I Hooked Up With Santa Claus and All I Got for Christmas Was Chlamydia
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
It started the way all bad decisions do: with a plastic cup of spiked cider and a dress code I ignored. The Christmas party was already sweating pine-scented desperation when I arrived—ugly sweaters clashing, Mariah Carey ricocheting off the walls, tinsel shedding like emotional baggage. Somewhere between my second drink and a tray of suspiciously festive meatballs, Santa Claus walked in.
He wasn’t the Santa of mall photos and sticky beards. He was tall, lean, and clearly too young to own property. His suit was tailored in a way that suggested he had friends who worked in fashion or at least knew how to Google. The beard looked real enough, but the eyes—bright, mischievous, very much not North Pole weary—gave him away.
“Have you been naughty or nice?” he asked, sliding into the empty space beside me on the couch like it was rehearsed.
“Historically? A mix,” I said, which felt honest and festive.
We talked about nothing important. Work, travel, how Santa probably hates oat milk cookies. He laughed easily. He smelled like cloves and something clean. When he leaned in to tell me his real name—something normal, disappointingly unmagical—I could feel the room tilt. It was December, it was cold, and I was feeling reckless in the way that feels like warmth.
We left together without ceremony. Outside, the city glittered with lights and false promises. His apartment was close, which felt like fate but was really zoning. The Santa suit came off in layers, each one less whimsical than the last. What happened next wasn’t cinematic or sacred. It was a hookup: hurried, enthusiastic, a little clumsy, powered by holiday spirit and poor foresight.
The Santa suit came off in layers, each one less whimsical than the last.
The next morning, I woke up alone with a hangover and a candy cane wrapper stuck to my shoe. Santa had left a note—“Great night. Text me.”—which I considered deleting but didn’t. I showered, dressed, and tried to shake the faint sense that something was off.
Three days later, something was definitely off.
By Christmas Eve, I was Googling symptoms between baking cookies and wrapping gifts. By Christmas morning, I had a sinking feeling that the only thing Santa had delivered was an infection. Have you ever spent Christmas in the clinic? They delivered the news like it was my fault they weren’t spending the holiday with their families. Chlamydia. Treatable. Common. Still humiliating.
That night, I went to Christmas dinner with my family armed with antibiotics, cranberry seltzer, and the determination to pretend nothing was happening below the waist. My mom lit candles. My dad carved the ham. My aunt asked if I was seeing anyone.
“Not seriously,” I said, focusing on my breathing and not the persistent, maddening itch that felt like a secret Morse code only I could read.
My cousin launched into a story about her Peloton streak. My grandmother complained about the gravy. I smiled too hard, shifted in my chair, and wondered how many other women had spent Christmas silently bargaining with their bodies. I imagined Santa somewhere else, eating cookies, blissfully unaware of the chaos he’d caused.
When dessert came, I declined seconds and excused myself early. In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection—lipstick slightly smeared, eyes tired, still a little sparkly. I laughed, quietly, because what else could I do?
I went to Christmas dinner with my family armed with antibiotics, cranberry seltzer, and the determination to pretend nothing was happening below the waist.
I texted him later. Told him to get tested. He replied with a string of apologetic emojis and a promise to call. He didn’t. That was fine. Some gifts aren’t meant to be returned.
By New Year’s, the antibiotics worked. The itch faded. The story remained. I learned to ask better questions. I learned that even the hottest Santa can bring a sack full of consequences. And every December now, when the music starts and the cider flows, I remember that Christmas miracles are real—just not always the kind you want.
