by Ned Williams
This was nothing particularly unusual. Kids spend most of their free time imparting pathetic secrets to a select few. I paid scant attention to them until I overheard the magic word ‘Queer’. I continued eating my anaemic, yellow steamed stodge but tuned my mental antenna to pick up what they were saying.
“It’s true. Me brother says so,” whined a particularly spotty youth.
“Nah. It’s all bull. He’s makin’ it up.”
Spotty felt the need to push on with his brother’s claim. “They go in there by their thousands and jerk each other off. ’e seen ’em.” Then, to give a final flourish to his story, “They even stick their things up each other’s bums.”
“Ugh!!” The others replied in disgusted unison.
They dropped their voices to a whisper. The sniggering continued.
“All right, all right, we believe you. Tell us which one? Come on then, tell us. Where is it?” Demanded a venturesome blonde.
I was on tenterhooks. I silently prayed they wouldn’t lower their voices again, but ’Acne ’Arry was too fired up to keep this quiet. He was eager to inform. “That public bog by the main entrance to the park. You know the one. Yes you do.”
Yes, I did.
“That’s a load o’crap. I’ve been in there ‘undreds of times,” replied a third boy with doubt in his voice, “an’ I’ve never seen anythin’ like that.”
The poor lad didn’t see the quicksand upon which he was jumping. The other two put lead weights onto his feet. “What’s the matter? Embarrassed to say what you went in there for?”
“‘ere, Bammo, are you a shirt lifter as well?” said the blonde. “We’ll have to start calling you ‘Bummo’ instead of ‘Bammo’.” He then leaned over to a boy on the next table who had missed their conversation. “Oi, Ian, did you know ol’ Bammo’s a shirt lifter?” All, except their mortified victim, whooped with laughter.
“Fuck off!!” yelled Bammo, successfully topping the adolescent hilarity.
“Who said that?” Boomed a teacher’s voice. No response. “Come on, own up. Who said that?” Mr. Blake bore down on our table like a cheetah with piles. I lost interest in the ensuing cross–examination. I had other things on my mind.
This casual exchange brought a spark to my eyes and an eager colour to my cheeks. I didn’t much like the idea of the business about ‘their things up each other’s bums,’ but the rest – well, it was a distinct possibility. Yes, my eavesdropping had proved most informative.
The toilet in question was within easy walking distance of the school. All that was required was a slight detour on my journey home. Would it have the potential for exacting my revenge and making more money? I had known for some time ‘strange men’ hung out in public toilets – my father made sure I knew about that. Stupidly, in my innocence, I hadn’t made the connection.
I knew, that day, my walk home would take and be a bit longer than usual.
That afternoon’s lessons went by painfully slowly. For the fiftieth time in ten minutes, I sneaked a look at the clock.
“You, boy!!” A well–aimed piece of thrown chalk bounced off the top of my head. I looked up as the rest of the class laughed at my expense.
“Yessir?” I had a mortal fear of being singled out for castigation. I flushed.
“Is something wrong with you, boy?” He laid on the sarcasm with a giant trowel, “Is your life so meaningless you feel that you can afford to wish it away?” The laughter from my fellow inmates encouraged him and it made me blush. “Perhaps you know all there is to know and school is a mere waste of time. Is that it, boy? I mean, your end of term reports are so glowing, aren’t they? How about you coming up here and taking the class? What d’you say?”
I mumbled an apology, which placated him so he returned to instructing us on the delights of mathematical equations.
After about a million years, the final bell sounded and I rushed out to make my way home via the newly discovered playground. Could this be the pawnbroker I had been looking for to sell my little jewel?
Instead of going straight inside, I observed the toilet from a little way up the road. I wanted to catch a glimpse of the reported thousands of people who were supposed to use it. I stood there for twenty minutes – not a sausage. No one went in – no one came out. ‘Damn, fooled again,’ I thought. Though there was no evidence the place might be useful, I decided to go in and have a look for myself.
When I entered the stinking bog, my worst fears were confirmed and I discovered that it was utterly deserted. Not a soul. I waited for a further quarter of an hour, but still – nothing. To pass the time, I read the walls of the lockups, which were covered with invitations, requests, boasts and fantastic stories. I read each one and enriched my knowledge by leaps. Not all the texts made pleasant reading.
Although I would have happily stayed longer, I had a more pressing engagement. I knew my mother would have my evening meal on the table at a very specific time, so I left for home, my tea and a row because I was five minutes late.
The visit, as far as my quest was concerned, had been an almost total flop – but I made a mental note to keep trying. The graffiti indicated it was well visited and as such, promised better opportunities for the future.
Every evening, for weeks, on the way home, I made my new found haunt a regular drop–in–centre. Freshly scrawled messages were added to the ones already there and each of these I absorbed like a sponge. I had high hopes. And – yes – you guessed it: nothing! Only one evening, after about a fortnight, was there any break in this monotony. An ancient man, or so he appeared to me, came in and used the toilet for its proper purpose. I was miffed.
I was beginning to lose heart but I continued to keep up a regular timetable of visits. After about a further two weeks, I managed to almost hit the jackpot.
When I sauntered into the loo, I was confronted by a middle–aged man who was standing at the stalls and having a right old time with himself. He didn’t turn around to see who came in, but continued to work away at his nether regions. My heart leapt. I was about to have my second chance of revenge. I moved to the far end of the stand–ups and looked across at him. With a broad grin, he turned to face me. His erect penis was being waved around like a flag on Coronation Day. When he saw me, he nearly had a heart attack. Utter horror and fear replaced the grin. He almost fell over himself in his rush to get out. He probably thought I was in the pay of the police for the purpose of entrapment. But, at least I now had proof–positive that here, in this out of the way piss–hole – there was a glimmer of hope for my plans. Smiling with satisfaction, I turned to leave when a young man, perhaps in his late teens, came in. Why is it that a pick–up place, empty for weeks, suddenly becomes popular? Buses seem to operate under the same law. This particular bus had none of the previous visitor’s compunctions about the boy who rushed back to the stalls and remained standing to see what would happen. He moved to the empty stand–up beside me and instantly began to indicate why he was there. It didn’t take long for him to get down to it.
His was the first stranger’s mouth and tongue ever to explore my undersized weapon. He was blatant in his gratification. I shudder to think what would have happened if anyone had wandered casually into the rancid toilet. Yet, we remained undisturbed. When it was all over and I’d obligingly relieved him, he made to leave. He didn’t even ask if I wanted to finish – not that I could. I watched him, expecting him to cough up my fee. Much to my chagrin, he merely tidied up and left. ‘Bloomin’ cheek,’ I thought. Feeling rather huffy, I realised a different strategy would be required.
In that same toilet, over the next few weeks, there were a few more false starts where people got for nothing what, later, they would have to purchase. I explained away my failures by putting them down to study and research into the technique, or more accurately the non–technique of procuring. Let’s face it, I was new to all this. A novice. Green as hell – eager to learn – and failing miserably. Then…
After about another two we
eks of evening visits – I struck gold. As I entered, there was a guy already in residence; he must have been about thirty years old. With him, and standing very close, was another, older man. As they realised I was there; they sprang apart – which caused me to snigger. The younger man lost all interest in his companion and smiled at me. He walked to the exit and looked back. Jerking his head towards the door, I quickly cottoned onto the fact that he wanted me to follow. I was intrigued, so I made for the exit to see what would happen. Outside, he got into a car and opened the passenger door for me to join him. I thought, ‘What the hell, I don’t ride in cars very often,’ and in I leapt.
He started the car and drove off at steady pace. I looked out of the windows.
“My name’s James,” he said. “What’s yours?”
Like an idiot, I told him. “Steve.” At the time I didn’t realise how dangerous it was for someone my age, playing the game I hoped to play, to give his correct name. The danger was not only for myself but also for the punter.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” I lied.
He sniggered. “Really? You certainly look young for your age.” It appeared he didn’t want to pursue this any further. I don’t think he wanted to know.
He released his left hand from its hold on the steering wheel to fondle my legs and crutch. A sudden near accident and an urgent need to apply the brakes soon put a halt to that idea.
“I – er – have a place. Interested in coming back?” He sensed my hesitation. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll expect you could do with some extra pocket money, eh my lad?” Bingo! I was overjoyed. These were the words I had been aching to hear.
I attempted a casual, worldly act. “All right, then.” I don’t think I succeeded.
He suddenly steered the car down a side street and began to double back. After a short drive, we pulled up outside a large, detached house. I must have looked doubtful.
He reassured me with a quick, “Don’t worry, I live alone. We won’t be disturbed and I promise you, I’ll stop any time you want.”
I’m fortunate enough to say he was a man of his word. I felt safe with him. I was confident that if I wanted him to stop, he would. This is in direct contrast with many people I was to encounter later.
For James, all I had to do was to lie on a luxurious bed, whilst he did all the work with his mouth and tongue. It was quite pleasant but I found myself looking around the room instead of concentrating on the job in hand (If you’ll forgive another pun).
When it was over, he gave me a pound note (I began to think this was the going rate) and did me the courtesy of driving me back to the public toilet.
As I got out of the car, he thanked me; “Can I see you again?”
“Okay.” I was making a date!
“Let’s say – next week – same day, same time, same place. Is that all right with you?”
“Yeah. Sure.” As he drove away, I waved. My joy quickly turned to panic. I was very late for my tea.
I rushed home and tried to think of an excuse for my late arrival. My mother was furious – again. She clouted me with the first thing that came to hand and I knew I was in for two or three days of the silent treatment. I went to my room and hid the precious wage in my hidey–hole and went back down stairs.
“What’s that funny smell?” James had insisted on washing me at the end of our session. He’d shot his load all over my little cock. It must have been the perfume from the unfamiliar soap which offended her. She twitched her nose in disapproval and set about ignoring me. I knew, sooner or later, she would demand to know why I was delayed and to be quite honest, when she did, I can’t remember what I said. Probably something lame.
For the next seven days, I didn’t bother going to that public toilet. There was no reason. I had my date. True to my word, I went to meet James as arranged. He did me the courtesy of turning up – and on time. (How often, in later life, did a sincerely promised appointment mean nothing to the other person?)
This visit to his house followed the same pattern except, at the end whilst he was bathing me, he started to talk.
“Do you go into that toilet very often?”
“No,” I lied – again. I was getting very good at lying. I don’t think I’d convinced him for he went on to tell me the days and times when it was busy. Apparently, on Saturday mornings and especially Sunday afternoons and evenings, the place could be classified as ‘jumping.’ I tried to look innocent and made furious mental notes.
On about the third visit to James’, he tried to kiss me.
“No,” I complained, squirming my mouth away. I thought he didn’t mind – though, after my refusal, I only received an invitation to visit him a few more times. I wasn’t playing the game, you see. My fault. However, as each of my dates with him produced another pound, my ready cash had built up to such an extent; I was getting seriously worried in case my mother found it. I needed a more secure way of hiding my ill–gotten gains or, at least, a way of using it without my mother finding out.
I began to treat various friends at school to lunchtime goodies at the tuck–shop. It wasn’t my intention to buy friends, but that’s what seemed to be happening. They must have thought that either I’d transferred to a very rich family, or my parents had won the pools. Little did they know!
I managed to spend, fairly carefully, the money I had earned. I even started a sort of loan club. This, naturally, made me many enemies. Yes, I was still very naïve, but it solved a problem, which could have exploded in my face. I knew my mother would have asked a lot of difficult questions I wouldn’t have been able to answer.
About this time something happened to me that was to change my whole life and attitude to people around me.
One evening, whilst I was taking a bath, I was soaking away and idly playing with my erection, thinking of nothing in particular, when I became aware of an especially pleasant sensation in my groin. It was a mixture of warmth and sensitivity. I began to wonder what was happening. The feeling grew and grew. It was a feeling unlike anything I had ever felt before. It was an ecstasy that thrilled my whole body. I kept massaging to make the sensation continue. I found that if I speeded up the movements, this feeling became even more pleasurable. Then, to my utter amazement, a familiar looking substance spat from my little penis. In that one moment, I had simply ceased to be a boy and had, instead, become a boy/man!!
I was one of the first in my class to suffer the embarrassing phases in puberty when, not only were my hormones given licence to do as they pleased and run riot in every direction, but my voice yodelled up and down the scale in an unpredictable and alarming way. In a matter of months, my position in the school choir altered; I went from a secure alto to an occasional baritone.
I now realised what this thing called ‘sex’ was all about and began to understand why men were so obsessed by it. I couldn’t leave it alone!
Demands from School
Within a matter of months, strange things began to happen on the school front. Like me, most of my fellow male classmates had, by now, reached that confusing age when our hormones and a selected part of our bodies were having lives of their own. I was no longer alone in my embarrassment. Puberty had become a perplexing reality, which needed exploring and wrestling with. Virtually every boy in my class was beginning to have wanted and unwanted erections at the most awkward times.
When their little dicks popped up, most of the lads didn’t have the remotest idea what to do with them and I certainly had no intention of imparting the bathroom knowledge that I had recently gained. The sad few, who were still devoid of this inevitable but crazy phase of life, listened in wonder to the stories and boasts gleefully recounted by their bollock–dropped classmates. Although I belonged to this latter school of physical development, I found the whole topic rather boring. It was a case of ‘been there, done it, still doing it, doing it with others – and getting paid for it!’
For myself, other than the heightened bonused thrill I exper
ienced from ‘shooting my load’, there were no actual surprises for me to discover.
The regime at school, during our compulsory sporting periods, was murder to deal with. We were not allowed to wear anything under our shorts. Jumping up and down, running, leaping and various forms of gymnastics became a subtle form of torture; all that bobbing about and rubbing against rough cloth, caused a unanimous swelling in our thin, school issued gym wear. Even with some strange gaits and stances, our rampant, swollen members were almost impossible to conceal. The teacher must have noticed but didn’t say anything. And the rules weren’t changed.
I remember the sniggering period when innocent remarks made by our teachers were interpreted as something crude and smutty.
“I want you to pick up your balls, hold them up so your partner can see them, and then get ready to serve them up,” said our P.E. coach, trying to teach us the delights of tennis. He was answered by a massed, barely concealed snort of mirth. He was an experienced chap who, with a quick, “All right, boys, settle down. Stop being silly. I’ve heard it all before,” managed to call a halt to any further response.
Eager explorers, who needed to drink in pictures showing some obscure African tribe’s tribal dance as performed by women – topless(!), secretly raided the bookshelves in the geography room. The National Geographic became the chief source of their sex education – as it had been before, for many other kids over the decades.
As time went by the rest of my year began to let sex become their sole topic of their thoughts, desires and conversation, I withdrew into the world of literature. My school friends and I had nothing in common. To me, sexually, they were babies. Their conversations turned from talk of toy soldiers, comics, homework and all the rest of the usual boyish interests and gave way to an obsession with girls, their bodies and the mysteries therein. The ladies underwear sections of home shopping catalogues were added to the National Geographic as compulsory reading material. Instead of being objects of revulsion, the boys began talking to the girls in class and boasted to their mates if the backs of their hands accidentally(!) brushed against one of the girl’s breasts. The boys’ fantasies and dreams were a constant preoccupation in their discussions. For myself, naturally, I couldn’t give a damn and I removed myself from their company as soon as their overriding obsession was broached. The National Geographic held no interest for me, so, instead, I turned to children’s literary classics. Even the horseplay, where they laughingly grabbed one another’s privates, was enough to send me scuttling to another part of the playground. Such was the joy of their adolescent sex – all talk and no action. Indeed, the only success any of them had was when we went on one of our after school activities – swimming. It wasn’t quite what they expected.