Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, I could hear something stirring; it was my husband, that louse. I screamed down the stairs, 'Jack, get back to this bed,' but heard not a word from the weasel I wed. So I slipped on my housecoat and stockings with care, but except for those items my body was bare. I scoured the whole house, but my search was in vain and visions of homicide danced through my brain. When out on the lawn there rose such a sound, I ran to the door and tore open my gown. The moon on my breasts in the new-fallen snow gave the luster of youth that I had long-ago. When what to my baby-blue eyes should appear, but a man dressed in red from his head to his rear. From the leer in his eye to the hump on his back, I knew in a flash that it must be my Jack. More rapid than eagles his corsairs they came, and he whistled and shouted and called me by name. 'Now, Dusty! Now, Dusty! Now, Dusty! Please, Dusty! Now, Dusty! Oh, Dusty! Please, Dusty! Now, Dusty!' His eyes, how they twinkled; his dimples, how merry; his legs were like fir trees, his chest was so hairy. But a wink of his eye and a jerk of his head soon gave me to know I had something to dread. He stood there just smiling and rubbing his nose, so I gave him the nod and up the staircase he rose. He sprang to the bedroom and whistled so sweet that I followed his call like a heifer in heat. And you could hear us both scream as we dove under cover, 'Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good lover!'
Hello, Mrs. Llewellyn. –Oh, hello, Daffyd. And what can I do you for today? –I'll have a quarter of bon-bons and a copy of Gay Times, please. It's my only outlet. –Is it not on the rack, luv? –I couldn't see it. –Oh, it must've gone then. –I'm sorry? –We only get the one in for you, so I imagine somebody must've bought it. –I don't think so. I think you'll find I am the only gay in this village. –Oh, I remember. Somebody definitely came and bought it yesterday. It's got Hazel Dean in it and a very informative article on rimming.
There's something about a man in a Santa Claus suit that just drives me absolutely crazy. Maybe it's-- It's the warmth of all that red, hot, sweaty flannel set against the austere coldness of those black, patent leather, jackboots. Or maybe it's because those rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes bespeak a passion that is about to erupt from a man who just spent a cold, lonely year cooped-up with a pack of dwarves. I'm not sure. All I know is the sight of a Santa sets my body aflame with unbridled desire.