Ah you merry gentlemen.

Christmas may come but once a year, but not so your faithful and virile young actor-correspondent. For here I am again, dear readers, with a lustful fistful of manly derring-do and my cup of juices – both creative and procreative – fair near overfloweth.

So with no further festive dismay “yule” permit me to impart the tale of when I served, as is my wont, that saucy penner of adult prose, the lovely Surrey filly Jilly Cooper.

It was in 1992, among the crowd at Goodwood that I spied her through a gap in the stable wall, getting ready for a spot of polo. Seeing her there, struggling into an all too tight pair of jodhpurs, I was hardly going to walk on by. I knew just what I needed.

Tools of the trade:
Loafers
White cotton socks
An ivory shoehorn
A big mallet
A good hard hat on
A nice big hard on

Well needless to say as I entered her private area Jilly literally whinnied with delight. “It looks like you need some help kitting up,” I quipped as I removed my gloves and took a languid step towards her half-dressed legs and gestured at her problematic overhang of thigh.

She consented, naturally, upon which I unsheathed Excalibur – my ivory shoehorn – an item which, my faithful readers, one should never leave home without.

“This may feel a little cold,” I warned. “I suggest you put my bit in your mouth,” and I handed her a spare one that I had in my overcoat pocket.

Oh! I was in seventh Heaven as I slid my horn in between the soft material of the jodhpurs and even softer material of Jilly’s silken flesh, and I could see she was enjoying it too. Indeed, the sight of her drool running all down my bit spurred me on too much, and in the heat of it I lost control and snapped the head off of Excalibur.

My precious horn was stuck fast in Jilly’s jodhpurs and was never to be recovered, even to this day! The wooden end in my hand, well, I just tossed it into the manger as I left.

I’m afraid on this occasion the pleasure was not mine at all. Not at all.

Happy Christmas,

N.H.