I was a late developer on the question of puberty. I had been endeavouring to masturbate ever since I was eleven years old, without once managing to attain an orgasm. The first time that I actually succeeded was in the Michaelmas half of 1947, when I was already fifteen years old. It was during Christopher's first half at Eton, while we were obliged to share a room together. So the whole business had to be quite surreptitious, for it would have embarrassed me if he had known what I was up to. Mind you, he was probably well aware of all that was going on, despite my whispered enquiries whether he might still be awake. But it was only after receiving no reply that I embarked upon the attainment of this novel sensation, regularly on each Saturday night - always anxious that the creaking of the bed springs was going to awaken him.

As timid and furtive as a furry beast of night,
frightened of eyes and of light, I shut my sight
in a tight box, and open the door on secret
retreats, where my body freaks in spasmic joy.
Nimbus noises mounting to mushrooms in my head,
and a red lava flowing liquid in my veins,
I strain on the tiller of each racked nerve
to deserve the swerving rush of orgasmic release.
Pleased at prowess in new physical ventures,
intent on repetitions ever higher
on the sky's star-spangled scale, impaling
visions at the back of my eye, I smile awhile.
And now when stepping out for life's parade,
I feel within a manhood's accolade.

Things became easier for me the following half when we were both given rooms of our own - thanks to Henry who had written a letter of protest to Jaques that he was receiving no financial discount on the price of two rooms, despite the fact that his two sons had been cooped up together. I was then able to indulge more openly in perfecting the art of masturbation, and it was easier to discuss the delight with those friends who had been developing a mutual curiosity about such matters. It was notable how there were some friends, whom I knew just as well as others, with whom I never raised such a topic. I might list Jeremy Thomas, Gordon Simpson, John Mander, Richard Timpson, John Ganzoni and John Wood amongst these. But there were others like Michael Parker, Iain Graham-Wigan and, more recently, [I] with whom I could talk quite openly on the matter.

It was the friendship with [I] which now led to some further instances of homosexual practices. Nothing much, but still to be noted if any truthful account of my life is to be recorded. Just two or three occasions when mutual masturbation was performed, in the privacy of my room, as the culmination to a general discussion upon the extent of our knowledge upon sexual matters. But there was always such a fear of getting caught in the act, with the inevitable retribution in terms of scandal - if not dire punishment - that such experience was barely pleasurable.

This aspect of the relationship only endured for a single half. During the holidays, the full implication of the risk I was taking with my reputation sank home to me. The scandal involved over the [F] crisis had left me severely shaken. Life could be a lot easier if one didn't transgress such moral standards. So by the time I returned to Eton the following half, I had decided to tell [I] that this aspect to our relationship must be discontinued. And in point of fact there have been no additional episodes of homosexual orgasm within my entire life.

But I was indeed beginning to feel that I ought to try my hand in some overt flirtation with females of the species. And it so happened that G-Wigan had come back to Eton this half with stories of some beautifully sexy girl that he had met during the holidays, just waiting - as he imagined - to get laid. Her name was Clodagh, and she had written to Iain in schoolgirlish eagerness to acquire some pen friends from Eton. So a competition was suggested as to which of us might make the greatest progress, by letter, towards an eventual seduction.

I have no record of the letter which I wrote, but I recall that it was in a macho boasting vein - depicting myself as the irresistible cannon-ball which even manages to knock down any immovable nine-pins. The letter I received in reply seemed to be taking what I had written at its face value, with interest definitely aroused. By this time however, I was beginning to lose my nerve, and wrote to her in more modest, accurate vein. But I think that G-Wigan must also have undermined my previous claims with a letter of his own. In any case the letter I now received in reply was in a completely different tone, offering some patronising words of comfort to someone who was so evidently oversexed, but incapable. And I desisted from any further communication. I think that G-Wigan also blotted his copybook by making too overtly sexual suggestions. The time was not yet ripe for either of us to succeed with a girl.

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