Christmas is one of the most traumatic times of the year for me. I don't celebrate it, even if I have two young adopted sons, Colton and Packer, and my husbear came from a happy family, where they would go out of their way to make a celebration out of the holidays. You see, my childhood memories of Christmas were deeply traumatic. When I was growing up, it was a season of ritual degradation, humiliation, and endless physical, psychological and sexual abuse. I grew up on a remote ranch in Nebraska, where my father was a cattleman inured to the hardships of ranch life. When Christmas came around, so did my granddaddy and uncles. These were all heavyset, moustachioed, unwashed cowboys with thighs thicker than my waist and biceps so huge I couldn't wrap both hands around them. My daddy was huge, too, 6'4” and built like a shit brickhouse on steroids. He was a violent, abusive man. It really got bad at around Thanksgiving. My brother and me was paraded around in fishnet stockings and our sisters' old dresses. Theses were deliberately short, so it was easy for all these huge, built, masc men to pull up the hem of our skirts and expose our puny, hairless cocklets. We were so fucking degraded!
We would go down to town dressed like that for Christmas shopping. Passers-by, especially the masc truckers and ranchers, would point and laugh and my father would say he was taking his 'daughters' out for a stroll. Back home the sodomy was brutal: no lube, just spit and gun oil and our uncles and granddaddy lining up to fuck us up the ass and piss in our gapes. When we had taken piss enemas, we were forced to evacuate them outside in full sight of the chicano farmhands. These were masc, latino boys who made lewd comments, and then proceeded to inflict throat rape on us. Come Christmas day, our presents were usually female lingerie. I had a thong at the age of 11! After church and turkey lunch, the abuse began again in earnest. We had to lick hairy, swamp ass and drink the ripe, bean and beef farts of weathered mountain men. When my mother protested once, my daddy beat her with a bike chain until she passed out and shit herself. My brother and me were then fucked up the ass by nasty, unwashed, cheesy, shit-smeared dicks. We then had to clean off these huge, fat cocks. Our f@g cocklets were so inferior in comparison. When we became erect because of all the masc pheromones in the air, we were punished extra hard for being faggots, buttboys, queers, and sodomites. I obviously got very hard from all the str8 masc cocks pounding my punk pussy, but when my brother tried to jack me off, my father and uncles flew into a rage. They accused us of being queer and bringing shame on the family. We were NOT allowed to cum. They beat us with belts, bamboo canes, and pistol butts until we passed out. On the the 26th, the rape would begin again. It only died down in early January, but only because my daddy had to roam the range.
I finally ran away when I was 17. I drifted down to Boise, where I hustled truck stops, before finally meeting my husbear and rebuilding my life. Still, I never celebrate Christmas because of all the painful memories.