Every year during the holidays, I try to do one good deed a day through Advent. It’s dropping $500 into a red kettle. Other days, I pull tags from an Angel Tree and buy gifts for children I’ll never meet. Toys for Tots, the food pantry, clothing for the women’s shelter — all small ways I try to bring a little light to the season.

There’s a homeless man who spends time not far from where I live. I’ve given him money before, hoping it helped him eat or stay warm.

One morning, after a fresh snowfall and bitter cold, I went looking for him. I checked the spots where he usually lingered—but he wasn’t there. I worried he might not have survived the night. After a while, I gave up the search and went about my day, a pit sitting in my stomach.

Later, I stopped for gas and went inside for a drink. As I walked toward the coolers, I saw him — the man I’d been so worried about — coming up the aisle.

He was carrying a loaf of bread, a pack of bologna, and cheese slices. He didn’t see me, just walked straight to the counter. I watched him quietly, wondering if he’d pay… or if hunger would push him to run.

He stopped.

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a small wad of crumpled dollar bills and a handful of coins.

Relief hit me in a wave.

I caught the clerk’s eye and motioned that I’d pay. She nodded.

When she told him everything was taken care of, he turned slowly, almost afraid to believe it. His eyes landed on me. A small, tired smile crept onto his face. He lifted the money in his hand and said softly, “I never spend the money you give me on anything except something to put in my stomach once a day.”

That hit harder than I expected.

I stepped forward, handed him the money I’d brought, and he murmured, “Thank you. God bless you.” Then he slipped out the door with his little bag of groceries.

I set my water on the counter, ready to pay for both my drink and his things, when the clerk said, “It’s taken care of.”

My brain stuttered. “What?”

She smiled — a soft, teary smile. “After what I just saw… it almost made me cry. Let me do this one. Merry Christmas to you.”

My heart swelled so fast it hurt.

Behind me, I heard someone sniffle. I turned to find an older woman wiping tears from her face while the two men behind her smiled warmly at me.

“Merry Christmas,” they said.

“God bless you, dear,” the woman added. “There’s hope for the youth in this world after all.”

By the time I reached my car, I was crying like a child.

That night, lying in bed, replaying the day, something shifted in me. Kindness had ricocheted from me to him to the clerk to the strangers in line… and I wanted to push that ripple even farther.

A plan began to take shape.

The next morning, I called my hairstylist. Before I even finished explaining, she said, “I’m in.”

At the thrift store, I bought jeans, shirts, socks, underwear, hats, gloves.
At Walmart, toiletries.
Then I called a cheap hotel near where he stayed.

The plan was simple:
A couple nights in a warm room.
A long, hot shower.
Clean clothes.
A haircut and beard trim.
A warm meal someone cooked for him.

It took a while — and a sketchy drive through back streets — but I finally found him.

When I asked him to get in the car, he hesitated, staring at himself like he didn’t want to be a burden to my seats.

So I covered them with the bags of new clothes.

He barely spoke as I drove him to the motel. I got him a room, handed him the key, and told him, “Go get cleaned up and put on some of these. I’ll be back in an hour.”

An hour later, he stepped outside looking like a different man — or maybe like someone remembering who he used to be.

I took him to my stylist next. When he came out of her booth, clean-shaven with a fresh haircut, there was a spark in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. A spark of self-worth.

We went to a little diner afterward. As we ate, he finally began to talk.

He told me about losing his job during COVID. How his wife kicked him out after their daughter caught her cheating. How he’d been too ashamed to tell anyone… too embarrassed to ask for help.

I swallowed down my tears. He didn’t need my pity — he needed someone to see his humanity.

After we’d talked for a couple of hours, he asked why I’d done all this.

The only answer I had was, “Why not?”

I told him I’d ask around, try to find him a job, help him get back on his feet. His eyes filled with tears — and that undid me. I blinked mine away, not wanting to make his pain heavier.

After we finished eating, we walked to the car. Just before we reached it, he asked quietly, “May I give you a hug?”

I smiled. “You may.”

He wrapped his arms around me, tightly, gratefully. He thanked me for everything — for the money, the kindness, the last few days of being treated like a human being again.

I drove him back to the motel. Outside his room, he put his hand on mine, gently, and thanked me again — a soft, vulnerable gratitude that said more than his words ever could.

After a moment, I asked if I could use his bathroom. He nodded immediately.

Inside, I closed the door and stood in front of the mirror.
My heart was pounding.
Not with lust — but with something raw, human, and frightening: the desire to give him back something he hadn’t felt in so long — closeness, warmth, connection, touch.

I breathed in.
Out.
And whispered to myself, “Should I?”

Another breath.

Then I took off my shirt.
My bra.
My jeans, shoes, thong.

Not to seduce him.
Not to shock him.
But to offer myself in the only way I knew might touch the place in him that life had tried so hard to kill — his sense of being wanted, worthy, seen.

I opened the door.

He turned.

When he saw me standing there, vulnerable and bare, his breath caught.
Not in hunger.
But in disbelief — as if no one had looked at him like a man in a very, very long time.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

I knelt in front of him, unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled his pants down. His underwear was next.

His cock hung in front of two very large balls. I ran my fingertips over his sack and instantly got a reaction. As I continued, I would see little movements in his cock that corresponded with his heartbeat. He was filling out nicely.

I leaned forward, opening my mouth and took his cock into my mouth. I instantly heard a whimpering, "oh Jesus."

I sucked his cock for the next several minutes when I heard him say, "I'm gonna cum." I just continued on. Again, "I'm going to cum, I'm going to cum!"

I just nodded my head as to say, go ahead!

In seconds, shot after shot spilled into my mouth. What a load! When he was finished, I pulled back and swallowed.

I stood, guided him gently onto the bed, and lay back. He hesitated—just a heartbeat—before settling between my legs, his hands careful on my hips, like he was afraid I might disappear if he touched me wrong. What happened next wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t wild. It was two people enjoying being with each other.

The sex wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible either. He was just a little rusty, is all.

When I left later, my clothes still smelling faintly like his, I felt the kind of ache that isn’t entirely sad. The next morning, I made a few calls—small things, really, but maybe enough to help him find his footing again. Maybe enough to give him a little of the life he thought he’d lost.