The Den of Debauchery's Subannex

My pusher gave to me,
a gay werewolf in Racine

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If you would like to read "Cake Under The Mistletoe," the first of the Gay Christmas Werewolves series, I have it posted in .pdf format.

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Cake Under the Mistletoe

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On the internet, nobody knows you’re a dog. Old joke. It wasn’t that funny fifteen years ago. But, on the internet, nobody knows you’re a werewolf. New joke. And it still isn’t that funny.

Legend has it that children born on Christmas Day become werewolves. That’s just silliness, of course, given the millions born on that day, and the relative scarcity of lycanthropes in the population. But at the stroke of midnight between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, at the magic hour when animals are supposed to talk? That’s a different tale altogether.

My mother was no superstitious peasant woman that Christmas Eve in 1967. The indigestion from her mother’s eggnog turned out to be labor. I understand she spent much of it cursing my father for being frisky in March and making her miss Midnight Mass.

Childhood was easy enough. There was no sign of anything abnormal. Then, puberty hit me like a freight train of hormones and hair. One day, cracking voice. The next, a full-fledged loup-garou in the dining room. Thoroughly modern suburbanites do not take well to a werewolf in the family. My father, ever the shrink, blamed my mother for too early toilet training. Mother just sniffed and said I had to have gotten it from his side of the family.