The young matron released her grip on my scrotum just as quickly as she had grabbed it a minute earlier. I stood there frozen, my back against the vertical ruler in the nurses’ office, unable to take in what had happened. I watched her turn and bend over to pick up my pants from the floor. She’d demanded I strip them off earlier and I was praying she’d give them back now. But she was stretching them out, looking at them critically, ‘Do you always wear little nylon briefs as tiny as these?’ I shrugged, embarrassed to admit the influence of bodybuilder magazines such as ‘Health and Strength’, which I read avidly. As always, she seemed able to read my mind. ‘OK, so long as you remember they’re just for showing off. I hardly need to explain why.’ Putting them on the desk, she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Off you go then.  We’re done here. Don’t keep the doctor waiting. Knock before you go in.’

I struggled to pull myself together, but another warning glance over the shoulder told me that time was up. I had to go in. Naked as I was. I tapped on the interconnecting door and entered. The scene was the same as in every school medical I’d attended for the past decade. Doctor sitting behind his desk, Matron standing nearby with a clipboard. The sight test was always first, so off I wandered in the direction of the line on the floor where you stood to read the letters.

‘No need for that’. Matron was making a note on her clipboard. ‘I doubt much has changed since last time’. The doctor had got up and collected an upright chair from near the door. He set it down in front of the desk. ‘Sit down please, Mr Thomas, there’s something we want to talk to you about.’ That really rattled me. Did I have a serious health condition, damaged heart muscle maybe, that had just come to light? And why ‘Mr’? He didn’t continue, simply sat down again behind the desk and leant back, finger tips together. Matron however planted herself on the edge of the desk, right in front of me. My chair was so close that her legs had brushed mine as she edged past to get there. Only a couple of feet away, her eyes constantly switched from my face to my groin, where my penis and testicles, heavy but flaccid, were hanging loose on the cushion. I watched her neatly lift and cross her right leg over her left, discreetly adjusting her nurse’s dress and apron so that her knees were covered. It was beautifully done, a model of innocence and modesty. But the toe of her black patent-leather court shoe was now almost resting on my pubic hair.

I looked up cautiously as she began to speak, beginning to realise she was nowhere near as old as we had all imagined. Old enough to be my mother obviously, but once she put aside her glasses I could see bewitching eyes, full lips and smooth olive skin. ‘Dr Erskine and I only work part-time at the school. We have a medical practice in central London. Specialise in helping couples who have difficulty starting a family.’ She paused momentarily, waiting for her words to sink in. Vague thoughts criss-crossed my mind, but nothing was making any sense. I regretted how I’d behaved towards the junior matron, it must all be connected somehow. ‘Infertility’, she went on (was it my imagination that her toe gave a tiny flick as she said the word?) ‘is much more common than you might think.’ A faint smile on her lips. ‘Sometimes we just recommend a change of lifestyle. Advise on the best times for sexual intercourse. Often that’s enough’.

There was something in her voice, the shaping of words like ‘sexual’ with her lips and tongue. This wasn’t the tone that ordered ‘Lights Out!’ in the junior dorms, I suddenly recognised it as the low, confidential, teasing lilt of the junior matron. Was it part of every nurse’s training to learn such different voices? Her toe was definitely tapping my pubic hair now. I felt hypnotised. I didn’t want it, but I felt myself getting hard again. On she went. ‘But sometimes there is a physical problem. The woman is infertile or the man is impotent.’ Slowly said, ‘Im-po-tent’. ‘Many couples decide to adopt. But sometimes, if the woman is fertile and desperate to have her own child, we have to consider alternative treatments. Other sources of sperm.’

‘Now wait a minute. That’s enough, this is a joke!’. I stood up, grabbed the chair back and thrust it aside, making for the door. ‘You’re just pervs, like to look at boys’ willies. Everyone knows.’ ‘Don’t you want to hear what they’ve got to say?’ The junior matron was standing in the doorway, twirling my briefs on her finger. ‘No. I don’t.’ I stepped forward. But I knew I had neither the courage nor the will to push her aside. ‘Does the thought of sperm donation embarrass you then?’ It was the senior matron this time, still sitting on the desk, legs crossed. I’d stopped in my tracks, and my face felt hot. I suppose I made some pathetic gesture, shrugging my shoulders, spreading my hands, whatever you do when you’re trying to show indifference.

Both women were still staring at me with that faint smile of theirs, but the doctor had picked up a bath robe from somewhere. ‘Put this on.’ He was holding it open, like a manservant, making it easy for me to slip my arms in. Gratefully I pulled it round me, but then suddenly found his hand on my shoulder. He was making an effort to speak ‘man to man’, or perhaps more accurately ‘father to son’. Either way it was a ploy I instinctively resented. ‘Look, I know it’s a shock. Talk of reproductive health, infertility and sperm, is embarrassing for the first time. But I’m afraid a lot of medical conditions are embarrassing. The simple truth is that some wives are desperate to have children. Every month they feel themselves ovulating, they know their egg is healthy because they’ve been tested – sorry, I know it’s difficult – and they have sexual intercourse. But nothing happens, in a couple of weeks they get their period as usual.  So they decide to be impregnated by the sperm of a man who isn’t their husband. The husband has fully accepted the decision of course, and the donor remains completely anonymous.’

The doctor had removed his hand and was now leaning against the desk beside the senior matron. Very close beside her, I noticed. I didn’t know what to say. I realised that the very act of staying in that room, when I could have left had I been really determined to do so, was a form of tacit acceptance. Leaving was getting harder and harder. They were drawing me in deeper, and my resistance was breaking down. ‘Is this because of how I behaved to Junior Matron earlier?’ I saw out of the corner of my eye that the younger woman had vanished, so now I was pleading just with the two older people at the desk. ‘I’m very, very sorry, my behaviour was right out of order, I accept that. You’ll go and report me obviously, and I’ll take whatever punishment the Head dishes out.’ The doctor sighed gently, turning to Matron. ‘Your behaviour was unacceptable’, she said, measuring her words carefully. ‘And you’re lucky that Vicky – I was astonished to hear her use a personal name – is able to look after herself. But on the other hand, we are looking for boys who are self-confident and possessed of a strong sex-drive. ‘Lusty and virile’, shall we say?’

[to be continued] 

A chance Google search led me to a blog on this site written by someone with the bizarre name of ‘uktrunks’. I’d completely forgotten about him, but I knew instantly who he must be because there were no other witnesses to the incident he describes. Apart from the medical staff of course. But as will become clear, they’re hardly likely to talk about it.

‘Uktrunks’ was a pathetic little wimp at school. I’m sure he didn’t have a clue what actually happened during that medical, but it was funny to see him twitching about nervously waiting his turn, when I eventually came out after nearly half an hour in the consulting room. He was terrified when I told him never to tell anyone! In fact he was just as terrified, maybe more so, when I contacted him earlier this month to ask what the hell was going on. Why had he written about it after all these years? Anyway, for me the medical was life-changing, so I want to set the record straight by telling the true story. ‘Uktrunks’ has agreed to add it to his blog. It’s the least he can do.

The annual medical was basically a bloody bore. One of those pointless things they do in public schools. It didn’t need a medical to confirm the obvious truth that boys get taller and heavier as they go up through the school, and that they need specs if they can’t see the blackboard. Most of us reckoned it was a smokescreen to let the pervy old doctor and matron have a good look in your pants. The only thing to make it more interesting this year was they’d taken on a new assistant matron. I’d seen her going in and out the sick bay, and managed to follow her up the stairs a couple of times. God knows why the school chose to employ her. She didn’t look much older than me, and all the chat in the prefects’ common room was about who would get to fuck her first. With some girls you just know they really want it. She was one of those.

I’d escaped the medical up to now by pleading prefect duties, rugby matches and even History, but they’d caught up with me and I’d been told to report first thing. I came straight from weight training, freshly showered and feeling very pumped. Smithson was the only other boy in the waiting room. He was the type we used to call a ‘weed’. I only knew his name because I’d had to invigilate his detention a couple of weeks back. Jesus, he looked pathetic hunched up on the bench. I knew he was risking the odd glance at me as I undressed, and it only confirmed my suspicion that he was ‘queer’. I was feeling particularly horny that morning, because I hadn’t had time for a wank before training. A heavy weights session had only made it worse, and of course I couldn’t get the young matron out of my mind. I half knew I was going to do something really stupid, something that might even get me expelled, but when you’re feeling that horny your cock is always going to win the argument with your common sense. I seem to remember turning to face the wall, probably pretending to look in my jacket pocket or something, because I didn’t want Smithson to see my erection.

So when the young matron came out of her office and called my name, I had my back to her. Turning round I made a token effort at hiding my cock but it wasn’t much good. I’d recently started wearing very small briefs (after seeing an advert with a sexy girl in a nightdress eyeing up a guy in ‘Jockey Skants’, I think that was the name). When you’ve got a raging hard-on you sort of waddle rather than walk, but I decided to brazen it out, looking straight at the young woman as I approached her. I could see she was struggling to hold herself together, backing off and trying to look away, but kind of fascinated at the same time. She could easily have called out to the senior matron or slipped into the doctor’s room next door, but something stopped her doing so – and it wasn’t that she was frozen with fear or something. Her behaviour emboldened me. I just felt so horny and self-confident, I grabbed her round the waist. I wanted sex, so I put my hand straight up her skirt and forced it between her legs, fumbling roughly for her pussy. I could feel her hot, a hint of wetness too. But next minute her hand was on my chest, surprisingly strong, pushing me away.

With surprising calm she closed the door to the waiting room. Mentally I thanked her for shutting out that weed, Smithson. Still no movement from the consulting room though. I was amazed how she’d pulled herself together. Her hand was up, palm towards me, warning me off and she lowered her voice. ‘Let’s take some measurements, shall we. See how big you are.’ For a moment I seriously imagined she wanted to measure my cock, but she was pointing at the scales. Definitely teasing though. I’d calmed down a bit, and didn’t have quite the erection I’d had earlier. But this young woman was turning me on. Big time. Still, I reckoned it was best to do as she said for now. Stepping onto the scales, I watched her go round to the other side to move the sliding weights. ‘Arms by your side and keep still’, she directed, making minute adjustments. ‘Do you know how big and heavy you are?’ That low teasing voice again, almost mouthing the question rather than speaking it. I knew pretty accurately, because we got weighed every Friday after training. ‘About thirteen stone’ ‘Mmm, thirteen two, up from twelve four last year.’ A lot of growth. Where do you think you’ve put it on?’ I felt her eyes appraising me from head to toe. ‘Chest? Shoulders? Definitely. But not the most.’ She’d come round to my side of the weighing machine. ‘No, I’d say Thighs. And bum of course. Let’s not forget your bum. Prime beef there.’ I’ve never been short of confidence but I was beginning to feel totally out of my depth. The young wench had turned the tables on me. I’d lost the initiative and she was toying with me, keeping me standing about as she played her little game. I assumed it was some sort of payback for what I’d done earlier. But girls weren’t supposed to treat men like this, and anyway it was unprofessional.  

‘Are we finished Matron, shall I go into the Doc now?’ She was back at the desk, elegant legs crossed, writing notes on a clipboard. Again I found myself hanging around not knowing what to do. ‘Not quite yet, just a few questions about your general health’. It was her normal voice again, presumably for the benefit of Smithson, who may well have been listening at the door. The questions were the obvious ones about flu and so forth. Then suddenly, without looking up from her notes, she dropped the volume. ‘Take your pants off and stand against the ruler. We haven’t done your height.’ I hesitated. She swung round, that appraising look again. ‘Go on, take them off. They’re not hiding much anyway.’ I was still semi-hard and very horny, so it should have been a turn-on stepping out of my briefs and showing her everything. It’s what I’d dreamt about. But it just didn’t add up. Why were the doctor and matron doing nothing? They must have heard everything, because their door wasn’t fully closed. Anyway, I did what she asked and stood, fully naked, back against the ruler, facing her.

Quickly this time, she lowered the pointer and measured my height. ‘Five eleven and half.’ She was very close, reaching over me to the pointer. So close I caught a whiff of body odour from her armpit. But I resisted the huge temptation to touch. He hand was in my hair. Then a second later it wasn’t. It was between my legs, cupping my balls. Gently but very firmly. Instinctively I winced, knowing that if I misbehaved, her steely little fingers would really hurt me. She was a real beauty, sensuous pouty lips, big brown eyes, thick wavy dark hair caught beneath a hairband, but I now realised she wasn’t the naïve college girl we fantasised about. ‘You think I don’t know what you ‘big boys’ say about me? Hmm? I suppose you place bets on who will get to fuck me first? Or claim he’s fucked me? How would he prove it?’ Her voice was even lower than before, conspiratorial and teasing. ‘At least you keep an erection. But maybe you have a problem with premature ejaculation? Hmm? You’d cum before getting inside my pussy.’ Her other hand had begun fingering my cock, drawing back the foreskin, making it swell. I was in torment. There was so much I wanted to do to this young matron, get her tights and panties down, spread her legs. On her back on the desk, perhaps. Bend her over and take her from behind. But I could do nothing. She had me by the balls. And even if she released them, her taunting had hit the mark. Perhaps I would cum within seconds. It seemed she could read my thoughts, because she’d released my cock. But not my scrotum. ‘Relax! We don’t want you to ejaculate right now’. ‘We?’ Was that just colloquial speech or were others involved? Her hand was stroking my pectorals. That teasing voice again. ‘You’ve a lot of body hair for a boy your age.’ It was true, thick mats of hair had sprouted all over my chest and abdominals during the past year. Most of the others in the fifteen just had hairy legs and arms. ‘Plenty of testosterone.’ The word came out slowly, extravagantly shaped by her lips and tongue. ‘Big heavy testicles. Very productive. Perhaps you do have what they’re looking for’.

At that she released my scrotum. ‘We’re done. The doctor will see you now. Knock before you go in.’

[the next part will follow soon]

In a previous blog I described a typical annual medical at my public school. However, there was one exceptional occasion that introduced me both to the realities of male/female sexual relations and to a type of men’s underwear that was much sexier than the ubiquitous Y Fronts.

I was nearly 14 and at the threshold of puberty, having already become well versed in the mechanics of reproduction from my mother’s medical textbooks. Girls increasingly fascinated me, though my only source of pleasure was newspapers and magazines, and I had not yet ejaculated. My medical had been postponed because I had had flu, so I was the only boy from my form on that particular day. When I entered the waiting room, I was the only one there. Moments later, another boy came in. He was much older, 17 or 18, and I recognised him as a prefect and back-row forward in the school rugby XV. This was the first time I had been in close proximity to a fully grown male. As he removed his shirt and tie, and stepped out of his trousers, I marvelled at his powerful hairy legs and his deep muscular chest covered with mats of thick hair that almost hid his nipples. Most awesome of all was that instead of Y Fronts he wore skimpy nylon briefs, royal blue in colour. The shapes of his fully developed penis and testicles were clearly visible, the unlined pouch of what in effect were a bodybuilder’s posing trunks, sagging under their weight. Noticing my sly look, he grinned, but I could tell he was tense and on edge. Rather than sit huddled up as the rest of us would do, he fidgeted restlessly, pumping his pectorals with a few press-ups against the bench and wandering up to the door to the assistant matron’s office. His briefs were so skimpy that they hardly covered the huge gluteal muscles that powered his body in the scrum.

Eventually the office door opened. The young matron read out his name, making him the first to go in for weighing and subsequent examination by the doctor and senior matron. He appeared to be fiddling with his clothes on the peg above the bench when his name was called. As he turned round, I saw with shock that his penis was thick and hard. Shamelessly he stuffed it into the tiny briefs as best he could, and strode with a swagger the few paces to the office. I could see the young matron’s eyes widen at the glimpse of his erection, then linger on his hairy torso and bulging trunks as he approached her. I could see too in her face a look that I had never seen previously, a strange mixture of fear and desire. Being so utterly ignorant of women, it would be many years before I recognised this look as the natural female response to a male whom she feared would overpower and impregnate her but whom at the same time she desperately desired.

As usual during the medicals, the office door stayed open. The young matron was standing just inside. Immediately on entering the youth put his arm round her waist. She flinched and tried to push him away, her small hand on his massive pectoral. He merely dropped his hand lower, reaching under her blue dress, lifting the hem and pushing his fingers between her thighs. She was wearing black tights over white panties. He seemed to be whispering something to her, but her expression was hidden from me. Another shove and she managed to break free. The last I saw was her closing the door and him stepping onto the scales.

Cautiously I listened at the door. But there was nothing to hear, just the questions about his general health. Then a ‘Come in’ from the doctor to signal the start of the second stage of the medical. Eventually the assistant’s office door re-opened and the prefect emerged. He came straight across to me, squatting down inches in front of me as I cowered on the bench. ‘Don’t you ever tell anyone about what you saw. Nothing. Ever. She’s my girlfriend. Do you understand?’ I suppose I nodded but I barely took in what he was saying. I was mesmerised by – and still remember perfectly today – the image of virility before me: the handsome face with piercing eyes and once-broken nose, the thickly muscled hairy legs, of which one knee was grinding into mine, and the thin blue nylon pouch suspended between his thighs that contained the procreative apparatus the young woman both desired and feared.

My own medical was normal, as if nothing had happened. In later times, as I learnt more about sexual relations, I began to wonder how the pieces fitted together. Was she really his girlfriend? Prefects were allowed to leave the school premises, so perhaps she took him to a hotel or her flat, where he would fuck her senseless? Perhaps she met other boys whom she desired and let them fuck her too? And what about the doctor and matron? Were they oblivious to what was going on next door, and did they make any comment on the boy’s obvious erection? Perhaps the doctor had behaved in a similar way when he himself had been in the sixth form, so turning a blind eye or even encouraging the behaviour as a natural manifestation of masculinity. Or perhaps he was a voyeur, who enjoyed watching a sexual assault by a near-naked male on a young woman. I shall never know.

In a previous blog I’ve described how deeply ashamed I was of the woollen underwear my parents provided for me, and how embarrassing it was to be seen in the changing room at my prep school.

As soon as I moved up to public school, there was a new terror in store. This was the annual medical. It was done by form, in groups of five or six. Each group would miss a class and go to the medical section, which adjoined the dormitories in one of the boarding houses. The medical team comprised the school doctor, a besuited and bespectacled man in his early 50s, with the physique and commanding presence of a rugby forward;  the matron, a big-busted woman, probably of similar age and rumoured by older boys to be a ‘dyke’ who sometimes ‘helped out’ at the nearby girls’ public school; and the assistant matron, a young woman in her 20s, with shoulder-length hair held in place by a hair band (as was the fashion of the time) and a textbook ‘hourglass’ figure. Since this was the 60s, the matrons naturally wore traditional nursing uniform, with blue gingham dresses, starched white aprons, black stockings and a starched cap.

The waiting room had benches on two sides, with pegs above. Upon entry the assistant matron crossed the names off the list and told us to remove all our clothing, except for our pants. In the small room I felt even more self-conscious than in the large changing rooms, and sat huddled on the bench, arms across my bare chest. This was a boys’ boarding school, deprived of female company for weeks on end, so as the years rolled on and we entered puberty, our eyes were naturally drawn to the young matron. The most self-assured of us would exchange lascivious glances and banter. Most of us would masturbate in private afterwards, spurting jets of semen almost immediately we recalled her stocking-encased legs, full lips and the enticing curve of her bust and hips.

Eventually it was your turn to go into the assistant matron’s office. The scales were the old-fashioned sort with weights that you slid along a scale, and the young female came unnervingly close as you stood in your bare feet on the metal plate and she took the measurement. Next you stood against a vertical ruler for measuring your height, flinching as the cold steel touched your back. Telling you to stand up straight, shoulders back and chest thrust out, the matron would pause a moment before reaching up and brushing your hair with her hand as she adjusted the pointer. During that infinitesimal pause, was she appraising your physique, asking herself how close to manhood you were and whether you were developing the strength in your legs and upper body that she desired in a lover? Surely for a healthy young woman, her own body still flooded with youthful hormones, her job must have been the ultimate dream? She was responsible for assessing the physical attributes of hundreds of young males, many of them fully grown, and lusty and potent as stallions, who were presented to her virtually naked. Did her panties sometimes become so saturated with fluid leaking from her vagina that she had to change them at break time?

After measuring you and asking a few questions about your general health, the young matron directed you through an interconnecting door into the consulting room. The doctor would usually be sitting behind the desk, the matron standing with a clipboard and pen. It was her job to record the results of the examination. This was long before doctors routinely used computers. They ran through the usual tests: checking your eyesight, temperature, pulse, listening to your chest. I suppose because of all the sport we played, lung capacity and lung function seemed particularly important. The matron handed you a cylindrical device and instructed you to take a deep breath, then exhale as long and as forcefully as possible. This moved a pointer down the cylinder. The doctor and matron would study your body critically, the matron sometimes tapping you on the rib cage and exhorting you to breathe in more deeply. On one occasion the doctor barked at me to stand up straight and inflate my chest like a man.

The final test was the most terrifying: the examination of your genitalia. I cannot imagine such a thing would be permitted today. Without asking, the doctor would pull down the front of your pants, reach inside and cup your scrotum in his hand, probing your testicles with his fingers. Then lift your penis and draw back the foreskin. The matron would take an initial glance, without showing much interest – in my case at least – before  carefully recording the details as he described them. Many of the terms remain fixed in my mind: ‘Testicles immature’, ‘Penis prepubertal’, ‘Pubic hair incipient’. By the time I had become fully mature, I suppose at 16 or 17, he seemed to have found or devised a systematic method for recording genital development: ‘Testicles, penis and pubic hair all at stage 4’ (or was it 5, I can’t remember). Once he found you had reached that stage, the examination concluded with a stern admonition: ‘Refrain from masturbation. It is weakening.’

Such then was the annual medical. The experience has remained with me ever since, continuing to dent my self-esteem and colouring my sexuality.

My obsession with panties and briefs can be traced back to early childhood experiences, initially in fact boys’ clothing, not girls’ clothing. I was an only child of elderly parents, who hated the present world and lived in the past. Sex of course was a taboo subject. My mother would watch the truly shocking scenes of famine in Africa that flooded TV news bulletins of the 1960s and always say the same thing: ‘Why so many children, why do these natives have no self-control?' On the one occasion I saw my father attempt to kiss my mother (on the cheek) before a business trip, she ridiculed him. Eventually I began to wonder how I had ever come into being. I concluded that because my mother was very knowledgeable in medical matters, she would have known exactly when she was most fertile and somehow managed to persuade my father to ejaculate inside her. Quite possibly on only one occasion.

But I digress …. this is about panties …. Throughout my childhood, in winter I had to wear Chilprufe woollen underwear. This was a set of very long shorts and t-shirts that buttoned up the front, much like those that had been worn a century earlier. The shorts were hopeless at keeping their shape, turning baggy after washing and making the fly gape open, even if you carefully did up the button. The fabric was very rough, so the insides of my thighs were chafed red raw after wearing them all day. In summer it was, naturally, Aertex. My father told me that in the army before the War drawers were fastened with laces as well as buttons. So I’m sure my parents imagined they were making an enormous concession to modernity by permitting me to wear underpants with an elasticated waist! Needless to say, the drawers became totally shapeless after a few washes and the elasticated waist was prone to early failure.

For the first ten years of my life, being an only child, I assumed these weird garments were entirely normal. As soon as I went to prep school, my world was turned upside down. Sport was very important, so we were in the changing rooms every day and for the first time I saw other boys of my own age in the nude. I watched in awe as some boys strode around confidently stark naked, engaging in banter and a bit of playful wrestling, but for me it was a terrifying experience. And what made it far, far worse was the inconsolable shame I felt for my ridiculous underwear. As I removed my shirt and trousers, there would be giggling, tittering and sniggering from neighbours trying to cover their mouths with their hands. And because you had to wear your pants under gym, athletics or rugby shorts (no mesh linings in those days) my dirty-looking beige Chilprufe drawers always peeped through the legs, despite my best efforts to roll them up.

How I envied the other boys, who of course wore Y Fronts. I loved the way the briefs revealed the full length of their thighs. I spent hours trying to imagine what it would feel like if my legs were entirely free. So wonderfully liberating! And free from the relentless chafing pain too. I was also aware that unlike my drawers, Y Fronts had a pouch to contain and support the essential male attributes. Bulges were small of course, but unmistakable. So too was the outline of the penis lying to one side. In addition to looking with longing at the other boys, I began seeking out newspaper advertisements for Y Fronts and incorporating them in my dreams.

My lifelong fetish for briefs and panties had been born.