Date: Thu, 25 Jul 2002 13:00:13 +0000
From: Jo Vincent <joad123@hotmail.com>
Subject: Taming the Phobes:  Part 1

Usual Disclaimer: If you are not of an age to read this because of the laws
of your country or district please desist.  If you are a bigot or
prod-nosed fundamentalist of any persuasion find your monkey-spanking
literature elsewhere and keep your predilections and opinions to
yourself. Everyone else welcome and comments more than welcome.

This story touches tangentially on one of my other narratives, 'Flip's
Tale' as it has as a leading character a very minor character in that.  As
far as I know the story is mainly fiction but it does contain some elements
which did really happen.  When you write a yarn some happening triggers off
the sequence.  Over the past few weeks several incidents - on the news, in
the papers, a conversation, recollections - set me thinking, et
voila.......

			    Taming the 'Phobes

				    By

				   Joel

Part 1:

     I'd become rather pissed-off about two things.  I'd joined the Army at
eighteen and done nearly twelve years and, although I'd done pretty well I
was unsure of my future.  I couldn't make up my mind if I wanted to extend
my signing and secondly, my boyfriend, now thinking about leaving the Army
too, wanted me out.  He wanted me out in more ways than one but I said I
would try one of these to start with - just out of the Army.

     Then there were the third and fourth pissing-off occurrences.  I'd
been told, because of Treasury cutbacks, that the probability of any
further advancement was minimal - there were new faces in charge too, then
Roddy, the boyfriend, had the offer of a lifetime to take himself off for
several years to Canada and the States in the aftermath of September 11th
if he left the Army, but wasn't sure if I could be included.  Some job - as
I put it - what did he know about conning rich suckers to put their money
into holes in the ground?  Really though, he said he could make an awful
lot of money himself in his ostensible job as an investment broker in his
brother Walter's bank and promised to keep me in the life to which I was
beginning to be accustomed.  And with my brains and his connections, who
knows.  However, things were taking a turn for the better as I found in the
letter I received today.  But, first things first.

     Roddy was about four years older than me and had been a
second-lieutenant when I was a wee sprog Private of eighteen.  Now he was
set to leave to join big brother's firm of stock-brokers and general
wheeler-dealers to the rich and famous - and not-so-famous but still rich -
all over the globe, almost twelve years and many nights of secret passion
later.  Roddy was the perfect product of a Scottish public-school education
and development.  Perfect manners, perfect body, five feet ten, dark hair,
blue eyes and a nice six-inch uncircumcised cock.

     Me, I'm Edward Boon, Ted to my friends and enemies alike, and six foot
two of muscle, bone and a few brains.  My story was I joined the Army
through boredom having managed to get three reasonable A levels and no wish
to spend three years at fucking university.  Not that the fucking would
have been rebuffed.  I had had a very willing partner in my sexual
activities from the age of thirteen and a half - my next-door neighbour -
same age - same proclivities and a nice arse to boot - or to fuck.  Which I
did on a regular basis.  Jake - short for Jacob - Manners had in fact
taught me to wank - a skill he had learned after a stay with a slightly
older relative and a skill he passed on to our joint delight.

     We discovered the other delights from hours of experimentation in the
shed at the bottom of his garden.  In fact, I celebrated my fourteenth
birthday not only at the bottom of his garden but for the first time up his
bottom.  From that day on we alternated, tit for tat, suck or fuck, wank or
whatever, best of pals and never dropped a grade in school - ten O levels
each, followed by two more years of extensive fucking and sucking ending up
with three A grades at A level.

     Jake, industrious as ever, went off to Uni, Oxford in fact, and got a
First in Medieval History.  I went down the Recruiting Office and got a
first in square-bashing, rifle-toting, boot-bulling and latrine-cleaning.
The last through making unwise remarks in the hearing of a rather choleric
sergeant who also didn't take kindly to the overheard nickname he had of
Bungalow - a play on his name and an undoubted fact as he had nothing up
top.  Thick as the proverbial brick shithouse and overflowing with the
ordure of non-human unkindness to new recruits.  I was marked.  Having
`education' was not looked on with any favour by those who had fucked-up in
some way and had to join the Army.  Here was I - brains - and the
bewilderment on Bungalow's part turned to suspicion and then downright
hatred.  The pity of it was this rebounded on the rest of our squad.

     We were a collection of life's misfits.  Some wanted to join the Army.
An experience of the camaderie of Army Cadet life at school probably
sparked their desire.  Some were given the option by friendly magistrates,
probation officers or the neighbourhood bobby - join up before you get
something worse.  A few were seduced by the telly ads - a life for you!
More had had a life of broken homes, foster homes, failed adoptions and
needed some sort of stability.  Some, like me, had an innate fear of
drifting but didn't want responsibility.  Actually, my old man had had
fifteen years as a regular and was always praising it up.  I half believed
him, though Pam, my elder sister, said I was a fool but she loved me
dearly.  Mum wept a bit and Dad wasn't too sure even up to the day I kissed
them all goodbye and caught the train to the barracks even though he'd told
me, this, or else!

     Until my encounter with Sergeant Bungalow Bigelow life wasn't too bad.
The twenty of us soon learned one for all and all for one.  If that was
good for the Three Musketeers it was essential for the twenty of us to
survive happily.

     I, of course, was missing Jake terribly.  Barrack room life did not
include the sexual release I was more than accustomed to.  The first
fortnight was the worst.  Every night after lights out there were farts,
groans, grunts and snores.  No sound of bed springs gently vibrating, no
murmurs of ecstasy as a hand-held weapon fired its arrows, I mean, bullets
of desire.  In fact, desire was pretty low on the list of priorities.

     We were harried from dawn to dusk, here, there, everywhere, marching,
trotting at the double, rifle drill, physical jerks, cross country,
cleaning and bulling equipment, bedspace tidying and barrack room buffing
and then there were the bloody injections.  I think the general idea was to
keep us so occupied and tired out from, query, healthy activity that once
allowed the luxury of bed there was no yen for that supreme activity of
horny eighteen-year- olds.  I know my horn lay dormant through sheer
fatigue, if not through the bromide my school pals had jokingly told me
they put in the tea for new recruits when they learned of my destination in
life.

     Nonetheless I managed two solitary wanks in the said latrines in
fourteen days just to make sure I hadn't lost the art without constant
practice.  The first was behind a closed door making out I was having a
lengthy crap at the time.  Just a release of pent-up juices listening out
for entrances and exits, knowing that if someone suspected there was
hands-on activity, then no end of it would be heard in the barrack room,
with the high probability of the handle of 'Wanker' being attached to one's
given name.

     The second was on the second Sunday.  I had woken up some time before
six o'clock, then remembered as it was Sunday we were being allowed to rest
in our beds until seven.  I was wide awake and needed a piss.  Christ
Almighty, as I lay there I sensed a stiffening in my now normally flaccid
organ.  I crept out of bed, clad only in regulation khaki boxers, shuffled
into the flip-flops under the bed and made my way as silently as possible
to the latrines in the adjacent corridor.  No one was about at that hour,
just the dim light from the regulation night bulbs guided me as I went into
one of the cubicles rather than standing at the urinal as I knew I needed
to experiment.  While emptying my bladder I peered at some of the myriad
graffiti adorning the bog walls.  From 'Please do not stand upon the seat,
the crabs in here can jump ten feet', through somewhat exaggerated drawings
of all sorts of incredible cocks and tits and other portions of male and
female anatomy to a large, well-inked in, 'My mother made me a homosexual'
- with the response under it - 'If I send her the wool would she make me
one?'

     Those two were new on me and I grinned to myself as I shook the last
drops away and stood, my boxers round my ankles, gently caressing my now
hardening and lengthening rod.  I was just getting into the swing of
things, or the stroking of things, when I heard the main door swing open
and shut.  Someone entered the cubicle next to mine and after the initial
standing piss the unmistakable sounds of a heartfelt wank were evident.
Whoever it was wasn't a jot concerned that they were next to an occupied
stall, and, whoever it was was fully aware that the silent occupant next
door was there for the same purpose but he, that is, I, was too shit-scared
to continue.  My hardon remained, gripped viciously, but my hand refused to
move.  Next door the unhurried slap-slap of flesh round flesh went on until
that instinctive speeding-up began and there were evident moans and grunts
as whoever it was reached a more than satisfactory climax.  That wasn't
all.  In tandem with the intakes of breath and puffings out a low voice
murmured, "Thank God, I thought the bugger had died on me!"  A shuffling
told me that undies were being raised, then the door was opened and
footsteps retreated through the swinging main door again.

     I breathed a sigh of relief and, with eyes fixed on the drawing of a
mighty dick which I visioned was attached to my friend Jake, I set up a
mighty rate of knots and my spunk soon joined the accumulated dried-up
evidences behind the toilet bowl.  Thank God, mine hadn't died on me
either!

     I went, peered into the now vacated stall next door, saw in the
dimness the copious evidence of a much-needed release, proceeded much more
silently through the door than he had and almost tiptoed into the barrack
room.  All were asleep, snores and slight movements were the only evidence
of living bodies under the covers.  I slid back into bed in the first
corner of the room.  I turned and saw the bright eyes of Taffy Williams
peeping out from the covers in the bed next to mine.  One eye closed in a
huge conspiratorial wink.  A wank and a wink.

     Taffy said nothing.  We had exchanged names, addresses, likes and
dislikes over the previous fourteen days.  Like me he had left school in
Wales but with little prospect of a job.  He had gone to Sixth Form College
and had a couple of A levels, not enough for Uni, and had been told by his
father to join the Army, or else, just like me.  He was a knowledgeable lad
nonetheless and the pair of us had been given the honorary ranks of squad
lance-corporals after ten days purely on the strength of being a bit
brighter and taller than the others.  This meant we had the unenviable
tasks of seeing that all the NCO's orders about cleanliness, tidiness and
general bullshit were carried out.  As we were all in it together this
wasn't too bad but we could get the flak from either side of the fence, us
and them.  Them, in more ways than one was Sergeant Bungalow Bigelow.  But
his story comes later.

     Of course, I'd been a bit apprehensive knowing that Taffy knew about
my solitary activity, but then I knew about his.  And being called 'Wanker'
was the biggest put down of any in my experience.  At school, everyone knew
that any hint that one's hands didn't remain outside the bedcovers at night
would invoke the call.  I knew, and we all knew, one's hands were not made
to remain outside the covers at night.  Even with universal central heating
these days it was too cold and we all knew it was much cosier to have a
hand wrapped round one's trusty hot-blooded pole.  It was even better to
have someone else's hand round it and from careful listening and discerning
of friendships and black rings under eyes I and Jake knew that our
contemporaries were just as involved in single, dual, or even multiple
effusions of our teenage liquor every day either in solitary splendour or
with help from congenial company.

     In fact, both Jake and I had had, respectively, two and three
experiences of this sort quite independently with age mates, not counting
the learning experience he'd had with his cousin.  As I knew all three of
my squirters, by almost eager confession, had tossed off and been tossed
off by others, and Jake told the same tale when we compared notes, this
meant the total accounted for at least half of my age group at school.  And
these were the ones we knew about!  In fact, we agreed, the two biggest
shouters of the soubriquet were the pair who had most to fear as they were,
undoubtably, the most avid offenders in the realms of self-abuse and the
'I'll do it to you if you do it to me' trade.  Their other fault was the
ready way they labelled other kids as 'poofters', 'arse-bandits' or
'nancies'.

     Luckily they never suspected Jake and me of being in that category.
Both of us were early developers and big with it.  I had reached six feet
by sixteen and had what my sister Pam called, to my youthful embarrassment,
"rugby-players' legs" designed to get any girl's vaginal juices flowing.
She didn't mention the vaginal juices but I gleaned gobbets of mis-
information of that sort from her copies of Cosmopolitan and other
such-like academic literature.  Jake was the same size as me all over, even
rising to the six and a half inches I fully attained at seventeen and he in
the last few months of school.  He was thicker than me - I did get a better
grade than him in maths at GCSE level and he admitted that - but he said he
made up for that positively in the slight excess in circumference of his
shaft over mine.  I said what a good friend I was to him to be able to
accommodate any excesses of his.

     However, the two loudmouths, Troy Pearson and Terry Mole, overstepped
the mark in Jake and my opinions.  In the first term we were all in the
First Year Sixth their phobia attached itself to a harmless lad in the
group, Harry Christopherson.  Admittedly, Harry was smaller than average
for a seventeen-year-old, he wasn't sporty, he wore glasses - so did Jake
for reading - he still had a rather unfocussed voice, his biggest interests
were English Literature and being editor of the school magazine, but, in
his favour and the annoyance of many less-endowed schoolfellows, he did
have a lanky cock attached to his rather puny frame.  This started with a
few uncalled-for references to Harry dealing with younger members of the
school who had to come to see him in the Sixth Form room to hand in their
contributions to the magazine.  If they were boys, either Troy or Terry
would make some reference such as 'nice arse on that kid' as they went off
with Harry looking rather non- plussed and, also, rather embarrassed.
Unfortunately, Troy, whose apparent loathing of the Greek practices his
name fitted him for and the possessor of a less than normal-sized
seventeen-year-old rod, later discovered a poem poor Harry had written
which Troy discerned, quite rightly as it transpired, was in admiration of
the bodily attributes of a fair- haired Year Ten lad.  Troy, for some
reason, had told Jake about his discovery.  He had nodded sagely and wisely
said Troy should keep his mouth shut because he couldn't be sure.  As Jake
was four inches taller than Troy, was obviously brighter, and had a slight
air of authority gained from a couple of years as a Patrol Leader in a
local Scout Troop, Troy held his peace.

     This lad adulated in the poem, Andrew Forbes, was in the throes of the
adolescent growth spurt but it hadn't yet ravaged his looks with that
scourge of the teenage years, acne.  In fact, his blond hair, limpid blue
eyes, clear complexion and full red lips were what one would die for, in
the parlance of the racy tales I found much later on certain sites on the
Internet.  Both Jake and I had fantasized about what we could do with young
Andrew, with or without his permission, in or out of bed.  He was that
innocent abroad, the Billy Budd of Mortfield Comprehensive.  He was
constantly in trouble with us Prefects - not through naughtiness or
rudeness or plain downright adolescent contrariness.  Rather it was the
blissful unawareness of his surroundings, the ignorance of Rules with a
capital R, etc.  etc.  All those petty annoyances which these youngsters
have in drawing attention to themselves for those in Higher Authority.
Andrew found himself in detention quite often and I must admit on the two
occasions I had to sit and watch over the assembled miscreants - just
Andrew and another Year Ten kid who had both fallen foul of Mrs
Pendleby-Smyth the Geographic ogress on each occasion - I spent the half
hour, which sped by like five minutes, ogling those perfect features and
wondering what lay beneath that smartly ironed grey school shirt and
well-pressed grey trousers.

     By the way, I did get a chance a couple of weeks later of ogling the
whole of Andrew as I was commanded by Badger Bollocks (not his real name by
any stretch of the imagination and a nickname not repeated anywhere near
his formidable presence) our senior games master, to oversee a Year Ten
game which also entailed checking that the young darlings showered properly
after the match.  As most were at that shy-making stage of puberty, where
hair in the right places and the length of developing juvenile penises were
of prime concern, a certain amount of energetic cajoling of their nude
bodies was called for.  I and Gutsy Pringle, my co-director of the athletic
activities of the afternoon, had not only to verbally drive their muddy
selves into the steamy room but use the knotted end of handy towels to
sting a few recalcitrant backsides.  One lad had the audacity to say 'Fuck
off' to Gutsy, our First Fifteen's corpulent tight-head prop forward, when
told to shift himself and was rewarded with three red welts across a very
pert butt.

     Of course, young Andrew was last to strip off.  This was done, under
my watchful eye, with an unstudied nonchalance.  Boots were unknotted
slowly, football socks removed at a leisurely pace.  A very muddy rugby
shirt was hoisted heavenwards exposing a perfect chest and two delectable
rose-pink nipples.  A touch of blond fuzz was discernible under each
armpit.  Then came the slow descent of extremely muddy shorts.

     Andrew was in this mired state as he always seemed to be in the line
of someone's exit from a scrum with a ball and was almost always cast aside
like some unwanted possession, then to be trampled underfoot by the
pursuing masses.  He always picked himself up, shook himself in a puppyish
manner and followed a few yards behind only to be in the line of fire as
the battlelines changed direction again.  He never complained, just went
doggedly on.

     Anyway, his shorts were off and placed on the bench behind him.  A
fully-formed bubble butt was now in my line of sight.  I moved forward a
pace or two as his fingers were inserted into the waistband of the tight
blue briefs covering those delectable globes.  As he raised himself, after
divesting himself of those skimpy garments and turned, so part of me raised
itself of its own accord in sympathy.  Luckily I had the towel which I,
cooly and deliberately, held in front of my bulging shorts.  He was a
perfect picture.  I suppose Michelangelo's David at fifteen rather than
seventeen would have looked like him.  A soft haze of blondness surmounted
a perfectly formed young cock sheathed in a pale pink foreskin.  Two small
but slightly hanging plover's eggs swung below as he turned to face me.
There was no embarrassment.  I would dream and daydream about that sight
for years to come.  In fact, I came to many daydreams of young Andrew.  I
spoke, not quite knowing what to say.  I knew what I wanted to say but that
wasn't possible.

     "Come on Andrew!" I said, with as much authority as I could muster in
my best Sixth Form, Prefectural, First XV voice, but almost quavering with
lust.  "They'll have used all the hot water if you don't get in there
quick."

     He smiled and my prick, with no exaggeration, felt if it had
lengthened in one split second by another half an inch.  I was going to
have to work out a certain degree of frustration on poor Jake after we got
home.  No, on second thoughts, whatever I worked out on Jake was going to
be fully reciprocated to my greater pleasure.

     "Sorry, I wasn't thinking...." he paused, giving me more time to take
in the young god before me.  I wanted that form imprinted on my brain and I
stared quite openly from blue eyes down and back again.  "Actually, I was
thinking...," he continued, gazing at me with a questioning look on his
face.  What question?  My prick did a twitch and I flapped the towel to set
up a cooling breeze.  "...You can help me,..." He smiled and my hard heart
melted.  No, I hadn't got a hard heart, but I felt something go 'zing' and
it wasn't the elastic on my rugger shorts though the front of those was
stretched out somewhat.  "....I was just working out the number of distinct
arrangements of the letters of my name compared with my friend Jeremy.  I
make it seven hundred and twenty for mine, and three hundred and sixty for
his.  I think that's right?"

     "Yes, it is," came a voice from behind me.  It was Gutsy - real name
Jeff - and a whizz at maths in the Second Year Sixth.  "It would be the
same for friend Edward here," he continued, with Andrew's big blue eyes now
fixed on him, "But for me, Jeffrey, J-e-f-f-r-e-y, it would be...?" A
hesitation, then a big smile from Andrew.  "More difficult, seven and two,
so that must be twelve hundred and sixty!"  A nudge in the back for me from
Gutsy, then, "That's right. Now come on and get in that shower."

     I was no great whizz at maths, which I was doing for A level, but I
had cottoned on to Andrew's problem and also realised he was no blond
airhead.  Andrew gave us both another gorgeous smile and proceeded into the
showers to be greeted by friendly shouts from his class-mates.  He was
obviously popular and when I heard about the poem I was determined not to
let Andrew suffer in any way.

     Gutsy poked me in the back again.

     "You can put that towel down now, Teddy boy, the object of your desire
has departed and you can adjust yourself.  And he is a very bright lad.  I
know, I'm coaching him for A level maths already.  Gives me some practice,
too."

     The grin on his face said it all.  Gutsy was only one of two people,
other than Jake, who knew what I preferred.  I had been sitting by myself
in the Sixth-Form common room a few days after the beginning of the term
when Gutsy came in and sat beside me.

     "Hi, young Ted," he began, "You having any difficulty with anything?"

     There was something about Gutsy that I knew I could confide in him.  I
told him all.  In five minutes he knew I was gay, I was really only
interested in one person, Jake, and that Jake and I were lovers but
certainly not committed to each other.  He smiled his lop-sided smile and
said if ever I needed to talk he would be there.  In all, Gutsy turned out
to be a real friend.  He's now the beloved curate of a difficult London
parish and I go to see him, his wife and two-year old son whenever I can.
In fact, Edward Boon is a proud godfather of young William Arthur Pringle.

     Today I just grinned back at him, waved the towel away and followed
him to the Upper School changing room and showers where, mercifully,
rampant dick now drooping, I was able to shower and dress unhurriedly.

     As I sat tying the laces on my sensible school shoes Gutsy spoke.

     "I can quite see the attraction young Andrew has.  He's got to be
careful... and so have you."

     True words because it wasn't long after that when Troy found the poem
and was ready to denounce poor Harry and drag Andrew into another sort of
mire.

     I'd better say that the other person who I had confided in was my
sister Pam.  That was at New Year, just a week or so before I had my talk
with Gutsy.  Pam had been a real sister, a friend and confidant for years.
She was four years older than me and was at that time in her final year at
Uni reading Psychology.  No, I didn't recline on a couch for her to give me
a session of unburdening my unconscious.  I knew all about the id, having
perused, out of curiosity, one of her textbooks.  My id, I knew, was
rampaging overtime and had been since my balls dropped, with my subsequent
discovery of the joys of masturbation and all else, and my ego was having a
heavy job clamping down on its wanton expression in a non- heterosexual
way.  Pam, in her sisterly way, knew there were seethings.  She was quite
forthright.  She asked her seventeen-year-old brother outright if he and
his constant companion, Jacob Manners, were lovers.  Brother blushed,
nodded and Pam rushed and hugged him tight.  Told him she'd guessed years
before and said I'd better not say anything to Mum and Dad yet.  So it was
while thinking over implications of saying or doing something which would
alert my doting parents that Gutsy had caught me in a contemplative mood
that day.

     But, back to Troy and Terry.  They, however, engineered their own
downfall, or at least one of them did.  They had labelled almost all the
Year Tens and Elevens as wankers - which they undoubtably were - the Year
Tens fourteen or fifteen and the others rising sixteen or over, and rising
sixteen centimetres or over as well no doubt - and had hinted of their
knowledge that at least half of them were poofters.  Their own trouble was
they were turning into a couple of real slobs.  Both were getting
overweight, junk food, lager and cigarettes seemed to be the mainstays of
their diet.  They also had difficulty in getting hold of tottie, as they
rather disparagingly referred to the girls at our school.

     Girls, of course came with the school as we were a large mixed
Comprehensive and most of the boys of my age and acquaintance had gone
through, in the metaphorical sense I was certain, at least two or three
before settling to one or none.  Jake and I had made the effort and a few
foursomes to the local multiplex and a few fumbles on the back row had
convinced both of us there was nothing in the pursuit for us.  Having made
the effort, and having been seen to make the effort, we were above
suspicion.

     Troy and Terry tried, but in the end their overtures were more often
than not spurned.  Their zits and acned visages, plus their increasing
weights, choice of haircuts and out-of- school designer wear, were not the
come-on for the rather more desirable females who abounded from Year Eight
onwards - girls mature earlier so I was led to believe.  The pair seemed to
be mainly in the sad company of Rosina Pickles who was known, without
affection, as the school bike.  As neither Jake nor I had ridden that
particular ill-favoured specimen of the female species, nor wanted to, we
couldn't comment However, the whispered comments of contemporaries who had,
for them, certain knowledge of how many times a friend or acquaintance had
inserted his shaft into the rumoured well-used orifice was, for them,
phroooah, a wish to be desired.

     Whether Troy or Terry, or both, were privy to the possessions shielded
by Rosina's undies one couldn't ascertain except from the strutting manner
of the young studs and their veiled allusions to the performance rates of
which they boasted of being capable.

     "Bloody wankers themselves," was Jake's sotto voce comment to me one
Friday morning at break in the common Room after Troy had denounced three
of the Year Ten lads he'd found skulking in the bogs as persistent onanists
rather than being smokers, which they were as well, and then called over to
Terry not to forget to stock up with enough Frenchies for the weekend
because he was ready for anything with you know who.  "If Rosy had any
sense she'd be on the Pill," Jake continued, "But I bet anything to prevent
their vile bodies touching her sensitive parts is better than nowt!"

     The crunch for the pair came when Georgie Carter, a six foot three
streak of skin and bone and a superb photographer, was ambling around
looking for shots for his ever growing portfolio ready for his entry to Art
School.  He was doing some angle shots of dingy corners in the school when
he saw Troy going into the bogs at the end of a corridor, first looking
around in a furtive way but not spotting Georgie who was bending down
beside a cupboard sighting up some bit of useless educational architecture.
Georgie did the only thing possible.  He scooted along the corridor and as
silently as possible pushed the door open, Troy wasn't in sight so he crept
in stealthily thinking he might snatch a photo of Troy crapping as one of
the cubicle doors was shut.  He went into the next one and, being so tall,
was able to hold his camera over the top of the partition in the gap
between its top and the ceiling and clicked.  A muffled shout came from
Troy but Georgie was gone before he could be pursued.  The resultant ten by
eight photo was eagerly perused the next day by the assembled males of the
Sixth Form while Troy, oblivious of this, was marshalling the hordes of
wankers into their form rooms ready for first period.

     The photo showed a startled Troy's upturned face, with a downwards
shot of opened flies and an erect penis held delicately between two fingers
and thumb.  As Jason Griggs remarked, you can't piss with a hardon and why
go in a cubicle for that purpose "WANKER!!".  Neither Troy, nor Terry,
through association with him, ever mentioned the word again, nor did the
poem get an airing.  Jake suggested to Troy that if given to him he would
return it.  It was, after we had both read it and commented to each other
that Shakespeare's Dark Ladyboy would have been flattered by the
compliments therein.  So, one set of 'phobes had been tamed.


     I suppose I was contemplating young Andrew one afternoon during my
fourth week of basic training.  We had, inexplicitly been given the rest of
the Wednesday afternoon off through some mix-up over time-tabling of how to
bayonet a stuffed sandbag, or how to remember to throw the grenade after
the pin was withdrawn, or some mind bending similar activity.  Still I was
reasonably happy.  Three square meals a day, money you couldn't spend in
your pocket, muscles developing through all the exercise and the sure
knowledge that, although I was constantly dead-tired, my spunk squirting
apparatus was still in working order if sadly under-used.  My musings were
interrupted by Taffy who, holding a cigarette in time- honoured squaddies
manner, cupped in the palm of his hand, asked if I wanted a walk.

     Sensing something was afoot I agreed and we sauntered off in the
general direction of some unused barrack huts left over from the general
National Service of some thirty years previously.  After he'd puffed
through the cigarette he asked if I knew anything about Ferdy Pacchelli.  I
said I didn't except from the facts I'd gleaned from our personal tales we
all told in the barrack room in the hour or so before lights out.

     I knew Ferdinando was a fourth generation Italian immigrant.  His
great-grandfather, after whom he was named, had come to England with a
circus, as Flying Ferdinand on the Flying Trapeze, in the thirties and had
stayed.  His father had a share in the usual Italian restaurant which was a
family run business in a wide extended family.  Ferdy had been caught by
father nicking some of the takings and had been forcibly taken to the
Recruiting Office by two burly uncles who, in the past, had served in the
Paras.  Ferdy was short, dark, black-haired and at nearly nineteen had a
mat of black hair on his chest.  None of us English, Welsh or Scottish lads
of the same age had more than a hint of pectoral hirsuteness.  He was the
envy of all for that attribute.  We all looked at him in the showers, his
pubic bush was immense and his legs were so hairy it looked as if he was
wearing black long-johns.  However, although his balls were pendulous and
well-sized his dick, circumcised and dark hued, was of a really moderate
size, curving out no more than about three inches from the curls above and
around it.

     "Got something to tell you," Taffy said after I had made the usual
admiring comments about Ferdy's hairiness and he had lit a second ciggie.
He took a draw.  Blew out a thin stream of smoke very carefully.  "He wanks
in bed, not like us."  My secret was out.  But then, he'd confessed as
well.

     I shrugged my shoulders.  All boys wanked in bed, but not in Army
barracks though.  With studied nonchalance I asked, "How do you know?"

     "Yorkie told me, 'cause he's in the bed opposite me and Ferdy's next
to him."

     An Army trait is to label everyone anyway with a nickname.  Not just
the usual Dusty for the Millers or Dinger for the Bells, but also where you
came from, Taffy for the Welsh as he was, but George Parrish came from
Yorkshire so Yorkie he was.  Yorkie was also another bright spark, he'd
come under suspicion of driving someone else's car without their permission
in the village where he lived.  The local bobby had a chat with him and
suggested he could learn a trade as well as occupying himself usefully in
the service of his country.  Yorkie said the copper was fingering his
hand-cuffs at the time and the message was clear.  He was down for transfer
to the Army Logistics Corps - drivers etc., as soon as he'd finished basic
training and he was looking forward to that.  Also, Yorkie was the only one
in the barrack room who had volunteered the information that he hadn't even
had an erection, or 'time to have a fucking hardon' as he put it, since
he'd joined up.  This was one evening when there were general moans about
the unaccustomed pressures we were experiencing.

     Anyway, as we wended our way round the deserted huts Taffy said there
was a plan.  The lad the other side of Ferdy had also noted the night-time
activity and they had decided to provide a bit of night-time entertainment.
He wouldn't say what and I didn't pursue it because, quite naturally, we
found an unlocked door and entered the dank-smelling room which had housed
a host of conscripts those many years before.  We surveyed the dusty
emptiness.

     "What about one now?" he asked, flicking the spent butt of his ciggie
into the wastelands of a corner of the room.  "No one around and I need one
bad."

     Without waiting for my consent or agreement he dropped his combat
trousers and skivvies he was wearing under them.  His cock was already at
half mast before I had copied his disrobing.  I stood at an angle by his
side and stared downwards.  Our short singlets only came to our hips so we
both had a good view of each other's rapidly rising shafts.  We matched
about evenly in size and when both our rods were fully erect we, in
military fashion, copied each other's movements exactly.  On the first
downstroke our foreskins were retracted and two bulbous rapidly darkening
knobs were exposed.  We then set up a slow steady pace until Taffy let go
of his cock.

     "Let me help you with yours."

     He took hold of the last three inches of my rod as my hand was at the
bottom of a downstroke.  I let go and reached for his prick.  We kept in
strict rhythm with each other and my balls soon came to the boil.  I
squirted my usual five or six ribbons of cum moments before he gave a sigh
and unleashed a flurry of spunk which spurted up and away from him
splattering on the dusty floor some three feet away.

     "God, I needed that!" he gasped and his hand gripped my still hard rod
even tighter.

     We stood side by side for about a minute savouring that feeling of
perfect relief.  He turned and grinned at me.

     "I knew you'd like that.  Takes one to know one."  He bent down and
pulled up trousers and pants in one go.  I copied him not saying a word.
What did he mean?

     "God I need a fag," he said, rummaging in his trouser pocket.  "If I
were a cigarette manufacturer I would market a brand called 'Apres' for the
moments like this." He grinned again.  "My cousin says he always wants one
after a good shag whether its with his missus or not."

     I was still silent.

     "Come on, you enjoyed that, eh?  Cat got your tongue?"

     I grinned back.

     "Yeah..., a bit overwhelmed."

     "I know what you mean."  He went across to where two dusty benches
were under the window.  "We've got five minutes and I'll tell you a bit
more why I'm here."

     As he plonked himself on one of the benches I angled the other and sat
facing him.

     "Better tell you the whole story.  The bit about not getting enough A
levels and not finding a job's true but I really had to get away because my
Da found out about my boyfriend."

     He looked me straight in the eyes.

     "My Da found a letter from him.  He'd been arrested in Cardiff for
giving a blow-job to a copper..."  He paused.  "I'd better start from the
beginning.  I was at school with this friend, he's a year older than me and
lived in the next village.  I'd got to know him through travelling on the
school bus and his dad and my dad had been pit deputies at the mines in the
two villages before they closed so our families knew each other anyway.
And after he'd left school and started on a catering course I used to cycle
over to see him and we used to go to the old mine.  He'd found a key to the
old offices and we used to go there and...  Well, just like this and a bit
more..."

     I grinned.  "I had a friend called Jake and...."

     "Shut the fuck up, I guessed about you when you had that first letter
from home, I saw the way you read it and I knew it wasn't from any girl
'cause of the handwriting, so, but this is my tale, you can tell me yours
another day."  He took a slow deep drag on the fag cupped in his hand.
"Well, as I said, Estyn and I were very close, very good friends and
perhaps a bit more - then, just after last Christmas he was found in bed
with the Pastor's son..."

     I giggled, the image was irresistible!

     "Fuck it, stop that."  I composed my face "It was bloody snowing
anyway and the lad's father came home early from his visits and there they
were, hammer and tongs in the lad's bed.  Estyn's dad was summoned and
Estyn was told to pack his bags and go.  I heard about it next day from a
lad who'd seen him getting on the bus.  He told him he was going to
Cardiff."

     He took another careful drag, coughed and looked at the cigarette with
some distaste, then continued.

     "Estyn wrote to that lad and asked him to pass a couple of letters on
to me and he told me all about what had happened - said it was on the spur
of the moment and the kid wanted it.  He said he was looking for a job and
had also applied to do another catering course but he couldn't start
immediately.  Then I heard nothing until that last letter arrived.  He'd
written straight to me.  Luckily I saw the postie as I was going to catch
the bus and he gave it to me."

     He gave a final draw on the fag-end and flicked it right across the
room.

     "He said he'd been skint so went cruising around, saw a toilet, went
in and a young fellow was in there leaning against the wall holding a
twenty pound note.  He said something like 'OK mate' and got Estyn in a
cubicle who gave him the blow job.  No sooner had he got him off another
bloke appeared and it turned out they were two cops.  Estyn was arrested
and released to appear the next day.  The only good thing was the young cop
had tucked the note in his pocket.  He thinks the magistrate suspected
something fishy so he got off with a caution, but he was dead scared the
news might get back to his family.  Luckily his name is Jones and there's
plenty of those about in Wales."

     He stood up.

     "We'd better get back and I'll tell you the rest on the way."

     We looked carefully for signs of life outside, there was none, so we
set off back to the barrack room.

     "I was a fool.  I should have destroyed the letter but stuck it in my
big dictionary.  My Da found it when he wanted to look up a word for a
crossword.  He asked if I and Estyn had relations of any sort and when I
said yes, that, plus the fact I was in the shit over not trying hard enough
to get a job decided the matter and I'm here.  I was sent first to stay
with an aunt in Llandudno, as far as possible from Cardiff!  Out of harm's
way there and learning to be a man now here, according to Da!"

     I was curious.  "And what happened about the Pastor's son."

     He shrugged.  "I don't really know.  Rumour has it he was prayed over
for several hours for unknown sins and then shipped off to some distant
relative because he wasn't around when I left for my exile."  He shrugged
again.  "Poor little bugger, he was shagging Estyn when his father walked
in, 'cause I heard more about it when Estyn 'phoned me at Auntie Glad's and
he was worried what had happened to the kid.  Kid! - bastard was
seventeen!"  He pursed his lips.  "Don't forget, in Wales the chapel rules
and the Calvinist mind sees sin everywhere...," He grinned at me,
"...Especially when two lads are in bed together, but I do know I miss
Estyn."

     I was in a bit of a quandary.  Should I confess my relationship with
Jake?  Taffy had guessed and I'd more or less told him too, but...  Worry
not, because Taffy wasn't finished.  He reverted back to Ferdy.

      "Ferdy pisses me off," he said emphatically, "Him and that Dwayne.
Always on about poofters and perves and aren't they glad there aren't any
about...  Fucking Dwayne, what a name, sounds like something you pour the
slops down."

     Dwayne was from Liverpool.  Boasted of being a hard man.  But
shit-scared of most things I would say.  Always the last to get in line for
anything new.  He and Ferdy got on my tits as well but I wasn't too
bothered although I'd noticed when they made their bigoted phobic
statements they seemed directed mainly to a couple of lads at the other end
of the barrack room.

     These two, Pete and Frankie, were quiet, weedy looking, not seeming to
be eighteen - they looked more like fifteen or sixteen-year-olds.  They
were below average height and were products of broken homes, children's
homes and finally foster homes.  They looked as if life had been none too
kind to them.  I must say though that they mucked in with everything and
scoffed the food as if there was no tomorrow and were both beginning to get
a bit more flesh and muscle on them even after about three weeks.  I'd
noticed they were neither very well endowed and they spent a lot of time in
each other's company.  One had a rather high-pitched giggle and I suppose
that gave root to Ferdy and Dwayne's exclamations.

     Another pair in the squad were a couple of black guys.  Dwayne,
especially, avoided them but neither he nor Ferdy could say anything
derogatory or they would be in deep shit for racial harassment.  Actually
Royston and Jason were fun.  Royston was a couple of inches shorter than me
and we were always comparing heights because he kept telling me he was
still a growing boy.  He had also spent a lot of time in the gym, so he
said, and because of this he had the best definition of all of us.  Not too
obvious, but his pecs were firm and he had the makings of a nice six-pack.
He and Jason also belied one of the great beliefs of white youngsters -
that black kids' cocks were at least twice as long.  Both had healthy sized
drooping lengths which might have been a bit bigger than average but they
certainly weren't immense.  Both had joined up as they put it 'for their
mother's sakes', one was from South London, the other from Luton, which I
knew to be two enclaves of numerous ethnic immigrants and not very
salubrious areas to live in.  Both were very religious and this pissed off
Dwayne even more as he was nominally Catholic and had been to a strict
Catholic Boys' School.  They were Pentecostal and were always singing hymns
quietly in, I considered, very melodious voices.

     Some of this was evident in an exchange between Dwayne and Ferdy
during the first week when we were still getting to know everyone.  Dwayne
had somehow hitched up as Ferdy's best friend and Ferdy, rather
loud-mouthed, had reciprocated.  That meant there was a constant dialogue
between them though their bed-spaces were not close.  Usually the dialogue
was on veiled or even overt sexual matters, often Page 3 girls in the Sun
as that was the principal reading, or viewing, matter of most of the lads
in the room.  "Cor, look at the tits on that" was a common exclamation.
But there was the underlying homophobic chatter as well.

     This day there were just a few of us around.  I was bulling my best
boots, getting a mirror shine on the caps.  Taffy was lining up some pieces
of card to put in his sheets for bed inspection.  Ferdy and Dwayne were at
their usual positions, flat out on their beds perusing the day's issue of
either the Sun or Mirror oblivious of the fact that next morning we had a
kit inspection.  Along the row Royston and Jason were sitting side by side
on Jason's bed, also bulling boots.  Quite a few of the others had sloped
off to the NAAFI for a tea and wad but there were about four others
including Frankie and Pete further down the room.  A typical evening's
gathering and activity!

     Dwayne started.

     "Hi Ferdy," he called out, in a slightly louder voice than necessary,
"Fucker at my school had the biggest whanger you've ever seen."

     I looked up, gathering a ball of spit in my mouth ready to drip onto
the already shining toecap, but wanting that extra shine.  I saw Dwayne
glance down the room a bit at the backs of the two black lads.  Trying
something on, I thought.

     "Oh," was Ferdy's only response.  As the possessor of a seemingly not
very large whanger he was unusually hesitant in making some damning
statement about someone else's sexuality or attributes.

     "Yeah, cunt had a whanger so big he use to get it out and put it on
the desk."

     I looked at Taffy who had a wry grin on his face and was sitting just
a couple of feet away from me on the edge of his bed.  He mouthed "Didn't
think cunts had dicks!" I grinned back and Dwayne continued.

     "Fucker got caught one day.  Old Baldy the priest who took us for
religion must have spotted it because he whacked it with the Bible he was
carrying."

     "I like that," Ferdy said, "Whacked his whanger!  What did he do?"

     "Don't know, I was told it.  He was a couple of classes above me.
Fucking poofter, got the push from school 'cause he use'ta go down the
clubs for the oldies to get him off.  Fucking wanker!  Like that kid we had
from that Home.  Use'ta go to the bogs and suck off the hurling team.
Fucking poofs should have their balls off!"

     "Fucking right!" said Ferdy, in imitation, "Should have their balls
off, fucking poofs and wankers!"

     I looked down the room - the four lads, including the two who'd been
in Homes had fallen silent.  I thought then perhaps Ferdy and Dwayne might
have to learn a little lesson.


     I thought about that exchange as we walked back, past the Company
Offices towards our barrack room.

     "Oh, I just put up with them," I said, "All mouth and trousers as my
dad always says.  Plenty to say..."  I just wondered.  "...Perhaps
something to hide?"

     Taffy snorted.  "Buggers hadn't better start on me."

     I laughed.  "Nor me.  Anyway, they'd have a field day if they did find
out anything."

     Taffy looked at me cannily, "No chance of that, I hope!"

     I grinned back.  There wasn't as far as I was concerned.


To be continued:


Previous stories of mine have been published on Nifty.

Spying on My Brothers: (45k: Incest Section: Apr 15 2000)
Easter Rugger Tours (Dir: HS Section: Jun 10 2000)
Jordan's Story (84k: HS Section: Jul 23 2000)
Flip's Tale (Dir: HS Section: Apr 17 2002)
                    Read and Enjoy.