ve let a hairy old man hit the back if I hadn’t thought I’d find at least a convertible in my driveway on Christmas morn. 

So that’s my final advice: get it in writing.