J. H. P. Cash, 367

When I Were Nowt But a Lad 23

I stared blankly our of the study window clicking my fingers anxiously, seeing nothing. There was nothing to see, really. The side of the Changing Room block and a corner of the rough field where the really delinquent boys were allowed to play casual games of football.

Dab came back in and grinned.

"Fuck, Dab, I though they'd never leave!"

"Hey, that's my mater and pater you're talking about! And, anyway, perhaps if you hadn't slathered on the colonial charm quite so thick..."

I grabbed him, hugged him and turned my head slightly to kiss his cheek.

He turned and kissed me back, his hands moving down from the manly-hug upper back region to the queer-hug waist.

Dab settled his chin on my shoulder.

"Jesus," I sighed, "I thought maybe you'd have gone all funny about this..."

"Want a piece of cake?" Dab asked, nodding at the large cake sitting in an open tin on top of his tuck box. His mum had baked me a birthday cake.

"It's not 'til tomorrow," I pointed out.

"Yeah, still a hot sprog for another few hours," Dab leered.

I kissed him properly, a little aggressively. He was taller than me, possibly even more so than he had been seven or so weeks earlier, but part of my anxiety, waiting for him to return from seeing his parents off in their car, had been an eager need to try out a new-found sexual assertiveness.

Dab pulled his face away and looked at me, a little surprised. I reached for his belt buckle and started undoing his flies. I pushed his trousers and underpants down to his knees as he stood there, a little dazed, but grinning.

I bent to take his cock in my mouth.

Charlie walked in.

"Fucking hell, you two, can't you wait five minutes?"

"You should knock. This isn't your study, you know," Dan pointed out.

"Thank Christ, if you're going to be getting your bits out at the drop of a hat."

Dab "adjusted his clothing", as the notices in public lavatories reminded one on exit.

"Anyway, saw the Reverend had left, so I thought I'd say hello," said Charlie, looking uncertainly at my groin before giving me a hug - the manly-back-slapping type. I ground my groin into him as Dab hugged him from behind.

"Geroff, bumboys!" Charlie protested, wriggling free. "Thank fuck I've got my own bedsit."

As a Scholar who now had accumulated, over two years, a total of 14 1s in his 'O' Levels, Charlie was one of the Lower Sixth Formers who had been given a bedsit. It was one of the converted studies on the first floor, and Dab and I had a study just down the corridor. That year's Middle Sixth was large, and there were a couple of Oxbridge candidates who had stayed on for the Upper Sixth, so Dab and I were part of a small group of Sixth Formers still in a dormitory, with a two-stud for use during the day.

Dab and Charlie needed to take their empty trunks up into the attic, and I needed to get my full one down. I was allowed to leave all my stuff at school over the holidays, but only in the attic.

"Hot work, that," noted Dab. "I think I'll go and have a shower. Anyone else?"

I grinned.

Charlie rolled his eyes: "I think I'll just go and have a little lie-down in my bedsit, thanks lads."

"Ooooh, bedsit! Quite the little toff now!" mocked Dab.

Charlie gave him a pitying, superior smile.

The Senior Changing Room was deserted, as we'd hoped. It was mid-afternoon but boys were still arriving in trickles for the first evening of term.

We stripped off quickly, both hard before we'd even taken our underpants off. Dab, naked, looked a little sturdier than I remembered.

"You look good," Dab said quietly. "I've never seen you so sun-tanned."

I looked down at myself. I thought of Kai. But I did look OK, I thought: tan lines and all. Whatever Noel Coward may have thought, in the "Malay Straits" English men did not often join the mad dogs out in the midday sun and I always found sun-bathing quite boring. Just having been out and about with Robin all summer meant that, this time, however, I had a decent tan.

"Not as good as you," I said, truthfully, moving closer to him and laying our dicks alongside each other. I took them in my hand and started wanking us. We both looked briefly at the action and then Dab looked up and I kissed him.

"I think we should go in the showers," he suggested. We were still in the open Changing Room. I pulled him by his cock into the shower room.

We turned on three showers full-blast and directed their heads into a central downpour.

"Oh fuck," said Dab as we embraced under the water, "I haven't done anything all fucking summer." We snogged, kissed each other's necks and shoulders, ran our hands over each other's bodies. I caught our two cocks again and stroked us together. We both seemed near coming.

"I want to bum you," I told Dab.

He grinned: "Be my guest."

We used carbolic soap. For it's usual purpose - soaping each other up - but as lube also, for want of anything else immediately to hand. I don't suppose that you can even get carbolic soap these days, but, just in case, I wouldn't recommend it as a lubricant for anal sex. It does the job, but leaves a slight after-burn.

We'd moved aside from the torrential showers and Dab leaned against the tiled wall, his knees slightly bent. It looked slightly crude, animal-like: his arse pushed back, offered up. It was just right for how I felt and what I wanted. And just right for Dab too. He moaned loudly as I pushed my cock into him. His head was hanging down, his hands flat against the tiles. I took hold of his hips, but my hands slipped. I lay forward onto his back and reached under his chest to grab his shoulders from that side. He pushed his arse further back.

"Fuck, I've missed this..." he muttered. He raised his head and knocked his forehead lightly against the tiled wall.

Soaped-up sex is all very well, in theory and in porn films, but the other thing about carbolic is that it dries very quickly on the skin (not to mention drying the skin terribly - you would have thought, wouldn't you, that an educational establishment would want to teach its charges that you're never too young to moisturise? But no...). The soap turned from slippy to tacky.

I moved us back under the shower. As the soap was washed off, I reached down and started wanking his dick.

"I'll spunk..." he warned.

"It's OK. I'm nearly there."

Dab straightened up a little as he squirted. He lay forehead against the tiles as I spurted into his bum.

We ran a bath and got into it together. I sat at the back and Dab sat between my legs, leaning back against me. I played idly with his half-hard cock.

"That hit the spot," he commented. "But I can't wait to be in bed together."

"Do you think we'll get any hassle in Senior Dorm?"

"Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Dab muttered. "The showers are OK for a quickie..."

"Up against the wall..." I noted.

"...but give me liey-downy sex any day."

Hearing Dab's familiar phrase again, I hugged him tightly.

He turned over to face me, trying for another snog, but it was too awkward in the bath. He got out and pulled me back to the shower area but did not turn on any of the showers. This time our embrace was less urgent, our kissing gentler, slower, more loving.

I lay the said of my face against his shoulder and said, "Fuck, I'm so, so glad. Really, really happy."

"You didn't really think I'd be giving this stuff up, did you?" Dab asked.

"I went through a bit when I wasn't sure about anything."

"Gotta piss..." Dab said, breaking away.

I pulled him back. "Piss here. Piss on me. Us." I pulled his body back against mine.

"Really?" he asked.

I kissed him.

It took a little while, but soon Dab grunted in relief and the warm flood soaked our stomachs and ran down our legs.

Dab reached to turn the shower on but I stopped him and knelt to lick his soaking balls and start sucking his cock.

"God, you're such a pervert," Dab noted.

I nodded, happy to agree.

When he finally turned on the shower, I wrapped my arms tightly around his thighs and nursed on his cock.

During the last few days of my holiday I had started to half-rehearse a miserable monologue which I looked forward to delivering to Dab back at school. The encounter with the Contessa and the barely-recognised sense of whatever it was (fellowship? a place in the world?) that she and the steward had somehow conveyed had brightened me greatly. Arriving back to an empty school the day before everyone else had threatened to plunge me into "poor me" mode.

There were lists of public exam results on the House notice board, alongside study and dormitory assignments. Of course it was right that Charlie, with his perfect results, should be amongst those new Sixth Formers to get a bedsit, but my heart fell at the prospect on sharing the small, seven-bed Senior Dorm with the other less-impressive members of the Lower Sixth.

Robert had got his grades for university and I briefly wished that I had an address to write to congratulate him. I couldn't decide whether my own exam results looked better or worse alongside those of my peers.

Not being able to find my Housemaster, I staked my own and Dab's claims to two beds in a slightly separate corner of the dorm, and went to see if Mike was in.

He took a while to open the door of his flat. When he did, he didn't immediately step aside to let me in. Instead, he leant against the jamb.

"Well, speak of the devil. You're back early," he said.

"I told you I would be - I wrote when I had the flight date."

"Yeah, probably." He looked at me. I had my BOAC flight bag over my shoulder.

"Come straight off the plane, have we?"

"Actually, it's presents for you, but if you don't want them..."

"Presents for teacher?" he grinned. "And what do you want in return? You know I'm not really into Sixth Formers."

I glanced up the stairs towards the front door of the other bachelor master's flat.

"It's OK. Not back yet."

"I'm not in the Sixth Form 'til term starts tomorrow. And I don't want anything." I was used to Mike being difficult, but there was a playfulness in him now. And I wasn't really feeling that playful.

I unzipped the bag and took out a carton of Kent ciggies.

"Duty Free?" Mike asked as he took them.

"They're so cheap in the shops it's not worth the hassle of trying to buy Duty Free."

"Nice thought anyway. Thanks." He bounced the carton off my head and stood aside. "I suppose you'd better come in."

As he closed the door behind me I made to kiss him. Fucks knows why. We'd kissed sometimes, very occasionally, usually when fucking. Now Mike stood limply, his hands by his sides, not avoiding me but passively awaiting the end of my little demonstration. When I quickly withdrew in embarrassment he bounced the carton of Kent on my head again and led the way into the living room.

Dense smoke, more pungent than ordinary tobacco smoke, filled the room. The sofa had been replaced by several cubes which had been opened to form a mattress that nearly covered the floor. Sitting on this was a young man with long hair, beads and a tie-dyed t-shirt. What I took to be the rest of his clothes were scattered across the foam pieces and overflowing from a huge canvas rucksack. I realised that the smoke was pot. Not something I'd previously associated with Mike.

"This is Alastair," said Mike. "Alastair's an illustrious Old Boy of my last school. Star of my 'A' Level English set. Turned down Oxbridge to go to some concrete hippy slum somewhere. Alastair, this is the young man we were just talking about."

I understood the "Speak of the devil" remark now. "It's all lies," I said.

"I hope not, man. He made you sound really cool." I looked at Mike. He smiled and shrugged.

"Alastair was a very good student. Not only was he very pretty in his day, but he grew to appreciate the younger boy himself. He's going to be a teacher."

I looked as Alastair. He was very good-looking: still, almost, pretty. Yeah, he could have been a hot sprog. I had trouble imagining him as a teacher though.

"Not in one of these places," Alastair clarified.

"Alastair's kind-of down on privilege, man," Mike said, sneering slightly. And slurring his words slightly, I now realised.

"Um, this is for you too," I said, taking a bottle of Glenfiddich , Mike's favourite whisky, from the flight bag.

"That's an even nicer thought, "Mike smiled. "Alastair doesn't approve of alcohol, do you, Alastair?"

"It's cool, man, if that's your bag. I use the stuff. I just don't mix it with weed, y'know?"

"Oh, well, I think I will," said Mike, opening the bottle and reaching for a couple of glasses. So he had been smoking pot. Finally, something that really shocked me.

"Ah, can I have a gin and tonic?" I asked. "I still don't like that stuff."

Mike shook his head sadly and said to Alastair, " The English, hey?".

Alastair just nodded, "Aye" and drew over an album cover with the makings of a joint, swiftly and expertly rolling the thing. He lit it, took a long drag and handed in to Mike. I gulped my gin and tonic. Mike drew in a lungful. It didn't look like he was inexperienced. I can't now explain why, but I was outraged and, frankly, scared, by this use of pot. Perhaps because my brother's year had been notorious for it but in mine it seemed utterly without followers? Or perhaps I was just following the conventions of the time. At home opium addicts were pitied, while alcoholics were celebrated

Two strong G & Ts and Alastair's continuing mockery of my school uniform and injunctions to, "Be cool, man," had me sitting cross-legged in my underpants, relaxed, giggly and fascinated by the occasional glimpse of Alastair's cock beneath the hem of his teeshirt. Although somewhat drunk, I considered myself more in control than the two adults. It had become quite funny to watch Mike under the influence. He relaxed when drinking, but never got silly or clumsy.

I was just starting to feel comfortable when, as they passed the joint between them, Alastair knelt up as Mike leant down and they kissed. Or, probably, Alastair kissed Mike - it doesn't really matter because, amazingly, they held the kiss. Alastair was at least 19, probably 20: way beyond Mike's supposed upper age limit. But they snogged, apparently oblivious to me. Mike was quickly naked and tugged off Alastair's teehirt. They rolled together on the foam mattress, holding and stroking and kissing. Not only did Mike not do 20 year-olds, he didn't do snogging, really. And yet here they were acting like lovers overcome with lust after a long separation.

Which I suppose they were, in a way.

Although my dick was hard in my underpants, I resisted when Alastair reached out to pull me in with them. Alastair could perhaps have passed for 16 had he wanted, but I knew that he wasn't. As them youngest of the three, I suppose I thought that I'd be the most likely to be, um, used.

What on earth was I thinking? I remembered Iain and Mike and the pleasure of their "use" of me.

I knelt next to Alastair and he pulled my underpants down, taking my cock in his mouth. All awkwardness and sense of incongruity fled. He was beautiful and he sucked my cock with a sort-of delight. Running my fingers through his long, tangled hair, hearing him moan in his throat as I clasped my hands at the back of his head, I felt for the first time I remember, a sense of unrestrained sexual dominance took hold. I held Alastair's head and fucked his mouth. He rose to his hands and knees. Mike found a tube of KY and I watched him work some into Alastair's arsehole. Alastair moaned again and I understood what he felt. And I understood how it felt to be on the other side.

On his hands and knees now, Alastair raised his arse, inviting Mike to fuck him. Mike was working on his own dick, not quite hard enough to penetrate yet. With an unaccustomed - well, unknown - confidence, I said, "I want to bum-fuck him." Alastair grunted an approval and moved to lie on his back., raising and spreading his legs. He didn't look like an adult, he didn't look like a little boy, he just looked like he wanted a cock in his arse. He grinned at me. I held him by the backs of his knees, pushing his legs further back and wider, feeling so powerful. This wasn't like fucking Dab, this was like fucking a boy like me, a boy who so wanted to be fucked.

Alastair laughed as I pushed my cock into him. Mike knelt beside his head and offered him his cock. He took it eagerly. That I saw myself in him even more, then, made my fucking even stronger. I knew how I would want to be fucked, were I in his place. Fuck, he was a dirty little bumboy, just like me. He loved taking it up the bum. Really loved it.

"That was a bit, um, funny, somehow," Dab said as we dried ourselves after our shower.

"Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?" I asked.

"Funny different. I've never felt like that with you before... kind-of like I was the Little Boy or something."

"Not so little," I grinned.

"No, well, but you know what I mean. You know, how you feel when you're being bummed by a Big Boy, like... well he's the Big Boy, really."

"Yeah. Um..." I hesitated. "Sometimes I think maybe it's like, um, being the girl."

We both grinned: "Which one's the girl, then?" was a fairly frequent taunt directed at two boys of similar ages who were thought to be queering (with more divergent ages, the obvious roles were assumed).

"No, but, well... anyway, you were, kind-of more demanding, y'know," said Dab.

"Sorry," I offered.

"Don't be. It's just different. I liked it." We were dressed. Dab checked the door and quickly hugged me. "Maybe I'll do you a bit rougher sometime."

"Promises, promises!"

I wanted to tell Dab about Alastair, but wasn't quite ready for that yet.

Guy was waiting in our study.

"Where have you been?" he asked, agitated. "I don't even know if I need permission to be up here or what."

"You've got our permission," said Dab. "Don't fret."

"Yeah, sorry, just... it was obvious you were back, but I couldn't find you."

"Good hols?" Dab asked.

"Yeah, OK," said Guy, distracted. He looked at me. I smiled uncertainly.

"I'm sorry about that letter," he said. "I made it all sound definite and it was just an idea, and then you wrote that letter back, and..."

"It's OK. I'm just pleased you're back here," I said.

"Yeah, but look, about your letter. It was sort-of scary, you know?"

"I'll leave you two to it," said Dab.

"No, Dab, please... it's OK: stay, please."

Dab raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged.

Guy leaned forward in the chair, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked at them as he said, "It was really heavy, y'know, like you were really angry and upset, I mean, well... a bit mad really."

"He is mad," said Dab. "I told you: mad about you."

Guy winced and sighed.

"I don't want you to be. Not like that," Guy said firmly.

"You know what this is about?" I asked Dab.

"Guy phoned me." Guy had Dab's phone number?

"And you didn't say anything?"

"Guy asked me not to."

I remembered that the letter I'd actually sent was the second draft. How would he have reacted to the first draft?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hassle you. I just wanted you to know that if I didn't see you again...."

"I don't want to be anybody's Little Boy, OK?" Guy said fiercely. "It's all crap, that Big Boy/Little Boy stuff anyway. I mean, what is it supposed to be about?"

"I thought we were friends, not..." I said.

"Yeah, that's what I mean," said Guy, "but that letter was all like I was something special, like you owned me or something. Like we were having a love affair or something."

"Look, Guy..." I started, not really knowing what I wanted to say.

Guy literally took a deep breath and exhaled: "We're just friends and we do stuff and it's fun, and I think you're really smooth and all... but we're not boyfriends or anything."

"Guy, I'm sorry..."

"I'm queer... I think I'm queer... well, I... Anyway, I fancy boys. I fancy you, and I fancy Andy, and Giles and Dab. And I fancied Robert... But I don't want a big love affair."

"No," I said.

Guy sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm making a big fuss about nothing, probably. I've just been worrying and I wanted to see you and try to explain..."

I felt a strange sense of relief. My reaction to the possibility that Guy would not be at school on our return had actually frightened me a little.

"I'm really, really sorry if I was heavy..." I didn't know what else to say. It felt strange enough saying "heavy" anyway. Since when did Guy use words like "heavy"?

"Giles?" Dab back-tracked a little. "You fancy Giles?"

Guy looked at him, slightly outraged that he should try to lighten the tone.

"Good choice," I said.

"Only a bit," Guy admitted, smiling a little. "Andy more, actually."

"Since when?" asked Dab.

"Since forever, really," Guy admitted.

Relieved that we moved onto a different track, I asked, "Does he know?"

"'Course not. He’d just say I was being soppy or something. "

You should tell him," said Dab. "He looked quite happy bumming you last term."

Guy grinned. He looked at me. "Is it OK, then? I mean, I'm sorry - I feel like I've been all het-up and silly."

"Of course it's OK, Guy. I'm sorry you..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake you two, give it a rest now. Leave it be!" Dab demanded.

Guy went to see if Andy was back and they came up together for tea and toast. It was only when they walked back in that I saw how much Guy had grown in the short space of the summer holiday. His hair was longer. He and Andy looked more evenly matched, somehow.

When they left, I sank into the armchair and sighed deeply.

"Don't you fucking dare!" warned Dab.


"If you start moping and whining, I'll fucking cut your balls off with a rusty penknife."

"I wasn't..."

"Yes, you fucking were, and it's ridiculous! Jesus, Guy's the sweetest, loveliest, funniest boy and you nearly ruin things by going all mad and lovey-dovey with him."

"I didn't! I just told him..."

"I heard some of what you told him..."


"And, well, it wasn't that mad, I suppose, but you did get a bit heavy. It's not like he's yours or anything."

"Yeah, I know: you can't baggsie anybody."

At Supper that evening I looked over at Guy, Andy and Giles sitting together one table over. They were chatting and laughing, catching up.

Dab saw me looking. "Just think what Guy was like this time last year," he said. "You should be pleased for him."

Guy saw me looking and nudged Giles. They both smiled and waved - a little mockingly, slightly flirty. Andy raised his arm above and behind Giles' head, index finger pointing down, and gave me a cheerful little leer.

Guy was in the Remove now, and in South Dormitory. Junior Dorm went straight up to bed after House Prayers or Roll-Call, but there was a break (half-an-hour?) before the South Dorm boys had to start getting ready for Lights Out. Charlie, Dab and I had spent a little while sorting out a "vop" - a draught - in Charlie's bedsit, and were happily sitting by his window smoking when Guy opened the door, knocking on it only as he did so.

"Only me," he smirked as we made to hide our ciggies. "And Giles," he added, opening the door wider. Giles smiled at us. "Giles wanted to see your new study," Guy said, looking at me. Charlie tutted. Dab grinned.

"Sure," I said, nipping out my fag.

Guy, Giles and I walked down the corridor and I opened the door to my study.

"I've seen it," said Guy, continuing down the corridor to the stairs. Giles slipped in.

"We haven't put any posters up or anything," I said.

"Guy said, um, if I asked you'd come and wake me up one night and we could, well, go to your bed or something," Giles said. He gave a small smile and added, "Sorry, just thought, well, I just thought I might as well say. That's what Guy said, anyway."

"That's OK. That would be great. Are you sure?"

"All last year... I haven't really done much. I wanted to. I just, well... I didn't go to prep school, you know? So, I didn't know how... what. But Guy said you'd be sort-of nice. Or Dab. But I thought you, really. 'Cos of what Guy said."

"You do know what you're talking about, don't you?" I checked.

"Oh, yes. Queering, yes. Sex and stuff. Only Guy said you'd, um, sort-of teach me. Sorry. Sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"Sounds lovely," I said.

Giles grinned. "So, OK then, um, tonight?" he asked. I thought about Dab and liey-downy sex.

"Only Guy said he didn't mind. He can wait. But if you want to..."

"No, it's okay. Tonight," I assured him. "But I don't know what it'll be like in Senior Dorm: it may be better if we stay in your Dorm."

Giles left and I was about to go back and finish my ciggie when Guy reappeared.

"All sorted then?" he smiled.

"Yes. Thanks for your marriage-making."

"It's not... if you're thinking it's because of what I said, it's not OK? It's just Giles was so full of himself first thing after he got back this afternoon and, well, he's so keen. I thought he might get all shy again..."

"It's OK. Really. I would have done him last term, only..."

"If it wasn't for me. I know: Dab said. So you do fancy him, don't you?"

"Definitely. And what'll you be doing tonight?"

"Andy, with any luck," Guy grinned.

"Have fun," I said, hugging him. He hugged back, relaxing into me

"Thanks. And you. I'm sorry about before..."

"Dab says we're not allowed to say sorry any more..."

"No, well, OK. Thanks, anyway."

Very little actually changed between Guy and me, really - for quite a while, anyway - except for my expectations, I suppose. I continued to love him, but my love didn't deepen as I'd once thought that it would. Despite Dab's prohibition, I would sometimes mope a little about Guy. I once tried to ask Dab about Steve and whether and how they had been in love, but he wouldn't talk about it, saying, "I was just a kid, I don't know what it was."

Giles was determined and anxious. But more determined. He'd thought it out a bit.

"I mean it about teaching me. I mean, I know what boys do, but I don't want to do everything right away. I just want to go really slowly, OK?"

We were lying together, still in out pyjamas, in his bed in South Dorm. The rest of the dorm was asleep. It was about one in the morning.

Giles shifted over a bit more onto his side and cuddled up. "You can't bum me or anything right away, OK?"

I hugged him and agreed, "We'll go very slowly. It'll be nice."

And it was incredibly nice. So soon after discovering a potential dominant streak in myself, it was lovely to consciously restrain myself, to be gentle, careful. Giles was inexperienced, but naturally sensual. Cuddling, stroking and even kissing he enjoyed almost immediately. He was a Junior County gymnast, small for his age, but with a superb little body. Would it be too much to suggest that he was at ease with that body, so much was it under his control?

Snuggled into my chest he asked, "Can we just wank?"

"I'll wank you," I said. I reached down and pulled on the cord of his pyjamas. Just that made him gasp softly. When I took his dick in my hand he burrowed closer into me, It was wonderful to experience a boy being so excited by simple touching. I thought that he might spunk straight away: his body shuddered and his hips writhed. I just held his cock between my fingers as he moved against me. His hand grabbed my shoulder, his arm held tight across my chest. I stroked his dick gently, just a few, light strokes, and he spunked.

"Oh, God. Oh, fuck! I'm sorry, I just couldn't..."

"Don't worry. It's fine. It's great. God, you're horny."

I expected him to turn away, cover himself, want me to leave. But he just lay against my chest, his breathing slowing, his hand still on my shoulder. I could feel his spunk dripping off my fingers.

"Shall I do you?" he whispered

"No, I don't want you to. Next time." Dab and I had had our liey-downy sex shortly after Senior Dorm Lights Out. I felt excited but relaxed, happy just to have pleased Giles.

"Next lesson!" he giggled.

Back in my own bed I wanked myself off, thinking how exciting it was going to be exploring in small steps with Giles.

Little Spurt 11

John and Yoko

In 1969 John Lennon and Yoko Ono held a "Bed-In for Peace" during their honeymoon in Amsterdam. This was supposed to have meant that their entire honeymoon, including their "lovemaking", was to be open to the world's press.

As another illustration of just how suddenly and "randomly", as one might say today, stuff happened at my school, about 18 months later an improvised re-enactment of this event took place one evening in my Junior House dormitory. I honestly don't remember how it came up, but a group of us was chatting about the love-in. We weren't, I don't think, discussing the anti-war, pro-love symbolism of the event - merely giggling 'cos it involved sex. Or referred to sex. And nudity (well, as much nudity as you were allowed in those days).

It was still light, but this could have been bedtime in the summer. At his suggestion (honest) another boy and I took off our pyjama tops, got into his bed and created a tableau of the famous photograph of John and Yoko in their Amsterdam bed. Yeah, he was John. (Well, I lived in South East Asia - of course I was Yoko.) Then he suggested that we took our pyjama bottoms off and simulate what the cameras hadn't actually shown. He threw back the bedclothes and we writhed together naked in full view of the other members of the dorm.

"Oh, Yoko, my love!" he gasped in an accurate Liverpudlian accent

"John, John, oh, John, make ruve, not war," I pleaded back in an outrageously bad Japanese accent.

Our dicks were hard, but this public display was quite alright, 'cos we were acting.

Someone said something about Japanese ladies' front-bottoms being the other way round from anybody else's front-bottoms - horizontal rather than vertical. This was a well-known fact amongst English schoolboys at the time - since suppressed by the nanny state and an internet conspiracy of denial. Even back then one boy disputed the consensus and a little argument broke out. I took the opportunity to point out to the Liverpudlian pop god writhing on top of me that I didn't have a front-bottom, only a back bottom.

"God, you're disgusting, you bumboy," he said, but maintained the Scouse accent, so we were still in the game.

"Yankees Go Home!" I demanded, from somewhere between Mexico and Pakistan.

"All You Need is Love," declared the other boy, puckering up for a kiss. That I actually performed the kiss was regarded (by the others, not John) as just a little too much, and the marital bed was invaded by a pile of other little boys expressing mostly mock-outrage.

Had Dab been there, he would no doubt have started a chant of, "The whole world is watching!" but he was in Big School by this time, and I wasn't quite clued-up enough to manage that.

Email: spelchek@hushmail.com (or don't, as the case may be).