Sex
Ooooh, Tannenbaum!
Every year I remember my first erotic encounter with a Christmas Tree Boy.
It’s December now, and the Christmas tree industry’s booming, and I just can’t get my mind around shopping and party hopping, Johnny Mathis and candy canes and marshmallows by the fire. This time of year, I can’t seem to think about anything but that most spectacular of species, the Christmas Tree Boy — that erotic masterpiece, with his athletic swagger, his quick grin, thumbs hooked through his belt loops as he guides customers through the mysteries of Christmas tree buying.
For one blissful month, I see these tall firm boys everywhere — in dreary parking lots underneath optimistically striped tents, on sweetly scented tree farms that sidle up to two-lane roads north of the city. I even see them slouching curbside at the big discount chain stores. Truth be told, I could probably do without the tree, which is only going to shed and die, but as for the Christmas Tree Boys — there’d be no Christmas without them.
Where do they come from, these strapping young men with their tight blue jeans, their big hands that smell of evergreen, their scuffed boots and tattered belts, their tousled hair sprinkled with pine straw? You can have your Nautilus men, your gym boys with their bubbling biceps and straining quads; in a test of strength and general stuff, I’ll put my money on the Christmas Tree Boys, who make up for what they lack in bulk with their style and sex appeal.
Sadly, the older I get, the more forbidden they seem. They’re so young, these holiday lumberjacks — just boys, really, their faces still flushed from the stress of final exams. I see them and think of picket fences; surely sweet mothers await them with batches of gingerbread cookies, gallons of virgin eggnog. I think of their girlfriends too, who must be blond young things in ribbons and sweater sets. These boys, my lord, they seem to be of another century.
I remember my very first erotic encounter with a Christmas Tree Boy. It was on the Gulf Coast, a balmy winter in my 14th year. I’d driven to the outskirts of Mobile, Ala., with my parents and two sisters, and we’d just stepped out of the big yellow Galaxy 500 when I saw him. He was wearing a blue T-shirt with “Panthers” emblazoned across the chest, an old pair of form-fitting Levi’s, and Converse low-tops with holes rubbed in the fabric. While my mother set out with my two sisters in search of the biggest tree and my father headed for the shabby discount ones huddled near the pump house, lumberjack boy sidled up to me, ran a hand through his thick black hair, and said, “Come on, I’ll show you our prime stock.”
Together we traipsed to the back 40. He had this Swiss Army Knife that he kept thwacking open and closed against his palm as he walked. At one point he drew blood — just the tiniest trickle, but it was blood all right — and as he brought his hand to his mouth and sucked at the fresh wound, I thought I’d be happy to give up telephone, TV and all my Madonna albums for five minutes alone with him. As we walked he asked me where I went to school, and what grade I was in, and if I had a boyfriend.
By the time we got to last year’s trees — the ones they’d never cut and that had grown too tall and wild to be smuggled into anyone’s home — both of us knew what we were after. He pulled me behind a Douglas fir and crushed his mouth against mine, and he’d already gotten my bra unhooked and slid one hand underneath the waistband of my jeans when I heard my mother calling my name. I scribbled my phone number on his forearm; he never called. To this day, I can’t trim a tree without thinking of that boy’s calloused fingers circling my nipples, his hand fumbling frantically with my button-fly.
Fifteen years after that first encounter, I found myself shopping for a tree one frigid December night in New York. It was a week before Christmas, and the snow had turned to ice. I didn’t have a car, so a trip to a tree farm was out. Instead, I walked to the dirty neighborhood grocery store, Gristede’s, where a ragtag band of jolly youths had set up shop by the curb. The kids were living in an old white van and selling scrawny trees on the sidewalk. The haphazard nature of their operation and the poor health of their trees did nothing to diminish the appeal of the Christmas Tree Boys.
It was a guy named Sven who sold me a little number not 2 feet tall that was nailed to a piece of plywood. As he wrapped the tree in newspaper, Sven winked at me and said, “So you won’t hurt your hands on the needles, love.” He had a slight and endearing accent — Swedish, maybe, or possibly Finnish — and his sweater was slightly off: too bright, too small, the kind of sweater no self-respecting New York City guy would ever wear. It occurred to me that perhaps, in New York, there weren’t enough Christmas Tree Boys to go around, and so extras were imported each year from the small cold villages of Europe, where this type of boy surely exists in great number. I paid Sven 40 bucks (this was, after all, New York) and shook his big warm hand. That night I sat alone by my Charlie Brown tree and drank shot after shot of whiskey while visions of Christmas Tree Boys danced in my head.
I know for certain that I am not alone. What red-blooded American girl has not shuddered with delight at the sight of one of these woodsy, wondrous boys kneeling before the very tree she has chosen, sawing right through its hard brown heart to deliver that poor tree, its days now numbered, to her waiting trunk? Or, upon choosing a pre-cut tree from the lot, what otherwise faithful wife has not watched the boy sliding the tree through the bailing hoop and wished for a moment that she could be the tree, supine, submitting to his capable hands? Oh, one cannot help but think, to be tied up in just this way by him!
Unfortunately, the inevitable always happens: Christmas Eve comes, and the boys pack up their saws and gloves and Swiss Army Knives, their ropes and bailing wire. They climb into their trucks and drive away, a sweet scent of pine and wood chips lingering. And then there’s the anticlimax of Christmas morning, a tree decked out in finery but devoid of any genuine sex appeal. That big green thing that once came shuddering and rustling from the brawny hands of some miraculous Christmas Tree Boy is nothing, on Christmas morning, but a gaudily glittering ornament. It is sad and somehow fitting that the holidays should end this way, with a tugging melancholy, followed by that tingly feeling in the gut and elsewhere — a feeling that comes from knowing that, like Santa Claus and “It’s a Wonderful Life,” like the Macy’s Day Sale and roasted chestnuts, the Christmas Tree Boys will be back next year. And while I’ll be one year older, they’ll be just the same as they always have been: a little too young, a little too good-looking, a little too sexy for a family holiday.
Michelle Richmond is a writer in San Francisco. More Michelle Richmond.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Page 1 of 403 in Sex