One further word before I open my store of the times that have passed. Hopefully we shall see the day when science and not theology will become the arbiter of personal morality; when pure reason, unfettered by the bumbling antics of well-meaning but ignorant clergymen, bound and limited by the dogmas of preconception, will seek and find sane and sensible standards of civilised conduct between the sexes.
For I hold that there is no distinction to be found between the sexual needs of the married and unmarried, as a young man's passion does not suddenly awaken at the moment of his betrothal. Nor are the desires of a widow permanently extinguished upon the death of her spouse. The number of predatory widows in London Society is proof enough, and the names of such ladies may be omitted here as they are well-known to all the many gentlemen who frequent the salons of Belgravia and Mayfair. So Lady Cecilia A-and Mrs Hester S-may, with others of their ilk, rest easy, as I do not propose revealing their secret lives in this manuscript.
Fortunately our century has produced, an abundance of publications proclaiming the delights of the body in all its forms. And now I offer my own journey down the lane of memory as a humble addition to those other memoirs penned by that group of lusty scribes who have built up such a fine stock of gallant literature.
Finally, I would add only this-no apology will be forthcoming from me for putting into print this highly charged erotic narrative, as I feel assured that every devotee of voluptuous reading will derive as much, or hopefully even more, pleasure than that afforded your humble author in the writing of this epistle. I would like to thank my old friend and mentor Sir Lionel T-, himself an Old Nottsgrovian, for allowing me the use of his fine library to compose this work, and I end this prologue with the wise words of Boccaccio: