Some more of the story

I meant to add to yesterday's post, apropos the scene on the train in David's Lodge's semi-autobiographical novel Out of the Shelter, that my own traveling wet dream occurred when I was a few years older than Timothy Young. And I was on an airplane rather than a train. I don't think I had to change planes in Chicago, and the seat next to me came to be taken by a young woman who boarded there. She wasn't much older than I and—if my memory is not playing tricks on me,for how could I possibly really remember now?—her name was Arlette Blake. Anyway, she was friendly and attractive and it was clear from our conversation that I could fall in love with her, if I hadn't already. At length we joined the rest of the passengers in sleep over the Atlantic toward Reykjavik. When I awoke in the morning, the stain on my tan trousers, though unsettling, didn't embarrass me (I seem to remember) as much as it might have.