Date: Fri, 7 May 2004 11:44:19 +0200
From: eu901577 <cager@tele2.fr>
Subject: Skinhead and Yuppie 2

Skinhead and yuppie

Part 2

by Cager

 I was a romantic despite the cynicism I projected in my job. This tough
skinhead yob had abused me - he had shaved me, pissed on me, humiliated me
and yet for the next week what I remembered most was the kiss. Sure, the
abuse had touched something in me but until I had met him it was
unacknowledged - something hidden deep in the dark places of my psyche
where I was unwilling to go rummaging. He had brought them out to the light
but I wasn't ready to confront them yet, to see what place they might have
in my life. Kissing was different - that I could relate to, that I felt was
something I wanted more of. Especially with him, with my working class thug
and seducer.

 I felt that the chemistry between us had been terrific, something
exceptional. My head was way up in the clouds for days, dreaming of him, of
being kissed again by him. After our impromptu session in the warehouse I
just felt that of course he'd want to see me again and soon. I even
imagined he'd come with me for a drink - somewhere far from where I lived
because I couldn't let my neighbours and the locals see me with someone so
evidently rough and uncouth.

 So I was waiting for him to make the invitation as I got dressed; but it
didn't come; he just looked at me insolently - almost with something like a
sneer or with contempt. And I still hadn't finished dressing when he turned
on his heel and moved off. I called out after him, 'Hey, just a minute!'
and he turned and looked at me, still with something that was halfway
between amusement and scorn. I didn't know what to say. He made me feel
silly and kind of less of a man than he, and I was flustered. I was struck
dumb and all I could do was pull out my wallet and give him my business
card. He took it and looked at it as if it was something he had never seen
before - maybe he hadn't - turning it this way and that between his fingers
as if he had no idea what this slender piece of card might be or what use
it could possibly serve. For an awful moment I thought he was going to
throw it away but he did finally slip it into his pocket and without a word
walked off. Only then did I realise that I didn't even know his name.

 Then - nothing. Silence. No phone calls. Part of me was relieved that this
didn't happen - what would I have said to my secretary when she fielded the
call? She knew everything about me - or seemed to. She knew exactly what
role every caller played in my life whether professionally or socially. But
I would have thought of something, would have invented some excuse about a
plumber or builder doing work on my fancy flat. But I had no need to invent
because there was no call. I got angry - I was absurdly discomfited by
having gone through something I saw as deeply intimate and deeply personal
and deeply life-changing and that all of this seemed to mean nothing to
this bastard. So he pisses on good-looking guys every day of the week?
Beats them? Shaves them? Fucks them? Yes, all that and begins and ends with
kisses? Deep male kisses, tongues exploring, flavours in mouths kisses?
Anger was useless and got me nowhere. He still didn't call and it didn't
help me forget about him. So I had to do something about this. I wasn't
just going to sit around and mope and feel sorry for myself; because the
more I thought about it the more important it seemed - it wasn't just about
the kisses. It was something deeper. I had to explore it more. I just had
to.

 But what to do? I had stopped my run. I was afraid to do it, afraid of the
catcalls and jeers that I had received before. Of course it was obvious
what I had to do but pride held me back so it took a few weeks of stupid
selfish egoism before I was prepared to accept that that approach was going
to lead nowhere and that whether I lost face over this or not, if he told
me to fuck off or worse ignored me, I had to go for what I needed, I had to
make the run again. Changing into my running gear in the office I felt
sick. I felt like abandoning the attempt and settling back to my old
life. Three weeks had passed; my hair, initially the subject of some stupid
jokes - my excuse was that I had been forced into having it cropped at a
charity event, and anyway as I pointed, out hair is a renewable resource -
had grown back somewhat. So mixed in with the fear of rejection was the
fear that he would despise me for having changed the way I had
looked. Maybe he would see it as having abandoned the changes he had
wrought in me. But despite the length of my hair surely he would know -
just by the fact that I was resuming my old route home - that I needed him,
that he had made an impact on me. But still the bigger fear was that I had
made no impact on him at all.

 So all of this was running crazily through my mind as I started my run
home. Now, when I think back over all of this, I wonder at my arrogance -
thinking that this guy should hang on after his mates had gone home, night
after night, hoping for a glimpse of me. Why should he do this? Because I
was such a stud was what I supposed, because I was a catch for him, someone
he could never hope to meet otherwise. All that sort of rubbish was perhaps
my answer - but you know I never really asked myself this or thought for a
moment that he would not be there. Again it comes down to the significance
of the initial meeting for me - it just had to be the same for him. It just
had to be. So I rounded the corner, my heart in my mouth - and he was
there, just as I had seen him on THAT evening, sitting on a low wall,
smoking a cigarette, and, best of all, smiling broadly. I suddenly became
shy as I slowed to a walk but held out a hand in greeting as I
approached. He ignored it, chucked his cigarette away, stood up and entered
the building. I followed him.

 He didn't look round but went to the same place as before. Now shut off
from the outside world he turned to face me, still smiling. I moved towards
him, ready for the embrace, ready to kiss that smoky mouth, to get my
tongue inside it, to put my hands around his cropped head and rub my cheek
against it. He slapped me, hard, across my face and before I could even cry
out, backhanded me another. Then, taking advantage of my complete
bewilderment, he punched me hard in the stomach. I doubled over and a hand
chop to my neck brought me to my knees. That's when he started kicking me
with his Doc Marten's. I cried out, as much in astonishment as in pain. I
begged him to stop. I wanted to appeal to his better nature but not knowing
his name I resorted to the only thing I had ever called him, 'Sir'. And as
soon as I did so, he stopped.

 'At last,' he said, very calmly. His self-possession surprised me - for
someone who seconds before had been kicking the shit out of me and giving
every indication of being a vicious lout, he was suddenly very much in
control of himself.

 'You really are a fucking useless piece of slave shit, aren't you? And
look at you - so your haircut was a one-off? Something you put up with
until it had grown back? You think I should be bothered with a fucking
fashion victim like you?'

 I didn't dare look at him. I just stared at his boots, worried that he'd
start in on me with them again. I was curled up into a foetal ball. I could
have straightened up but I was afraid to - not because it would have made
my body vulnerable again but to conceal the enormous hard-on I was sporting
through my track suit bottoms. In fact I was hardly listening to him. I was
so taken by surprise both by the unexpectedness of the attack but even more
so by the undeniable fact that I was turned on. This guy treating me like
shit turned me on.

 'Well?' he continued. 'Why should I be bothered with a cunt like you who
keeps me hanging around for weeks?'

 'But Sir,' I protested feebly, 'you have my work telephone number, you
could have phoned me. I don't even know your name, Sir.'

 'So I am supposed to go running after you? Who is the slave around here,
you or me?'

 'I didn't know I was a slave, Sir,' I replied.

 'Fucking hell', he said and laughed. 'Last time I saw you there was no
fucking doubt about it then. Couldn't get enough abuse, couldn't get low
enough, wanted to worship me, wanted to be changed, wanted to be a skin
like me. That right?'

 'Yes, Sir.'

 'OK, fucker, one last chance. You want to be my slave then you come back
here, same time, exactly one week from now. Understand?'

 'Yes, Sir.'

 He kicked me one last time, on the backside, and left me lying there.

 When I looked up, he had gone.

 I was disappointed. I had gone through such a build-up in my mind, all
that tossing and turning as to what I should do, how I could meet him
again, what would happen when we did meet. Look, you have to understand
that at that time I was used to getting my own way, having things on my
terms.

 After a few days I began to recognise that, far from being a
disappointment, that second meeting had sharpened my appetite. I actually
liked not having control, liked being told what to do. Also the lack of
anything that up till now I would have called sex - fucking, kissing,
sucking, whatever - brought me face to face with what I had been
avoiding. And that was, quite simply, that I also liked being treated like
shit, I liked being abused and kicked and slapped around. This was hard for
me to come to terms with, you know. It had been there through all my teen
years and into my twenties but I wouldn't confront it, wouldn't look at it
or acknowledge it. Now I had to. The truth was that I was beginning to
identify with being a slave to a skinhead both from the physical and the
mental points of view. And also I knew for certain that I longed to be a
skinhead myself, to escape from the boring, mundane, respectable life I was
leading. I wanted to say, 'Fuck you' to the straight world I lived in. I
had conformed too long. This tough, little skinhead was offering me a way
out and I was determined to go for it, no matter what I had to go through.

 So the week that followed my second meeting was interminable; but it was
useful too because it gave me a chance to come to terms with those things
about myself that I had always run away from. And it led to a kind of
recklessness to the extent that I was determined to show this cocky bastard
that I was taking it seriously, that I did want to be a skinhead.

 I bought a set of hair clippers. Just buying them gave me a tingle of
excitement and later, when I took them out of their box, arranged the
different sized blades beside them and plugged them in, my cock was at full
stretch and my hands were shaking. I wanted the experience to be as drawn
out as possible so I selected a No. 4 and slipped it over the blades of the
clippers. I switched it on and heard that hum which plugged directly into
my memories of that first encounter. I raised my hand and tentatively swept
the machine across the crown of my head. Nothing! Not a hair dropped on the
newspaper I was kneeling on. It pleased me in a way - showed that I was
still something of a skinhead. I switched to a no. 3 - and a few bits and
pieces dropped in front of me. A deep breath and I removed the no.3 and in
a moment of total recklessness decided to go for a zero. This time the hair
fell liberally... I stepped in front of the mirror - transformed! In fact
even shorter than when my skin Master had taken off my golden mop. Somehow
I felt empowered. Samson in the Biblical story may have lost his strength
with his hair but the reverse seemed true of me. I felt reborn - tough,
hard, powerful. No longer did I feel I needed to excuse myself to my work
colleagues - fuck them; it was my life, my body, my hair and no one but no
one was going to dictate to me how I looked.

 Except for my Master, of course...

 So, on the appointed day and at the appointed time, I set off jauntily,
confident, happy. A bit apprehensive because I knew that this cocky
skinhead would have something up his sleeve that I couldn't imagine but
somehow I trusted him. Despite the fact that he had kicked me to bruising
the last time I saw him I felt I was ready for him, ready and equal for
whatever he might throw at me in the way of surprises. Well I was right -
he did have a surprise up his sleeve. He was in his usual place, as usual
smoking a cigarette, dressed as usual in his Fred Perry shirt, bleachers
with white braces, tall DMs with white laces. I thought he would compliment
me on my zero crop, maybe joke with me about it, say something about it but
he said not a word, appeared not to notice. Again he just flicked the
cigarette away, stood up and moved inside, with me following lamely behind
him.

 We got to our usual place, the door was slightly ajar when, instead of
pushing through, he suddenly stepped aside and said with mock courtesy,
'After you'. In I went, like a lamb to the slaughter, he following me, so
close behind me I could feel his breath on the nape of my neck. As I passed
through the door his hands shot up and covered my eyes and mouth, other
hands came from nowhere and grabbed me. Of course anyone's first instinct
is to struggle and struggle I did but it was useless - I was pinioned by
the arms, the shoulders, the thighs, and the calves. I was immobile. Then
the voice came to my ear.

 'Now this can be easy for you or it can be difficult. What is going to
happen to you is going to happen to you one way or another. Make no mistake
about that. Whether it is a struggle for you is up to you, cunt. Take it as
it comes and it'll go much more quickly and easily. Do you understand
that?' I nodded.

 'Now I am going to remove my hands from your eyes and mouth and I don't
expect a sound from you. Got that?' Again I nodded. All the hands that held
me were withdrawn, and finally the hand over my eyes drew back and I could
see what was going on. I saw six skinheads. Young, tough, hard, trying to
look serious but I could see that laughter lay just behind the eyes - they
were enjoying this. The one I thought of as my Master moved round to stand
directly in front of me.

 'OK,' he said softly, 'you decided to come back. That's good. But it's the
last decision you'll be making for a while. Got that?'

 'Yes, Sir.'

 'Louder.'

 'Yes, SIR!'

 'Now you want to be a skinhead, don't you, boy?'

 'Yes, SIR!'

 'And you want to be a slave, don't you, boy?'

 'Yes, SIR!'

 'Well this evening your dreams come true. OK lads, let's get started -
there's a lot to do.'

 There was that bag again, the one that contained God knows what. First out
of it was a pair of scissors. One of the skins - a tall, lean guy with a
ferret-like face, no looker that's for sure but sexy for all that - pulled
out a large pair of scissors. I almost shouted out, 'but there's no hair
for you to cut!' but hair wasn't what he had in mind. He caught hold of my
expensive designer sweatshirt and cut it from top to bottom. Any tendency
on my part to protest was instantly quelled by the look on my Master's
face. I kept my mouth shut as off it came, and the T-shirt beneath it and
the sweat pants in their turn. Trainers were pulled off and the laces
ritualistically cut. Socks too were chopped and rendered useless - and I
was standing naked with a telltale erection.

 A chair was pulled out and I was pushed down onto it. My zero crop was the
next thing to go. I couldn't believe it - shaving foam, hot water from a
thermos, a bowl, a razor were produced and another skin took over as Master
Barber.

 'You haven't earned the right to any hair,' said my Master, as the razor
passed over my scalp. 'This will remind you that you are the lowest among
us, a slave.' I just nodded, almost in a daze, yet dying to see what I
would look like as a bonehead. Hair from the rest of my body was removed
just as deftly and diligently.

 'Don't worry, we'll leave you your eyebrows and lashes. More for my
benefit than yours - I don't want you to look too reptilian.'

 I was naive enough to think that this removal of my hair constituted the
whole of my transformation but worse was to come. The sight of a needle was
enough to bring out a spirit of rebellion in me and I confess I did make a
dash for the door - only to be dragged back to the chair kicking and
screaming. But as my Master had said, resistance was indeed useless and I
saw that I really was powerless in this situation as I was firmly held
while both nipples were pierced and rings inserted. Of course I cried out
when the needle went through the nipple and I watched the blood trickle
down my hairless chest and stomach.

 Still, you'd think by now that I would have stopped fighting but when I
suddenly understood that I was going to have a ring through my septum, a
nose ring like a pig or animal, I couldn't take it. I screamed and screamed
and writhed and twisted and they just let me get on with that until I had
exhausted myself and then proceeded quite calmly to ring me. I was broken
by now. I accepted it. It's funny - there comes a point when you do accept
that you really can do nothing to change events; everyone has a different
breaking point I guess and the nose ring was mine. And then there's a kind
of peace - even the pain seemed to recede, things became dreamlike and
drifting and all problems, thoughts of the future, even memories of the
past, of what I had so recently been - all, just melted away.

 After this, having the word 'slave' tattooed on my upper right shoulder
was the least of my worries or problems. It was like an out of body
experience. I saw the needle, I heard the buzz and hum, I watched blood and
ink mingle with a kind of bemused detachment, as if it were happening to
someone else, not to me at all. So there I was, naked, shaved, pierced,
tattooed. And to tell the truth, in a state of shock. It was all too much,
too quick. I felt bewildered and not sure whether I should be laughing or
crying - the emotions were all too complex for me. Yes, I was exhilarated
because I had come round in my mind to accepting the need for change - I
guess I had started on this path because deep down I hated the way I had
been living my life. It had been so false. I had lived by other people's
rules, by the rules of the straight world I mixed in; there's were the
values I had subscribed to. A change was due.

 But this change was so sudden and so drastic. I mean, I had yet to see
myself in a mirror but I could easily imagine that the transformation was
of such an order and to such an extent that my mother would have had to
look twice - or three times - to recognise me. So when these guys had
finished with me, when they stood back to admire their handiwork and I rose
to my feet uncertainly, I could see that they were not sure how I would
react, how I would behave. Up till now they had been so cocky, so assured
and the whole thing had moved like clockwork as if they had rehearsed
it. Now that it was done, they were suddenly quiet, almost abashed. I
wouldn't say ashamed - they were too confident in themselves and their
identity for that. These cocky lads were looking at me to see how I would
react.

 I saw this, I noticed it, saw their uncertainty and I knew that I wanted
to be one of them, wanted to be part of them, relate to them, accept their
values, become one with them. So despite the pain all over my body and in
spite of my whirling mind, I smiled. I had to rise above the pain and even
then I knew that pain would become so much a part of my life that I would
really have to work on processing it.

 Part of me resisted pain - that's a human instinct after all; but part of
me embraced it because it was intense, it proved I was feeling and reacting
and alive. That I learned - keep hold of that thought and it'll see you
through, and that's what I mean by processing pain. So the smile wasn't
false for all that I had to start it through an effort of will. And they
started to laugh. And suddenly I was in the middle of them, being pushed
around, roughed up in a way; but I was beyond feeling the minor pain that
came from boots and fists. Now I knew that I was re-born, a new me emerging
from all this pain and degradation and humiliation. I had a new
identity. And just as a Christian is reborn with baptism so my skin peers
baptised me in showers of piss. They formed a circle around me, opened the
flies of their jeans and hosed me down and I put out my arms to it and
welcomed it, bathed in it. Then clothes were produced for me and, still wet
with their piss, I put on my uniform of sports shirt, braces, bleachers and
boots.

 This is how I would look, this is how I would dress from now on. Then and
only then did I get the deep kiss I had dreamed of from my Master as he
welcomed me to a new life. As to my job, my flat, my former friends, how
did I deal with that? Well that, my friend, is another story...