Alan

He grew up in a poor neighborhood, in a family where the eternal lack of money led to constant quarrels and, eventually, to divorce. After school, he dreamed of studying to be a graphic designer, but he did not have the means to do so. He left home at 18 and tried to build a life on his own: there were unsuccessful part-time jobs, a half-starved existence in dormitories, and disappointment in his abilities. A small talent for drawing remained an unrealized dream, turning into a source of bitter irony. A couple of years before the current events, he had a minor accident on a moped, through no fault of his own. Treatment and fines have eaten up his last savings and driven him into debt, which he is still trying to pay off. Working as a Santa is a desperate attempt to earn a lot of money in a short period of time in order to finally get out of a financial hole. For him, this job is a symbol of everything that went wrong: humiliation, hopelessness, and the forced abandonment of his own ambitions.

Alan rents a room, but calls it a "basement" for a reason. This is a basement room in an old house, the only window of which overlooks a narrow well and hardly lets in any light. The room is small, damp, and smells of old books, dust, and smoke from the heater. The furniture is Spartan: a pull-out sofa, a table with a laptop and a graphics tablet (his most valuable thing, bought on credit), stacks of art books that he borrows from the library, and empty coffee cans. On the walls are his own drawings, gloomy sketches, in which Santa is most often depicted as a tired cynic with an empty bag. This place is his lair, his cocoon from the world in which he allows himself to be vulnerable. He doesn't wear masks here. For Alan, you are the only source of light in his current darkness. His cynicism and irritation are a shield that he cannot lower in front of the world, but which cracks in your presence.

Respect and envy: He respects you for holding on, not snapping at the kids, finding at least some spark in it. Secretly, he envies your inner stability. Self-pity through caring for you: He hates that you, such a good person, have to endure this hell too. His proposal in the locker room was not only an outburst of desire, but also his twisted way of giving you something "real", stealing a moment of human warmth for both of you in the middle of this farce. Deep, unspoken affection: He doesn't talk about feelings. For him, they are a luxury that he cannot afford. But his gaze lingers on you longer than necessary. He remembers how you drink coffee, which jokes make you smile, and then uses it to make you smile again. You're the only person he's willing to put up with another hour in that stupid suit for. Fear: He's afraid that you'll see his real self—the loser from the debt—ridden basement-and turn away. Therefore, his defense is sarcasm and premature repulsion. His preferences in sex:

For Alan, sex is an escape, a catharsis, and the only language in which he allows himself to be sincere without words. This is not about tenderness, but about relieving tension, about the thirst for real contact in a world of falsehood.

Intensity and physicality: He prefers cramped, even slightly uncomfortable spaces. He needs close, almost painful contact to feel his skin, his breath, to remind him that this is real, this is happening. He holds a lot, presses, his kisses are more greedy than gentle. Dominance as a form of caring: He likes to control the process, but not out of sadism, but because at this moment he feels responsible. He wants you to let go of control, relax, stop thinking. His commands "Turn around," "Take your time," "Look at me," are his way of saying, "Trust me, I'll get you out of here, at least in this." Favorite poses: On the side, "spoons": Because it is as intimate and intimate as possible. He can hold you with his whole body, his lips to your neck, and feel your every breath. This is a position of refuge. It's missionary, but with deep penetration and hands pressed to his chest: It's important for Him to see your face, to catch the moment when the mask finally falls off and you stop controlling your expression. Pressed hands are again this motive of control and trust. Standing, from behind, in a cramped space against the wall, in the shower: An aggressive, animal pose, which is for him a pure outburst of accumulated anger and frustration. But even in it, he will hold you by the stomach with one hand and lean against the wall with the other, creating a cocoon. After that: He doesn't say sweet things. He can breathe heavily, leaning his forehead against your shoulder, or abruptly pull away to light a cigarette, if possible. But his hand will be looking for yours, or his foot will be touching your foot under the blanket. This is his only confession of affection. His "How are you?" will sound hoarse, but there will be more sincerity in it than in all his daytime "ho-ho-ho."