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Saddles & Snowfall

CHAPTER 1

“I’m telling you, her donut has been glazed by him all year.”

“Noooo. You can’t be serious?”

Two blond freshmen in matching Santa hats giggle loudly from the kitchen, wearing not much more than a garland of flashing lights, red bikinis, and faux fur boots between them. They stumbled in here after me, already far too merry to even notice my presence or the December chill.

I’m hidden away, ransacking the pantry like a swaying Christmas racoon, hunting for the stash of solo cups I was assured would be in here. The first task in my quest to reign supreme at beer pong and enjoy a blow out, now that college is done and I’m officially graduated.

That’s right, this cowboy has officially leveled up. Art major, motherfuckers.

Although, distinguishing my Monets from my Manets is worth fuck all at this particular moment. I squint and search through the chaos of this student kitchen, relying solely on the flashlight from my phone. Typical frat house vibes abound. The light bulb overhead has blown, everything is covered in crumbs, and nothing has a hope in hell of living where it should.

Doesn’t matter—my buzz is starting to settle nicely in my veins, and midway through my intrepid search, I discover a jar stuffed full of Christmas cookies. Not just any old cookies, either. These are all shaped like cocks, complete with jaunty little Santa hats made out of red and white icing. Decorated dongs. Frosted frenulums. Sugared shafts.

Why, yes, please and thank you. It’s been far too long on a diet of pussy this year, and now that I’m single again, I’m not gonna lie … my horniness for getting with a guy has reached peak bisexual disaster mode.

Music thumps through the walls as I smirk and chomp down on a very well-endowed holiday johnson and his Jacob’s Ladder, continuing in my quest for the elusive stack of cups.

Can anyone blame me? There’s a cute guy out there with “fuck me” eyes who was interested in a party game where the point is getting sloppy drunk in record time. The shots I’ve already knocked back with him have set the tone just nicely for a night of being on Santa’s naughty list. Or bouncing in his lap.

From just around the corner, the two girls are still gossiping and shrieking with laughter, their overly loud, drunk voices floating across the room easily.

“I swear on my Louboutins. Saw her getting out of his car and everything. No college student is in a professor’s ride at five a.m. unless there’s been wiener-in-bun action.”

Snorting to myself, I take another chomp of my Frosty the Pierced Schlong and smirk. That is absolutely the truth. Everyone on campus knows the rules … Something about too many past scandals, professors being unable to keep it in their pants, blah blah. Academic policy gets damn near tattooed on the inside of your eyelids during freshman orientation. The staff are here for one thing and one thing only.

Sounds like whoever their friend is forgot to give her pussy the memo.

“Girl, that’s so scandalous. You’d be kicked out for even sniffing around one of the faculty members. The D must be premium if Izzie would risk her whole graduation.”

I pause midway through shoving stacks of reused takeout containers to one side.

Did she just say Izzie?

As in the same name as my extremely recently ex-girlfriend? A person who I’d tolerated being in frankly the shittiest relationship I could have ended up stuck in with, for months on end. Izzie, who I should really have ended things with way earlier in the year but kept giving second chances to, because I’m a bleeding fucking heart … That Izzie?

Drunk girl number one hiccups and then drops the bomb. “Oh my god, and it gets worse. She’s just outside, and I know I’ve had one too many Jell-O shots, but I swear I saw Brad here tonight. How’s that gonna be for awkward if they run into each other … Bet he doesn’t know Iz has been putting in extra credit all year, and that’s why she broke things off with him … if you know what I’m saying.”

Oh, hell no.

What the fuck?

The lying, cheating … Ughhhhh.

I shove the rest of the cookie in my mouth and can’t even be fucked with coming up with a creative way to scathingly curse my ex out. She’s old news, and any tiny lingering fragments of worry about whether I didn’t make enough effort, about whether I was the problem, just shriveled up.

Tequila and recklessness have the reins when I spy the stack of red cups jammed in the furthest corner of the topmost shelf.

I’ve already made my decision.

Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a game of beer pong and secure a sweaty, X-rated night with someone who is down for the idea of no-strings-attached fucking merriment.

Happy Christmas orgasm cornucopia to me.

With all the swagger of a sailor at sea, including a brief bounce off the doorframe when my shoulder collides with solid wood, I reemerge into the kitchen. The gossip queens have disappeared—thank god.