Santa Took My Virginity – Part 1

Everyone in this story is 18+

I had just taken a shower as I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, completely naked, the faint glow of Christmas lights from outside casting streaks of red and green across my skin. I tilted my head, squinting at my reflection, like maybe, just maybe, there was something I’d missed before. Some hidden feature that screamed special or sexy.

Nope. Still just me.

Scrawny arms, narrow shoulders, no muscle definition to speak of. My chest was flat—smooth and pale. And my stomach? Completely unremarkable. Not soft, but not toned either. Just… there.

I glanced lower. My dick—flaccid and sitting in a soft nest of auburn curls—hung there, just as average as the rest of me. Not too big, not too small. A completely forgettable five-and-a-bit inches.

My eyes traveled back up to my face, and I cringed. I still looked like a kid. Round cheeks, soft jawline, My auburn hair was a hopeless mess as usual, and my hazel eyes—more brown than anything—stared back at me, unimpressed.

If I were to sum myself up? The human equivalent of a plain bagel. No cream cheese, no toppings. Just… Hayes.

I sighed and pulled on a pair of Christmas Pj’s, still staring at the mirror like it was going to give me some kind of validation. It didn’t. It never did.

The one thing I did know about myself, though? I was gay. Had been for as long as I could remember, even if I’d only come out a few months ago. Not that it mattered. Coming out hadn’t exactly changed my life. I was still an 18-year-old virgin. Still hadn’t done… well, done anything.

I flopped back onto my bed with a groan, staring up at the ceiling. Christmas had been nice. My parents had gone all out this year, showering me with presents—clothes, gadgets, even some expensive cologne I hadn’t asked for. But none of it mattered.

Because the one thing I wanted the most wasn’t under the tree.

Dick.

I covered my face with my hands, groaning again. God, I was pathetic. But maybe…

My hand reached out to grab my phone from the nightstand. An idea—stupid, desperate, and completely inappropriate—started forming in my head.

I unlocked my phone, and the screen lit up my face. A grin spread across my lips as I opened the app.

This might actually work.

I stared at my phone screen, thumb hovering over the app store icon. This was stupid. Really stupid. But after 18 years of waiting for nature to take its course, I figured maybe nature needed a little nudge. Prince Charming wasn’t exactly banging down my door, so I’d just… get this over with. Rip the band-aid off.

It wasn’t like I was looking for love. Not now, anyway. I just wanted to stop being a virgin. A quick hookup, something simple. Then, when Mr. Right did come along, I’d be ready. No fumbling, no awkward confessions.

With a deep breath, I downloaded Grindr.

Setting up a profile was easy enough: no face pic, just some vague stats, and a lot of second-guessing. The moment I went live, my screen flooded with pings. My heart jumped as I scrolled through faceless torsos, awkward selfies, and some... very detailed close-ups. Yikes.

One profile stood out—a headless picture of someone wearing a Santa mask. I snorted. “Santa,” really? I shook my head and kept scrolling, ignoring the first few pings from other guys.

Then, a message popped up from Santa himself:
Santa: Hi. U ever wanna get fucked by Santa?

I laughed, rolling my eyes, but replied anyway.
Me: No, not really. He’s too old and fat. Lmao.

The reply came almost instantly:
Santa: What if he was young and fit?

I paused.
Me: Hm. Getting more interesting.

The chat moved fast, like most things on Grindr. Within minutes, we’d established we were both 18—barely legal, but at least on equal ground.

I hesitated before typing my next message:
Me: Okay, but full honesty? I’ve never done anything. Like, anything-anything.

There was a long pause, and I almost put my phone down. Then:
Santa: I’d love to take your virginity.

My cheeks flushed. I stared at the words, feeling a mix of nerves and… something else. Excitement? Curiosity?

A new message buzzed in:
Santa: But I’d want it to be anonymous, and I wanna see you.

Before I could reply, he sent a picture—a blurry, shadowy shot of a bare torso and an smoothly shaved erect dick that looked… substantial, to say the least.

I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of my own breathing. Against my better judgment, I snapped a quick pic of myself in the mirror. I’d already come out, so it wasn’t like I had much to lose.

Santa: Hey, you’re cute.
Santa: And you go to my school.

My stomach dropped. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard as I panicked, but another message came through:
Santa: Don’t worry. This stays between us.

‘This is crazy!’ I thought. But curiosity got the better of me.

Santa: I have a crazy idea.

The next few messages came rapid-fire:
Santa: At the Christmas party at school, I’ll dress as Santa.
Santa: I’ll be in that old supply room near the auditorium—no one ever uses it.
Santa: I wanna try a guy, but I wanna be anon. It’ll be dark.
Santa: Be lubed up and ready. Suck me and ride me. Then you leave. Be there at exactly 21:00.
Santa: Will delete this profile now.

And just like that, the profile disappeared.

I stared at my screen, heart pounding. What the hell had I just agreed to?

The picture of “Santa” had been too blurry to make out any real details—just enough to tell he was fit, built, and packing. But that didn’t stop my mind from wandering.

He said he went to my school, and while that narrowed things down, it didn’t exactly help. Plenty of guys went to my school. Plenty of guys who could be him.

And sure, most people might have one or two hot guys in their class. I had three.

It was both a blessing and a curse.

Could it be someone in my class? It was something about the way he wrote. What if it was...

Ezra Wood.

The bad boy. Ezra was the kind of guy who could walk into a room and instantly command attention. He didn’t have to try—people just gravitated toward him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like he didn’t care what anyone thought. Or maybe it was that wild, magnetic energy he gave off, always ready to push boundaries, to do something reckless and fun.

Ezra loved to party, and everyone knew it. Stories about him sneaking out of his parents’ house or hooking up with girls in the back of his beat-up car circulated like urban legends. He wasn’t just popular; he was notorious.

And he looked the part, too. Tall, with broad shoulders and a frame that somehow managed to look athletic without him ever stepping foot in the gym. His lighter hair always seemed to be a mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his style was all over the place—half vintage, half punk, but always him. His skin was fair, his jawline sharp, his eyes piercing enough to make you forget how to breathe if he ever looked your way.

I’d seen him naked more times than I’d like to admit—thank you, mandatory PE showers. And yeah, he was hot everywhere, even there. His dick, flaccid, had been seared into my brain: short but thick.

Still, dicks could be very different when they were hard. Growers, showers, all that. I wasn’t exactly an expert, but I knew enough to understand that a guy’s soft appearance didn’t always tell the whole story.

Which made the blurry picture from “Santa” impossible to match.

And if it wasn’t Ezra, then who could it be?