THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SCHOOLBOY
A MEMOIR BY THOMAS TOMKINS, VII

Presented here with his kind permission is Chapter Seven of the hitherto unpublished memoir of his youth of a retired English publisher written under the pen name Thomas Tomkins and finished in 2026.

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Chapter Seven

School life resumed, and I threw myself into my studies with a will. Now I had not only to achieve a Scholarship in order to avoid having to go to a State school, but I desired greatly to impress Mr Pascoe. In this I was successful; neither of us referred to our night together, and he was careful to avoid any show of favouritism, but his encouragement of me grew warmer and my marks, both in Latin and in other subjects, were generally good. I had been made a Prefect by the Gaffer and had to take my turn in duties supervising the younger boys, but these were not onerous and I had enough time to keep on top of work. 

However, I was determined that I should sleep with Mr Pascoe again, if possible more than once if not regularly. I think that he had felt some degree of guilt, or at least discomfort, but was reassured by my evident pleasure in his company. I, with two other Prefects, were invited to tea with him; we met on occasion in the Library and of course I had four lessons with him each week.

On two or three occasions I engaged in mutual masturbation with Wilkins, another boy in my set, also a prefect. From him I learned the best way to handle an uncircumcised penis; his was not only of more or less adult size but was provided with a long foreskin which uncovered little if any of the head when erect. He also had the ability to ejaculate not only an impressive volume of semen, but to send it considerable distances. On one occasion I remember his shooting a spurt of semen at least six feet across the groundsman’s shed, one of the various locations used by boys for sexual experimentation.

But all of this was merely sex, indulged in for both pleasure and necessary physical relief. The doors of the lavatory closets were too skimpy to disguise masturbatory activity, so other places were in frequent use, including the groundsman’s shed, the cricket pavilion, the shrubbery behind the playing field (this generally only in fine weather), occasionally even (at a need) a classroom.  It was possible to indulge in bed after lights out, provided one was silent, and the end result could be caught in a sock which was then placed in the box ready for washing. I have often wondered whether the Matrons were puzzled by the occasional damp patch in a dirty sock. Or perhaps they were too embarrassed to refer to it.

About the mechanics of marital sex we were still, for the most part, ignorant, though boys who had older brothers at public school conveyed some reasonably accurate information. Further information was imparted that oral sex formed an amusing alternative to conventional intercourse, and moreover that it was perfectly feasible for two males to perform it on one another. This knowledge was put to practical use and among the senior boys there was a period of a few weeks when it was performed in preference to mutual masturbation.

I joined quite willingly in these games. I felt no disloyalty to Mr Pascoe as the sexual activities among the boys were avowedly for mere sexual pleasure. What I felt for Mr Pascoe was a blend of hero-worship and genuine love. Both emotions were directed towards the man who had not only befriended me at a time when I was most in need of friendship and understanding, but who had also allowed me to share his bed.  I had every intention of sleeping with him again whenever opportunity offered. It was, of course, clear that this could not happen at school.  I would have been missed from my dormitory, questions would have been asked, I would have lost any chance of a Scholarship to a Public School and Mr Pascoe would have been summarily dismissed. But Easter and Summer holidays were coming up and I was sure that we would find ample opportunity.

* * *

The Lent term came to its end, and I went home (though the word Home is not really apposite; It was my parents’ home, or at least the place where they dwelt, among a shifting population of lodgers or, to use my mother’s preferred term, Paying Guests) for Easter, but had arranged with Mr Pascoe that if my parents permitted it I would travel to Penzance for the second week of the holiday. 

I travelled by train as my father was not really fit to drive, and found my way by the Underground system to the street in which their house was situated. I was greeted by my mother with something less than her usual animosity, and given to understand that I should be expected to help with looking after the house and its guests.  Fetching and carrying firewood and coal and looking after the fires in the sitting room and dining room were tasks normally carried out by my father, but I was put to work in the kitchen, washing up and helping with cooking. I discovered in myself an unexpected talent for cooking and before long I was preparing all of the breakfasts while my mother carried the plates to and from the table. 

I noticed that one of the paying guests, a lanky youth named Simon Walker who was, I believe, a medical student at St Mary’s, seemed to take a particular interest in me. Despite my sexual adventures at school, I was still quite naive and treated him with friendliness until the time when he caught me in the hallway and put his hand unmistakably on my arse. I looked him full in the face and shook my head, whereupon he flushed red and went briskly upstairs.

Great disappointment was to be my lot, though as my mother was not prepared to allow me to take a week in Cornwall when I could be available to help with domestic chores. However, one morning while she was busy I managed to commandeer the telephone and contact Mr Pascoe. He, too, was very disappointed, but we hatched a plan whereby he was to telephone my parents, pretending to be the father of an imaginary St Mark's boy who lived in London and who was to invite me to visit in order to do some Revision together and to stay for a couple of nights. In the meantime, Mr Pascoe would book an hotel for us to stay in.

Somewhat to my surprise, this ruse worked, and I had two nights' grace towards the end of the holiday. The Underground took me to my destination, a modest "family hotel" near Wimbledon, and there I met the man I loved. I was aware that for him to be away from his mother during a holiday was a sacrifice for them both, and if I had needed any proof of his regard for me this would have been it.

By the time I reached the hotel it was mid-afternoon - I had been requisitioned to help with chores all morning - and Mr Pascoe was there waiting for me. I don't know how long we stood together in a close, warm embrace once we were in our bedroom. It must have been at least ten minutes.

Our room was a pleasant one, with a double bed and a smaller one which ran out from underneath it.  Presumably it was intended for a couple with a small child, but it suited us very well, though we had to remember to run out the small bed and rumple it thoroughly each morning.  I don't think I ever discovered what reason - if any - Mr Pascoe had given for booking a room of this type rather than two single rooms. It was enough for me that we could spend a day - and two nights - together.

We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant which, if not possessing any Michelin stars, was quiet and comfortable. After the meal we retired to our room.

I undressed, washed in the washbasin in our room and put on pyjamas.  Then I watched Mr Pascoe undressing. He was not much taller than I – I had shot up over the last few months but was still very lanky – but compact and neatly built. He kept in trim with regular and vigorous exercise. He was dark haired and dark skinned, but with not much body hair except for a line on his belly leading downwards into his pubic hair. He later told me about his theory that the Cornish, and the Welsh from the South of the Principality, were descended from the ancient Phoenician people, which was the reason for their modest size and dark colouring.

Uncircumcised penises I had, of course seen aplenty at school, both flaccid and erect and, indeed, at every stage in between. But my own penis sprang to attention as I saw his erection. He climbed into the bed next and put his arms around me. I felt his erection rubbing against my belly and became ever more excited. Suddenly he turned onto his back and pulled me on top of him, moving my body downwards so that my penis was gripped in the soft skin of his inner thighs. I could resist no more and exploded, to be followed moments later by his cream spurting onto my belly. He rolled me over onto my side and reached over to where he had put a box of paper handkerchiefs – what they seem to call “tissues” nowadays – on the bedside table.

Once again, I lay on my left side, my back to him, curled into the warmth of his body. I slept, sated and contented, feeling safe and loved, his left arm under my neck, his right thrown protectively around my chest. I do not think I had ever been so happy. My parents, the house in London, the lodgers, even St Mark’s had faded into the background of my life. I was where I wanted to be, skin against pyjama-clad skin, in bed with Allan Pascoe. Nothing else mattered.

* * *

When I awoke the following morning, I was alone in the bed. My lover had not long gone – I could still feel his warmth next to me – and I did not want to move. However, he reappeared in the room, dressed in shirt and trousers, having taken a bath in the bathroom along the corridor. He suggested I do the same. I had not realised that sharing a bed with someone – quite apart from any sexual athletics – could be quite a sweaty thing to do. Stretched out in the bath, I wondered how we might spend the day. Mr Pascoe had already thought that out: he suggested that we might visit the British Museum and look over some of the classical collections, particularly those relating to Roman Britain.

With such a knowledgeable and enthusiastic guide, not only the Roman exhibits but the Egyptian and Greek galleries were a source of unfailing fascination. I privately resolved to come back and explore further. This I did, on many occasions, and have never been disappointed nor failed to find something new to interest me.

We ate lunch in a modest cafe nearby - to judge by some of the other customers, who looked both scholarly and eccentric, several of them were habitués of the Museum - and returned for the afternoon, where more of the Museum's treasures were revealed to me.

After dinner we returned to our bedroom and, by a sort of tacit understanding, undressed.  Oral sex was by no means an unfamiliar activity to me, but I had never before, and have very seldom since, enjoyed it so much.  Mr Pascoe sat in a chair and I stood before him. He repeatedly brought me close to orgasm, and then stopped just in time. This must have happened five or six times before it became unstoppable, and I ejaculated copiously into his mouth. I noticed - as far as I was capable of noticing anything! - that he swallowed my semen with no apparent concern. 

We exchanged places, and I took his already rigid phallus in my mouth. Being uncircumcised, his head was less sensitive than mine, and I found that my tongue needed to rub his foreskin firmly. However, I noticed that I could feel quite definitely when it suddenly grew larger as he approached nearer to climax, and like him ceased to provide stimulation in order to prolong his enjoyment.

Eventually his climax could be postponed no longer, and I felt his ejaculation hit the back of my throat. I swallowed convulsively, but felt no sense of distaste. We moved to the bed and got in, and I was astonished to notice that it was already gone ten o'clock. I lay as before, curled into the warm curve of his body, his arms protectively around me, and fell asleep immediately.

Continue to Chapter Eight