'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house... Wait a minute, I think someone has already used that line. Darn, why can't I think of things like that first? But anyway, it really was the night before Christmas and the only difference between me and a little kid was about 45 years.

I was restless, couldn't sleep, couldn't read, couldn't even watch the tube for more than a few minutes at a time. My wife was planning something special for Christmas, I could tell by the little hints and secret grins she gave me. She was fast asleep. It had been years since I waited up to try and see Santa, and I was feeling rather foolish to be up so late, visions of sugar plums or not.

I was still prowling around the living room, rearranging the decorations for the umpteenth time, when I heard a noise on the roof. Right, a noise on the roof. I must be going bonkers, I thought to myself, next thing I know I'll hear the sound of hoofs. Maybe I'd better get a larger girdle next time, the pressure must be affecting my brain. But it did sound like hoofs, and next thing I knew there was a commotion in the chimney and, as I turned to look, a pair of legs appeared, complete with 3" red high heels, white patterned stockings, and pretty red and green garters with matching bikini panties. The legs began to shake and were soon modestly covered with a red fur skirt, edged in white of course, and before my unbelieving eyes the rest of Santa popped out of the ashes and stood before me on the hearth.

Somehow the long white hair had survived the trip down the chimney without a trace of soot, and was exquisite lying on the red fur of the jacket. The bushy eyebrows had been plucked and the long eyelashes were simply astounding. Naturally the lips were a bright cherry red, but the ample breasts, even when compared with that famous tummy full of jelly were a bit of a surprise. What was completely unexpected, though, was Santa without his trademark beard. Not only that, but not even a beard shadow. I was jealous, and I knew right then and there what I wanted for Christmas and I was not thinking about my two front teeth.

I don't know why, but finding Santa was a crossdresser didn't bother me for a moment, in fact it seemed almost logical. There are no nosy neighbors at the North Pole, and you can keep the curtains open or take a walk in the neighborhood without fear of being seen. What with working only one day a year there is ample time to dress up whenever you feel like it and the elves are another species; they could care less what we crazy humans do in our spare time. What other job would allow you to roam the world in perfect security? You could go to work naked as a jay bird if you could stand the cold air in the sleigh, because no one would ever see you up close. If you were spotted from the ground no one would be able to tell what you were wearing, we all know pilots have long since stopped reporting UFOs because no one believes the reports anyway. The reindeer can't talk and Mrs. Santa either didn't know or didn't care. After all, if necessary it would be no trouble to fit a change of clothes into the toy bag and let Rudolph take the helm for a few minutes while you were changing. Other than hitting an air pocket while applying makeup the job was simplicity itself.

Santa began to smooth her skirt as I emerged from my reverie and remembered I was the host here, so I offered Santa the traditional milk and cookies. Hefting the pack of gifts over her shoulder, Santa followed me into the kitchen, where we talked for what seemed like hours. The same magic that hid the beard shadow evidently worked on clocks too, as the hand of the clock over the stove never moved the whole time we talked.

You wouldn't believe the things I learned that night. I found that there wasn't a Mrs. Santa, the rumors came from a time when Santa had been spotted by an unexpected Arctic exploration team and what was there to do but carry it off as best she could? Santa told me that she missed being able to shop for clothes, but with a factory full of the world's greatest artisans on the premises, having something new to wear was never a problem. She had even attended some crossdresser's meetings in various cities, at least those in suburban areas where there was enough parking for the sleigh and reindeer. The hardest part in attending meetings was controlling her "HO-HO-HO" and making it a demure girlish giggle when someone complimented her on the lifelike wig, or commented on the choice of "Sandy Klaus" as a femme name.

At last I could contain the question no longer, I had to ask why he had chosen to visit me this night. He said that each year he chose one special letter from the mail for personal attention and this year my very supportive wife had written one he absolutely had to answer. She had told her that with the budget so tight, I had not been able to indulge my passion for exotic clothing in some time and she had begged Santa to supply the outfit of my dreams. From the pack Santa drew the blue Victorian corset I had been dreaming of, with matching panties and stockings. Then out came a spectacular Victorian dress, with layer on layer of ruffles. Since the corset laced from the back Santa kindly offered to help as she modestly turned her back while I put it on. With her magic working at full force she awoke my wife, who was soon standing at the kitchen door holding my best breast forms and the necessary padding for my hips. Together Santa and my wife dressed me, with the bustle and hoop skirts help was necessary.

All too soon it was time for Santa to go and I stood holding my wife as the sleigh faded in the distance. As I waved good-bye with my new lace handkerchief I could hear the rustle of my skirts as I moved. How else could this tale end but by saying "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night"