The headmaster of a public school must, married or single, embrace a degree of monasticism, that is the quid pro quo, and even though the thought of a piece of tail might prey upon his mind, he knows that such poontang is out of bounds, that he owes it to the boys in his charge to set an example of restraint. That however much he wants to scratch that itch he cannot play the field just to get his rocks off. How, after all, could he be laying pipe and making the beast with two backs one moment and the next lead school prayers in the full knowledge that he has lipstick on his dipstick?
Euripides tells us that whom God wishes to destroy he first makes mad, and nothing drives a man to madness more than the urge to take a roll in the hay, to carpe diem and get it on and ease his love muscle with a little nookie on the side.
With St Augustine he will cry "Give me chastity, but not yet" as John Thomas implores him to get his leg over and sow his wild oats, if only for a quickie. He knows it is a sine qua non that the piece that passeth understanding is not to be found in a bit of skirt or a moment's wham bam thankyou ma'am. The flesh is weak, alas, but let him who has not done the dirty for the sake of a bit on the side cast the first stone. Judge not that ye be not judged, and remember: if you play away, you run the risk of being caught offside with your pants down.