of their thighs pulsating and jiggling their privates around like a cat caught in a potato sack. Oh, how I wished for one of the players to rip off the short knickers of another! These images allowed me plenty to think about while sitting all alone in my train cabin on previous returns to York. I may have been terribly bored for the majority of the trip, but I nevertheless managed to rub on my pecker a few times. The other half of the trip was normally spent wishing I had someone with whom to share the ride, however. I had already spotted a fellow who I would undress in my mind during the trip while waiting at the Cambridge Railway Station. I recognized him from the University, but I was certain that we had had no previous encounters.

My innate desire for and attraction to those members of my own sex only increased upon my matriculation into Cambridge University, which I admittedly confess to have entered for the sole purpose of distancing myself from the critical eyes of my mother and father. The decision happened to be an excellent one, however, for the boys of Cambridge were absolutely striking. One cannot ask for much more than intelligence and handsome looks, and Cambridge was over brimming with them. As a result, my breeches were usually over brimming, too. During many a course I had to fold one of my legs over the other to conceal my growing widgy and hide it from the eyes of those whom I wanted to see it more than anything in the world entire, yet could not because I needn’t be known as a woolly-woofter. Afterwards I would run back to the dormitory and wank before my flatmate returned from his Latin course.

That same stir of desire and virginal frustration arose when I met the eyes of the fellow I recognized from the University. If words could be tried in a court of law, my following description would be found guilty of perjury for the injustice it serves that dashing figure of beauty, sense, and mystery. I must nevertheless tramp onward and provide at least a morsel of a sense of his being. Simply put, he was tall, dark, and handsome. His straight black hair fell across his forehead at a time when longer hair was not looked upon favorably. The hair wasn’t so long that it covered the intensity of his piercing eyes, however: his pupils, cradled by sheets of torn blue velvet, could burn holes into the soul of any man. He was still a sort of wallflower chap, but the type whose presence can change the tides of fortune with silence and observation.

He awaited the train not far from my bench, dressed immaculately as always in a suit made of “Isle of Harris” tweed. He needn’t be clothed in my mind, by Jove! We began to trade glances at each other, almost as if we were both scared that if we stared for too terribly long we would be unable to remove the other’s image from our constant thoughts. He appeared more agitated that day than he normally did. I remember feeling the blood rush to my lower half and becoming light-headed as the bulge in my trousers increased beat by beat. My tallywhacker grew larger and larger