J. H. P. Cash, 367
When I Were Nowt But a Lad 19
The more that you do, the more you get done. And I was getting done a lot.
If I think back now I cannot imagine how I fitted everything I was doing into each day that Summer Term of 1973. I was taking my 'O' Levels in 9 subjects, I was on the school swimming and water polo teams, I was Morris Dancing every Thursday afternoon and I was having sex regularly with Robert, Guy and MGK. And a few other boys when the occasion arose. Well, my parents, or, rather, my father's employers, were paying a lot of money for me to be kept fully engaged and well-educated and I guess that they were getting every penny's worth.
Hang on. Morris Dancing? Yeah, well, see: much to Robert's disgust, I had become a pacifist and conscientious objector to military service in the Combined Cadet Force. So prevalent were such ideas, even amongst the most privileged of young people, that the school had, a couple of years before, reduced the period of compulsory CCF service to just one year. You could then opt out and do a variety of alternative activities. Most non-militarists did "Social Service", which involved visiting old people and mowing their lawns, or helping out at the local "loony bin" or "Home for Spastic Children" (hey, don't blame me: The Black and White Minstrel Show, with white male singers blacked-up as what were only-just-not-called "nigger minstrels", was still a Saturday night favourite on the telly). I chose Morris Dancing, well, "because it was there" and because it seemed about as wacky as you could get. And Sir Thomas Beecham had once supposedly said, "Try everything once, except Morris Dancing and incest". So I thought that I'd try Morris Dancing. At the time I still disliked my brother, so I left the incest 'til a bit later.
Morris Dancing is, whatever they may try to tell you about fertility rites and all that shiz, literally "the opposite of sex". It will not be mentioned again.
There was one memorable evening, the night before a Maths exam (you can't revise for Maths, we all told each other), that I got fucked by Mike during Choice, had Guy in Robert's bedsitter between Junior Dorm's Lights Out and my own dorm's, then went back to Robert's bedsit to wait for him after my Lights Out. I didn't come with Mike. He quite often liked to send me back to my House having not spunked. I spunked with Guy, in his mouth (he wasn't that keen, but preferred it to being bum-fucked). With Robert I fell asleep soon after he'd spunked in my arse, without coming myself. We woke early in the morning. Robert was tired and grumpy, but let me suck his cock while I wanked myself off. He didn't bother coming again. He had an exam later that day as well.
Sex with Robert was still great. It was familiar, comfortable, almost predictable. And those are not bad things, necessarily, particularly if you are also having another relationship with an older person which is hardly ever comfortable or predictable (and that's no bad thing either). Robert and I were almost an "old couple", except that we were still teenagers and so still had sex quite a lot. But I knew that he would leave soon without a backward glance.
Sex with Mike was still, even now - in our second summer - edgy, dirty and intense. I was getting close to his (then stated) upper-age range. He had at least two other regular boys (not all those recruited stayed in the ranks very long), both younger and prettier than me. I was learning to be a lieutenant. But we still had sex.
As I see it now, Mike knew very well what he had in me. I wasn't really his "type", but I wasn't revolting either. And I was very keen. So keen that he could get me to do things, or do things with me, that few, if any, other boys would agree to. It should already be obvious to an attentive reader that I was not just mostly a bottom, but sexually submissive (or that was a big part of my sexuality, anyway). What might be regarded as demeaning and humiliating by most people was actually welcome to me. Hence the piss play. For Mike I think that the attraction was in the fact that it demonstrated my willingness to be as dirty as he could possibly want. If a boy would let you piss on him, even enjoy you doing so, then he was very definitely “yours” and what would he not do for you? I felt the same way, only the other way around. When he pissed on me, I was "his boy".
Mike sometimes seemed almost deliberately to test my compliance. We no longer did photo shoots very often. But one afternoon that Summer Term I turned up at his flat to find the camera, tripod and a variety of lenses out. And a neat row of phallic objects laid out: a pencil; a marker pen; a small, thin Germolene-pink vibrator; a carrot; a torch and, finally, a rubber dildo, the first I'd ever seen, actually shaped like a cock. The pencil, after some jiggling, came out a little shitty, so I was sent to strain on the pot and wipe myself carefully. Then we started again.
There were a few pictures in Mike's mags of boys fingering their own bumholes, but very few of them putting other objects in themselves. So the display I was giving for Mike and his camera seemed particularly daring. Even, I possibly thought (it would have been typical of me at that age), artistically challenging. Mike would suggest positions and I'd improvise my own. With each object I tried every position I knew of for bum-fucking: lying on my front, my legs spread, reaching back to hold my arse cheeks open so that the pencil or marker pen could be seen lodged in my hole; on my side, upper buttock pulled up; on all fours and further down, on my elbows; on my back, knees up to my chest, pushing the carrot into myself, then with my legs held wide by both hands once the object was safely home. When we got to the vibrator it was my idea that it would somehow seem appropriate if I was sucking on the cock-shaped dildo while pushing the vibrator into my bumhole. The damn thing was so heavy that this only really worked when I was lying on my side so that the dildo could be rested on the floor.
The torch was hard and uncomfortable. Mike thought that the photos would be interesting if it was switched on when it was in my arse. The photos did turn out to be intriguing and a little "arty", but this bit of the session made me sore. I wanted to move on, but Mike still wanted a shot in every position.
I wanted a break. By this point I'd persuaded Mike to allow me the occasional gin-and-tonic. (Hey, I'd grown up in the expatriate community in South East Asia, I had to drink gin-and-tonic for the quinine. I was only disappointed that Mike had no Angostura bitters so that we could make 'pink gin-and tonic'). I had a gin-and-tonic and a ciggie, mugging for the camera with the pink vibrator in my bum. Then I "smoked" the pink vibrator.
I was a little drunk. Only a little, but enough for the fat cock dildo, I thought. It was bigger than anything I'd ever had up me; bigger than Mike's dick. I mentioned this to Mike and he just nodded and smiled. He shot me spreading a huge glob of Vaseline onto the head of the rubber cock and smoothing it down the shaft with both hands. The dildo had balls, literally. And a flat base so that it could be stood up on the floor. With no one except Mike had I ever bum fucked myself by squatting over a partner's cock and (how does it go?) "sinking down the shaft". This hadn't been appropriate, somehow, for the previous objects. For the standing dildo, it was perfect. Giggling, tipsy, I agreed.
How do I remember this in such detail? Well, Mike had the photos for years - all the years that I remained in touch with him - and I went through them often enough to be able to recall almost every shot. I loved looking at them. They were pretty fucking hot, even though I say it as shouldn't. They were real, lasting evidence of what a bad boy lay beneath the good student, the responsible member of the community.
Squatting wouldn't work. I wasn't exactly Olga Korbut, was I? We took a few shots of me squatting with the fat head against my hole, but I didn't feel that I had enough control to let it into me in the position. I knelt and turned to position the dildo, slightly on a slant, and let myself relax onto it. "Relax" is hardly the word. Had I not had that gin-and-tonic I would never have managed to get it past my anal ring. Mike moved around me, clicking away, as I struggled. I recall now the shots of my face as I grimaced and sweated. Years later I learnt that it is a common ruse of nude or "glamour" photography to have the model half-turned away from the camera and twisted round at the waist to look back into the lens. It flattens the stomach, slims the flank. This was a position I naturally adopted, turning back to try to steady the rubber dick. Then I leaned forward, resting on a shoulder, reaching back with both hands to hold the dildo at the right angle.
Once the head was in it was firmly lodged. A sharp, deep pain wracked me. I didn't try to take the thing out, however. I lay on my side and breathed. Mike photographed me resting, getting over the pain. I was cheeky enough, or drunk enough, to demand another gin-and-tonic and to ask him to light me a ciggie. There were shots of me lying on my side, smoking, with the dildo hanging out of my bumhole. There was one of me pulling my arse up for a close-up, ciggie between the fingers of the active hand.
Eventually, extinguishing the ciggie and gulping the last of the mostly-tonic gin-and-tonic, I knelt up again. My knees spread, I began working myself down onto the dildo. Mike offered words of encouragement, but I was determined to do it anyway. A few years later I would look at those last photos of the shoot with disbelief, but some understanding. My desire to please was a need. Even at 14, although I would not have used these terms, I appreciated both the dissonance and the consonance between pleasing by working hard, being polite, helping Matron and pleasing by forcing a fat dildo up my arse.
The last shot had me lying on my back, knees up, feet flat on the floor, the dildo half in me, my fingers lying in the small puddle of my spunk on my stomach. I look down directly at the camera through my knees. I am smiling very slightly.
Sex with Guy was, um, different. I'll come back to that after a little respite.
Dab envied me the use of Robert's bedsit. He and Andy had to make do with sex in one another's beds in their respective dorms (usually Andy's). This was restrictive both in terms of noise and, well, variety of positions. Dab wanted to bum Andy, and Andy was gradually coming round to the idea, but there was no way he was going to allow an attempt in the public arena of a dormitory. I was prevailed upon to ask Robert whether they too could borrow his bedsit, but there he drew the line.
"Dab can get himself his own Big Boy and use his bedsit to bum his Little Boy," Robert said.
"Yes, but..." said Dab when I reported this to him, "...I'm not going to get some Big Boy just so I can use his bedsit, am I?"
"Aren't you?" asked Charlie.
I laughed and agreed, "Why not?".
Dab considered. "All the queer Seniors with bedsits are into little Little Boys," he noted. "And it would be a bit tacky anyway, don't you think? Just to do it to get to do Andy?"
"Huh!" scoffed Charlie. "Discovered morality a little late, haven't we?"
"It's not morality, it's ethics," Dab pointed out.
"The ethics of bumming little boys?" asked Charlie.
"Charlie," I asked, "remind us again how old Julia back home is?"
"And you've fucked her, right?"
"Only once! At half-term," Charlie protested.
"Andy's nearly 14," said Dab.
"Julia and I are going out. Properly going out," Charlie said.
Dab and I looked at him.
"Poofs! I don't fucking know!" said Charlie.
We fell silent. We were supposed to be revising. We all tried to do so.
Ten minutes later Charlie closed his books and said, "You fuckoffee?"
"Tea, please," said Dab. I asked for a coffee and Charlie went to put the kettle on. Dab and I continued working. When Charlie came back with three mugs balanced on a biscuit tin lid, he said, "There's always still that Nick Davies".
"Oh, yeah, the House Captain's going to lend me his bedsit to bum Andy in," said Dab.
"He will if you bend for 'im," said Charlie. This was a half-quotation from an album called Fresh out of Borstal, the only release, as far as I know, by an early boyband called "Fresh" (no, not the other "Fresh"). Actually made by a bunch of session musicians, the "concept" of the album was that it told the story of a group of hard-knock working class kids, fresh out of (or still in) Borstal ("juvey" in the States, "Young Offenders Institutes", now, in Britain). It was aimed squarely at the skinhead/suedehead market, it hit its target in Charlie, by now a confirmed "suedehead" - Crombie coat and all. One song, The Boys Lazed on the Verandah, is about "Mr. X" and, well, the boys lazing on his verandah, "never doubting / the attraction / of their sun-burnt thighs". Mr. X, it is made clear in a later song, Borstal Theme, is a friend of the Borstal's Governor, who allows selected boys round to his place to use his swimming pool in return for certain favours. Borstal Theme has a bit of spoken patter by a young lad about wot he done to get sent to Borstal an' wot 'appened to him there:
A geezer come round der, right - the Guvner - and he says, "I've got a friend and, like, if yer good an' that you can go down and visit 'im wif me - and he's got a swimming pool down there an' some of the boys go down there..." [percussion break] ...I thort, "Yers, if yer bend for 'im..."
"Yers, if yer bend for 'im!" became another of our little catch-phrases, applicable to or adaptable for any number of situations - getting onto a sports team (Dab, not me, of course), being allowed out to visit the local town, having another boy's second helping of chocolate pudding. "Here, I'll have yours if you don't want it..." Dab might ask a boy; "You'll 'av ter bend for 'im" Charlie would chip in; "Oh, I'll bend for 'im, no problem," Dab would smile.
Anyway, Dab had bent for Nick before, and was happy to do so again. Nick's bedsit, the largest in the House, was conveniently in our dorm. However, Dab foolishly didn't negotiate his terms beforehand and only post-coitus did he mention the idea of bringing Andy to Nick's bedsit.
"This isn't a fucking knocking shop!" Nick apparently responded.
"Not what I've heard," said Charlie when this was reported later.
"Nah, he's had half the Junior Dorm in there," agreed Dab, mightily pissed off.
"Why don't you get Andy to, um, persuade him?" I suggested.
"'Cos Andy doesn't like him!" said Dab quite fiercely.
"Needs must," I said.
"Would you feed Guy to him?" Dab asked. I acknowledge that I would not with a slight shake of the head. "Well, then..."
"What? What is Andy?" Dab challenged.
"A slag," muttered Charlie.
We had few very serious rows in our study, but we were often close to an edge, our banter so often consisting of light insults that we knew we didn't really mean. Severity of upset, however, was marked by degree and length of angry sulk, rather than by violence or shouting. Dab slammed the door on his way out.
"Shut that door!" said Charlie. He looked at me. "Go after him if you want, luv."
"You go after him. You're the one who's pissed him off," I said. "And Andy's not a slag."
"Not by your standards, no," agreed Charlie.
Dab would talk to neither of us until the following evening. And I wouldn't talk to Charlie for the same length of time. Fucking little queens. Except for Charlie, of course - and even he could do a pretty good imitation.
Then, wonderfully, an answer arrived for Dab (and an extra treat for Guy and me). After their 'A' Level papers had finished, Middle Sixth Formers were allowed home for a few days, if they wanted. It depended on which subjects they were taking (some subjects had papers later than others) and on whether they were required for cricket matches or the like. But it was generally regarded as a good idea to get off the premises any unemployed youths with no real incentive any longer to behave well at the school. House and School Monitors had to agree to cover each other's duties, of course.
Had it been Guy, he probably wouldn't have agreed to use Nick Davies' empty bedsit without Nick's permission. Andy would probably have refused if they had had permission. Nick was home for a week. Robert's week overlapped with his by a few days. Robert was looking forward to making initial forays for the summer season at the tennis club back home: there was a girl, Penelope, who'd "gone quite far" at Easter. I thought about telling Robert that I was going to be called "Penelope" had I turned out to be a girl, but decided against it: even Robert could do the occasional witty riposte.
Nick's bedsit was in our dorm. Dab would stay awake (usually revising by torchlight - our exams were continuing) and then go and get Andy when the whole House had settled down. I sometimes kept him company in the waiting period - it was kind-of fun revising under the bedclothes by torchlight (yeah, I know, definite Asperger's diagnosis today). We would test each other quietly. I sometimes regretted staying awake with Dab, in the few days before Robert took his break. Our beds were against one side wall of Nick's bedsit. The wall furthest away from his bed, thank fuck. Because it was bad enough straining to hear any sounds of sex once Dab and Andy had disappeared in there, without actually managing to do so. But they were very quiet. I imagined that I might have heard Andy going "Fuck!" a few times, but that was it. I fell asleep.
When I woke at First Bell, Dab's bed was empty. I went round to Nick's bedsit door and knocked quietly (why?). They were still in bed, snogging. I closed the door behind me.
"It's First Bell!" I said.
"Yeah, we heard," said Dab, unconcerned.
The dormitory wash-basins were against the wall directly outside Nick's bedsit and were now in full use. How were they intending for Andy to get out?
"Andy's cutting Breakfast," said Dab, simply. "They're two monitors down, right, half of them cut Breakfast themselves these days, and the House Monitors who are School Monitors have their breakfast on High Table. Chances are there'll be some spotty Lower Sixth guy at the top of Junior Table dolling out the rice krispies."
Andy grinned and stretched his arms luxuriously above his head: "Lie-in for me!"
"I was just going to stroll out when the basins got a little less busy, but since you're here..." Dab pulled on his pyjamas and dragged me to the door. Andy gave us a little wave as he settled back under the sheets.
"God, you two! I'm telling Nick when he gets back," someone said as Dab and I came out of the bedsit and went to get our towels.
"I don't know why you pretend to need to shave, Hutton, you only end up with your spodes oozing pus and blood," said Dab, quite accurately.
"Why aren't you cutting breakfast too?" I asked Dab quietly.
"'Cos I've got a fucking exam, haven't I?" said Dab. "And frankly, my dear, that boy is insatiable. I'd have nothing left for Physics." Dab was doing all the sciences, I was only still doing Biology.
"Did you...?" I asked.
"Nah. Tell you later," said Dab.
At Breakfast Dab had his Physics notes in front of his face.
"If you don't know it now..." I said
"...I'll learn it in the next 15 minutes," said Dab. "Shut up."
Dab had already done all the revision he'd ever need, but he was just one of those people. He'd be taking a last-minute look at his notes as he lined up outside the exam hall.
After his exam, at lunchtime, Dab told me about his night with Andy.
"It was just so fab, you know, just being able to relax and be private. We could take our time. Fuck, I hope I get a bedsit next year!"
"What did you actually do, though?" I asked.
"Actually, not much really. We snogged a lot, and, you know, cuddles and kind-of rubbed up against each other..."
"Frotted, I think the word is," said Charlie.
"Andy snogged?" I asked.
"Oh yes," said Dab, pleased - smug, indeed.
"And what else?" I asked.
"He means," Charlie interpreted, "did you bum him?"
"We didn't do that," said Dab, almost primly, as if the thought would never had crossed his mind.
"He wouldn't let you!" said Charlie.
"We're taking things slowly..." said Dab.
"So did he suck you? You suck him?" I insisted.
"Um, we did do that, yes."
"That's his chance of ever playing cricket for Yorkshire gone then," said Charlie.
"That died ages ago, if that's one of the rules," I said. And then to Dab: "You were in there all night!"
"We slept. I told you, it was nice just being in bed together with no chance of hassle. Just really... nice." MGK had banned us from ever using the word "nice" in any English class or in our written work. So I smiled and repeated, "Nice."
I understood completely what he meant a few nights later, the day Robert went home for his post-exam break. Of course Guy and I had used Robert's bedsit before, but now there was no rush. The TV schedule was of no consequence. In a sort of celebration, we got into Robert's bed together with our pyjamas still on and just cuddled and kissed. Our cocks were stiff, of course, but the usual urgency was not there - apart, of course, for the urgent demands of adolescent sexuality anyway. Dab had said, jokingly, earlier that evening, "Enjoy your little honeymoon". Being with Guy made me drop my usual cynicism enough to wonder if that was kind-of right, somehow. Of course we'd had sex before, and had been together in private alone before. But it was, now, as if we had our own secluded room, away from everything.
We just lay, holding each, kissing and chatting quietly. But soon we started to thrust our cocks against each other. "Frotting," I thought. "No, that word doesn't work."
As we got more heated, Guy looked up at my face, breathing slightly hard, and said, "You can do me again if you want. I don't mind."
I stopped thrusting. "But you don't want me to, do you?"
"I want you to if you want to," Guy replied.
I kissed his on the lips. I considered. This was difficult to say - risky somehow, even though I was by now sure that Guy and I were, well, OK.
"I'd actually rather you did me," I said very quietly.
Guy snorted into my chest. "What? With my little tiddler?"
"It's not that little," I said, taking hold of it through his pyjama flies. It wasn't a monster, but it was bigger than it had been at the start of the year. What... four-and-a-half inches? I'm sorry, I'm guessing. Plenty enough to bum me with, anyway.
"I'm littler than you," Guy said. He was, in every way. I was hardly really a Big Boy, but I could feel as if I was bigger than Guy.
"That doesn't mean I have to bum you and you don't get to bum me," I said. "Look, I like it. I really do. It doesn't hurt me at all now." That wasn't quite true, but Guy echoed my mental qualification: "Well, mine wouldn't hurt you, no!"
"Please? Can we try?" I asked.
"Really? I never thought of doing it" Guy, said, a little intrigued. "But wouldn't it be kind-of, um, funny?"
"I said: it doesn't matter who's bigger..."
"No, I don't mean that... I mean... funny-nasty?" He sighed. "Pooey?"
"it wasn't when I bummed you was it?"
"I didn't like to look. You wiped my bottom," Guy pointed out.
"Sometimes it can be, I suppose," I admitted. "But I'm always very clean. Honest."
"You really want me to?"
"More than anything else," I said. This was true, at that moment. I did, of course, want to bum Guy again, despite the hurt it had caused him. And I wanted him to become - had fantasised about him becoming - as eager as I was to be fucked. But I did enjoy being bummed and it was the easiest, most pleasurable, most definite way I knew of showing how much I really cared for another boy. I don't mean that I could only express caring sexually, just that... well, what I just said...
OK!" Guy said, grinning.
As when I'd bummed Guy, once we'd agreed, things moved fast. This time it wasn't because either of us was worried that the other would back out, it was simply that I was eager to get Guy's cock up my arse. We stripped and I got the Vaseline jar out and handed it to Guy. He put some on his dick and held the jar out to me.
"You do it," I said, raising my legs and pulling my knees up.
Guy was cautious. Too cautious.
"Get a big glob of it," I advised, "and just push your finger right in."
He giggled as he did so.
"Put two fingers in."
He didn't want to hurt me. He was gentle. Too gentle.
"It's OK. Push in properly. It's better if it's really slippery." I took hold of the back of his hand and pushed his fingers in harder.
By the time I was readied, Guy’s dick had deflated. He'd been concentrating hard on the mechanics of his task rather than the horniness of it. He stiffened again quickly when I reached out and stroked it. I dragged a pillow down and put it under my lower back and then pulled Guy down onto my torso. I whispered in his ear, just briefly explaining how to put his cock in me in this position. He raised himself up on one hand and used the other to hold his cock at my bum hole. His hips moved and his dick slid into me. He collapsed giggling onto my chest and his dick slipped out.
"It's not funny," I laughed. "Do it properly!"
Guy took himself in hand and inserted his dick again. He was propped on both hands now, in a push-ups position. If we looked each other in the face I knew that he'd start giggling again. Instead, I looked down, wishing that I could see his cock in my hole. I reached to run a finger across his pubis. He didn't fill me as Robert or Mike did, of course, but I loved feeling his dick in me. He was looking down too. I took my hand and put it on his bum, urging him to start moving in me. As he did so, I rolled back a little so that he could lower himself and we could kiss. I buried my nose in his hair, moaning. I almost said his name, something I never did when having sex.
"OK?" I checked.
"Mmm hmm," Guy gasped.
He turned his head so that his lips touched my cheek. He said something incoherent, thrusting away, and then kissed me again, fiercely. His hands were on my shoulders.
He raised himself back up on his hands. Now we could look at each other. His face was very serious.
"I don't want... I'm going to..." He panted out.
"Go on!" I urged him.
He did, sort-of making little quick humming noises to himself. He collapsed back onto me. I lowered my legs and his cock slipped out of me. I could feel his watery spunk dribble down out of my bumhole. He moved aside a little and took my cock in his fingers to wank me. I was going to stop him for some reason, but I let him. When I'd spunked, Guy ran a finger thorough the puddle on my tummy.
"Wait 'til I tell Dab," he said.
Little Spurt 08
As at any school at any time, there were some strange crazes amongst the boys at my school. The commercialisation of youth culture was moving at an ever-accelerating pace even then, but we still had crazes for collecting things that couldn't be bought in packs in shops and for makeshift, home-made toys like conkers or go-carts made from wooden boxes and old pram wheels. There was a Balsa-wood Modelling Club (albeit with Airfix models reluctantly allowed) that met during Choice. So, naturally, we made our own dildos. It was not a formal extra-curricular activity, of course, and there was no Club or Society. In truth, only a very few, elite queers were involved.
Large fizzy drink bottles were then made either of glass or else of a plastic much, much thicker than the paper-thin stuff used now for two-litre bottles. In them days we built our rubbish to last and to take up as much space in land-fill sites as possible. I wish that I could now remember the particular drink that came in the bottle about which I want to write now, but I can't. It was, I know, something that I didn't much like, so it could have been Dandelion and Burdock, possibly. Something that I'd certainly never usually buy. Let's assume that it was Dandelion and Burdock. It's plastic bottle had a rather startling reaction when you emptied it and poured boiling water into it. Before your very eyes it would shrink, deforming and shrivelling like some unfortunate dying creature in an episode of Doctor Who, and ending up... well, ending up as a knobbly, wrinkled tube about the size of a 14 year-old's cock. Well, perhaps a sturdy 14 year-old, admittedly. The girth was, um, impressive.
Who discovered this and how the fuck they discovered it I do not know. I have a silly idea that it must have been demonstrated in one of those Royal Society Christmas Lectures they televised for kids, which specialised in spectacular demonstrations intended to amaze and enthral. Or perhaps I'm just riffing on the idea of an eager, child-friendly professor demonstrating the exciting properties of different plastics and holding up in triumph this knobbly, translucent junior dildo.
There was a little craze amongst a select few of us. What need had we of dildos, you may ask? Good question. But there was an attractive naughtiness to the idea of shoving a foreign object up your bum hole. Dildos (then most often vibrating dildos and so usually called "vibrators" as a generic term) were obviously naughty things used by dirty girls. A few of us liked being dirty. And the knobs, wrinkles and ridges of the surface (each one unique, like snowflakes) provided for sensations no real dick could give you. Given the choice, of course, you'd go for the real dick, but the special value-added features of the Dandelion and Burdock dildo made sure that it ran a close second.
And then there were cigar tubes. Cigar tubes stolen from home. These tubes were, of course, completely smooth, and so a very different experience from the D&B dildo. The D&B you could work in and it would stay there, securely lodged up your bum by it's uneven surface. The cigar tubes would easily slip out. To explain it straightforwardly, if you wanted to get your arsehole feeling wonderfully, near-brutally, full when you wanked, you'd go for the D&B. If you wanted a bit of movement up your bum, you'd lie on your back with your knees up, slip a well-lubed, smooth cigar tube up you and then sit forward a little on to it, so that by moving your arse against your bed you could make the cigar tube fuck you.
For a really luxurious time, if you still had the cap of the cigar tube, you could fill it with warm water prior to insertion. The D&B bottles were so distorted that you couldn't get their screw-tops back on, so this de luxe feature was not available on that model.
In a way is was a pity that the British had lost most of the Empire by this time. With our imagination and resourcefulness we public school boys were more than ready to sail off to become District Commissions in hot, dangerous countries where you had to make your own entertainment.