1.3: Sex: looking for the first nibble

At the time of my enlistment, I was still a virgin; and apart from a few bold efforts to appear flirtatious in the company of the opposite sex, I had but scanty notion of how to give rise to any erotic intentions on their side. I felt confident that I was heterosexually oriented, but it was not a subject where I felt in the slightest safe. There had been that crisis half way through my time at Eton, when I had been wrongly accused of having a homosexual affair. That may have involved an injustice. At the same time I knew in my heart that there had been other such experiences, trivial enough in themselves, where I had enjoyed erotic games with boys of my own age. So I couldn't be one hundred per cent sure about these matters. There was always a sneaking dread inside me that I might yet surprise myself with such unwelcome psychological development.

As a result of this, I was hypersensitive over this period to any suggestion that I might be homosexual. The slightest hint of such a thought in anyone's mind would be sufficient to set me off in blushes - which of course might be interpreted as proof of my guilt in such matters. And there was an instance of this very early in my army life.

We had just arrived at Combermere Barracks in Windsor, and there was a natural tendency to enquire from those who came from other public schools, about the recent progress of boys who went there from Ludgrove. I was having such a conversation with [D] from Harrow. I had learnt how [E] had departed from the school with a nervous breakdown; then I went on to ask about another school friend, and was surprised when [D] grimaced. It immediately occurred to me he was insinuating homosexuality just because we had been friends.

Instantly, I knew that I was beginning to blush. I felt as if my guilt was there for all to read. In fact I knew how they were all taking note of my blushes - causing [D] to give an embarrassed laugh. And I knew how the Old Etonians amongst us might now inform him about the scandal in which I had been involved at Eton. I was at a loss to know what I could possibly say, and just mumbled something about not having guessed that [F] might develop that way. But my blushing on this occasion served to render more acute than ever my fear that the subject of homosexuality might recur in any form whatsoever.

When at Caterham, I did my utmost from the very start to give a more accurate impression that I was as randy as the next man, in my eagerness to seduce women. I hoped that this thought was conveyed to others by the display of pin-up bathing beauties, which I kept in the locker beside my bed. Indeed, there were a variety of crude jokes on the subject from some of our instructors. And even Sergeant McMahon, who would never himself have stooped to crudities of that kind, joined in conspiracy with the Trained-Soldier at the one dance which we all attended in the NAAFI, to make a bet with some attractive girl to walk over and pinch my arse - just for the fun of seeing how I might react. In the event, I saw her approaching on the arm of some other soldier, and she delivered her tweak quite deftly as she passed. I just stood there feeling astonishment that a total stranger should have seen fit to do such a thing to me, while regarding it as safest to say nothing whatsoever to the others about what I'd experienced. But Sergeant McMahon and the Trained-Soldier more or less gave themselves away by their ribbing comments, hinting that they'd been watching from the bar, which was way up at the far end of the hall.

There was one particular week-end pass when I didn't go back home to Sturford, but remained up in London instead, hoping that I might get a chance to lose my virginity - with a prostitute if necessary. But I didn't have any such luck. I was dressed in my trooper's uniform, which I like to think might account for my rejection. But it was a prostitute standing in a doorway near Bond Street, who humiliated me by actually turning her back on me, when I approached her to enquire how much it would cost me. And after that, I didn't have the self-confidence to approach any others. I just went prowling round Piccadilly, taking in the sights without committing myself by accosting anyone.

Then quite unexpectedly there was a touch on my arm, and I found myself being addressed by someone of roughly the same age as myself, who was in civilian clothes. He had come up because of my uniform, with its Life Guards insignia, for he said that he too was a trooper in the Life Guards - in his case stationed at the Knightsbridge Barracks. The less information that I gave him about myself, the better, for I knew how Potential Officers were a breed disliked by the other ranks.

We quickly got conversing on the subject of picking up girls around this area, which he insisted could be done with the greatest of ease. So I spent an hour or so with him, wandering into bars, and looking to see if there were any who looked eager to be taken to bed. We did pick up a couple at one stage, but at the same time, I felt that the whole situation was absurd. He was the one who was boasting that he knew the ropes - as indeed he did. All the chatting up was on his side. I remained silent for most of the time. And the girl who was supposedly my date, soon intimated to me (unveraciously) that she had a husband waiting back at home for her. I made my excuses to slip away very soon after that, feeling that I must don something better than a trooper's uniform if I were to make any progress in my technique of courtship.

The magic mirror pulls a tragic face,
grimacing at the sight it sees, representing
the spent germinescent bud, freshly
faded, and now but fodder for the rubbish bin.
Princely treasures stacked in a heaped pile,
those silent millions in the bank's echoing vault,
halt my hunger not one jot when the cheques
I sign are maligned as products of a forger's art.
Starting to croon the tune of a song not sung,
long since, I now wince at the coarse
hoarseness of my cracked voice, which currently lacks
a fine accent or melodious presentation.
A peacock plucked `s a sorry bird indeed,
whom none can find it worth their while to heed.

The inadequacy of my sex appeal, as displayed within these Piccadilly experiences, was in sharp contrast to the manner that I was encouraged to assess myself within other environments. There had been my fairly successful evening with Venetia Murray at the Rothermeres' dance, shortly before I began my National Service. And there seemed good possibilities that this relationship might develop further. She had written to invite me to come and stay for a week-end with her parents, at their home in Manningford Abbas, Wiltshire - quite near Sturford in fact. And this was fixed up during the first real break in my training, which took the form of a spell of leave over Easter, just before I went to Mons.

Venetia Murray's grandfather had been the famous Gilbert Murray - philosopher and President of the League of Nations - while her father Basil had died shortly before she was born. The rest of her family consisted of her mother, Pauline, who was the sister of Robert Newton, the actor, her step-father Sylvester Gates, a leading banker, and her half-brother Oliver, several years younger than herself: an equivalent situation to the relationship between Caroline and myself perhaps. Although I was a mere two months younger than herself, I think she saw me in the younger brother rôle; and I daresay that I found it difficult to wriggle free from this conception of the relationship that existed between us.

Although I knew that I was regarded by this family as the sort of match that would be good for Venetia to make, nothing felt quite right about the situation from my own point of view. I wanted to feel that I was the big seducer of women: not just a comradely younger brother. It was Venetia who was playing the dominant rôle, vamping me while keeping me at an appropriate sexual distance. It was evident that she had no intention of becoming too easy a conquest. And once I appreciated this, my enthusiasm began to wilt. Moreover I could sense that the parents viewed me as being somewhat on the naïve side for their daughter. And they were amused by my own uncertainty concerning how to contend with Poppet John - the daughter of Augustus - who was also a guest: notorious, as I was told, for her seduction of men younger than herself. I found her attractive, but her soft glances merely served to terrify me into withdrawal. I could not possibly tell myself that I was the brave libertine whom I aspired to be. But it was still good to know that my sex appeal had not entirely departed.

The misconception that I was homosexual still haunted me, however. There was another instance of this shortly after I had arrived at Mons. When on a week-end pass, I was experimenting with the idea of driving on my Velocette as far as the station at Basingstoke, and then continuing the rest of the journey by rail. But I needed to get the permission of the local publican to leave the motorbike parked in his yard; and I left the keys of it in his safekeeping. When I returned on the Sunday evening however, I had an unpleasant experience - as I describe in a letter that I sent home.

When I appeared in the doorway, I heard someone remark: "Here comes another one!" Well I stood waiting at the bar to ask for the keys of my motorbike. I heard some sniggers, and then someone was clapping out the time, and a small chorus began singing that song called The Roving Kind, stressing that particular phrase, and also the line: "his hair hung down in ring-a-lets." (His, and not her, you'll note.) Considering the fact that I am still suffering from the remnants of a Caterham haircut, I think this was a little unfair of them! Anyway the net result of it all was that I retired as quickly as possible. And for once the Velocette didn't let me down by failing to start at the crucial moment of escape. The other result is that I shall henceforward squirm in my shoes whenever I hear that song being played!

While I was at Mons however, I was obtaining my first taste of the London Season for debutante dances. There were quite a number of these invitations: some of them originating from the friendships I had previously established. There were Sarah Crawley and Jane Howell for example, who used to descend upon Eton to take me out to tea. Well I was now invited to join the dinner parties which they were giving for such dances. Not that I was always quite happy about my standing nowadays. Sarah in particular allowed me to perceive that I had slipped well down upon her list of priority for flirtatious attention, in that she had other fish to fry: most of them officers who already had their commissions in the Life Guards. [Omission].

There were also some royal occasions to contend with. One of these involved a dance at Syon House, where there was strict security vetting all arrivals. I remember causing a small flurry of concern in that I turned up on my motorbike, accoutred appropriately for such a ride. Officials ran up from all sides to prevent my entry through those gates. But once I'd managed to insert my hand through to the breast pocket of my evening tails, I was able to produce a genuine invitation card. I think I was going on that occasion as Rosie Cotterell's partner, who was the daughter of one of Daphne's childhood friends, and with whom I was having a very mild flirtation.

Then there was another occasion when I met up with Venetia at a dance being held in Buckingham Palace itself. All that I can really recollect about this one is that, when we were both leaving, we discovered that you can't summon a taxi from the door of the Palace. We were told stiffly by a flunkey that chauffeur-driven cars alone were permissible. And it required some degree of nerve, which we did in fact muster, to depart on foot to a point beyond the railings where the traditional taxi cabs could be hailed.

My greatest interest of all was aroused by [X], who was the daughter of a retired Colonel in the Royal Horse Guards. I was invited by her mother to join the dinner parties that she was giving for two dances that Summer. And I knew from the first time that I saw her that I fancied her: the more so after making her acquaintance. Although I felt that she might be interested in me, it was also evident that there were many others who had much the same desire for her as myself. It would prove necessary for me to bide my time before making any real progress towards capturing her attention.

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