The clever girl knew full well that a prolonged bout of fucking uses a great deal of energy and that even our strong, youthful bodies required refreshment to regain our strength. We were so warm from our fun and games that we stayed quite naked as we enjoyed our informal tea, during which I asked Chrissie what she was studying at Oxford.
'I'm reading for a degree in the history of art,' she explained as she sat up in bed munching an apple, 'and as I enjoy painting, for my own amusement, I am also studying watercolour techniques in an informal weekly class under the tuition of Professor. Tim Titchfield of All Souls, who offers his kind guidance to any budding artists among the first year students.' Now I had dabbled a little in painting since my first encounter with art which had led directly to my crossing the Rubicon with the divine Diana Wigmore that in turn had given me the unexpected but highly delightful chance to lose my unwanted virginity. Sadly, my efforts with the brush and palette were so far undistinguished, though I was told by Diana that I would do far better once I had been taught to harness my technical skills to create my own personal style. So I asked Chrissie if any student could avail himself of Professor Titchfield's classes. 'Most certainly,' she replied. 'Why, would you like to come along? We meet on Thursday evenings at eight o'clock in the small lecture hall just next to the Playhouse Theatre.' 'I'll be there,' I promised and, turning to Gillian, I said: Talking of the Playhouse, will Chrissie be invited to this party on Saturday night? I'm sure you could wangle her onto the guest list.' 'Of course, but unless I'm much mistaken, she'll be wining and dining with her new special boyfriend who's corning all the way over from Cambridge for the weekend just to be with her.'
Chrissie blushed and said: 'Now you know full well, Gillian, that Salman is just a boyfriend, and there is nothing special about him- except of course that he is a very charming young man-' '- who has pots and pots of money and a very, very big cock!' finished Gillian with a giggle. 'Wash your mouth out, you bad girl!' scolded Chrissie although she was not really offended by the jest.
'Salman's cock is certainly sizeable but it is not the very biggest I have ever entertained in my pussey. That honour would go to “Donkey Dick” Dinchley, the gardener's boy at my Uncle Rodney's country house in Buckinghamshire whose erect tool measured almost twelve and a half inches, though he was by no means the most satisfying fuck. I mean, we both had that good-looking chap Harry Barr at your birthday party in May and he was superb in bed even though his member was if anything smaller than the average cock. Don't you agree that this obsession with the size of their penises makes many men almost neurotic? And it's all so unnecessary because as an American girl in my college says, it isn't the size of the ship that counts, it's the motion of the ocean!' 'Yes, although I suppose it is a similar problem that we women have in never being quite satisfied with our weight!' said Gillian thoughtfully, but before she could continue airing her views on this admittedly interesting subject, I suddenly woke up to the fact that Chrissie's boyfriend could be none other than my old school chum Salman Marrari, the eldest son of the Maharajah of Lockshenstan who had, as I noted at the very beginning of these memoirs, spurned a place at University College, Oxford to take up a place at Trinity College, Cambridge as he wanted to continue his scientific studies with some noted group of physicists who were based there. He was also a great cocksman and very popular with the servant girls at St Lionel's amongst whom he distributed a generous number of twenty pound notes for favours great and small! So I asked her excitedly: 'Are you talking about Salman Marrari who went up to Cambridge from St Lionel's? He shared a study with me at school and it would be marvellous to see him if he is coming to Oxford this weekend. Is this the chap who you are seeing, Chrissie?' 'Yes indeed, what a lovely coincidence,' she said, clapping her hands together. 'Oh, Rupert, you must join us for dinner on Friday night.' 'That's very kind but surely you two prefer to dine a deux.' 'No, really, you must come along – I won't tell Salman so it will be a lovely surprise for him to see his old school chum again,' she insisted.
It was time for us to take our leave but Chrissie assured me that she would send round a note about where I should meet her and Salman on Friday night. After kissing the two girls goodbye I walked back briskly to my college, making a mental note as I looked at my watch that I would need to employ a social secretary if invitations were to keep flowing so freely into my diary. When I reached my rooms I jotted down my immediate engagements-this evening I had planned to see Beth Randall after dinner and take her for a walk and perhaps visit one of the quaint old Oxford inns frequented (though much frowned upon) by students of the University. Tomorrow I had to attend two lectures and write a long essay which had to be given in the next morning, but time would be at a premium as I had already accepted Professor Webb's invitation to his soiree. I had some reading to do as well but the weekend was already filling up for on Friday I was to dine with Salman and Chrissie, whilst on Saturday night I would squire Gillian to the party at the Oxford Playhouse. I gnawed my lip in a gesture of irritation as I suddenly remembered that on Saturday afternoon I was due to play soccer for Balliol against Merton College and I really should fit in at least a couple of hours of training before the match.
Of course, I could always cut a lecture or two, but at his specific request, I had promised my godfather. Major Fulham, that I would never allow this to happen during my first year and since my earliest years I have always maintained that a promise is a promise-and especially when you have just been handed a cheque for fifty pounds 'to be spent on enjoying yourself, my boy; your father can look after the college fees and your account at Blackwell's bookshop'! This left Sunday as the only day free to work and though my family have never been strict observers of the Sabbath, I knew full well that if the Saturday party turned out to be the kind of affair I hopefully expected, I would be in no fit state to study the day afterwards! Still, these were pleasant problems to solve and I resolved to lighten my load by postponing my tryst with Beth until the following week and instead making a start on my essay after dinner, even though Frank and Barry would do their best to inveigle me into playing a few rubbers of bridge. I would be very tempted as I much enjoyed the game, but however hard it would be, their blandishments would have to be resisted, I said to myself as I made my way downstairs to spend half an hour reading the newspapers in the library before going into the dining hall. In the library I picked up a copy of The Times and coincidentally one of the first reports to catch my eye was a review of A Nice Little Stroll Does You Good. Under the heading 'A Jolly Evening Well Spent,' the critic had written: 'As several friends in the profession have told me about the rousing reception A Nice Little Stroll Does You Good has been given in the provincial theatres before opening in two weeks' time in London, I ventured out to Oxford to see Mr. Louis Segal's latest musical comedy for myself, and am pleased to report that this latest offering is about as good and as clever as any play in this genre. The songs are jolly and the story, though of the sort we have seen more often than not, is at least well paced and, though relying on mishaps and misunderstandings for its dramatic effects, all ends happily with the hero and heroine reaping their rewards and the villains getting their just deserts. It is conceived as a downright, rollicking, noisy comedy and the humour and praiseworthy characterisations evinced by the principals, Mr. Michael Bailey, Mr. Frederick Shackleton and Miss Deborah Paxford undoubtedly caught the imagination of the audience. They are abetted by one of the prettiest chorus lines, whose shapely forms are clothed perhaps in too scanty a fashion for the older generation, but all can act and sing as well as they can dance. From first to last, all on stage appear to revel in the fun and the company complied with repeated requests for encores without displaying any symptom of weariness.' Then and there I decided to check with Gillian as to whether she already possessed tickets for Saturday night, because after such a review the playgoers of Oxford and the surrounding villages would flock to see the show. I scribbled a note and found a young college servant who for sixpence was willing to deliver the message that evening and (so long as Gillian was at home) wait and bring back her reply. The gong sounded as I gave the lad my note and made him repeat the address I had just given him (for the matter was important and I did not want my note to go astray) and Frank Folkestone ambled up and accompanied me into the dining-hall. 'Hello there, old boy, I haven't seen much of you since Len Letchmore regaled us with his lewd tale about his uncle and the chorus girl. 'Talking of chorus girls,' he added, 'how about coming along with me to see the show at the Playhouse one night?