The bloody bulldog ... Winston ... he'll lift a leg on anything, I
swear.
I know it is quite late, but I'll finish off here ...
Bradley and I had been school chums. We regularly ate our lunch
together and, insomuch as we were in the same class for gymnasium, we
had adjoining lockers. Needless to say, we saw one another often in
the altogether, undressing, showering [they had those nasty cattle
stalls-styled open showers, all in tile] and dressing up again. Now,
I had this dream actually a year after I had seen Bradley last at
school and had not seen him since, which made the dream that more
significant, I suppose. I look at it now as one of "those events,"
such as the one I related to you, the dear reader, earlier.
There was a single chime sound from the front door. It was late at
night and, strangely, I was the only one at home. I got out of my bed
... I was in full pajama tops and bottoms--stripes with that silly
little pocked on the top. I walked down the hall to the parlor, then
padded in barefeet across to the door. All was silent. I entertained
going back to bed, but nevertheless decided to open the door. As it
swung back, I saw Bradley standing there on the stoop.
He hadn't a stitch of clothing on and said not a word.
I stood there, staring at him silently and in awe. He was the most
perfectly formed boy I had ever beheld ... a body taut with the
firmness of youth, muscular but still slight and boyish, his full
penis, firm but not erect, lying over the gentle bulge of his smooth,
perfectly sculpted testicles. You may find that detail strange, but I
remember it most particularly.
He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Bradley stepped
forward, as if to come in ...
Then I awoke. Of course!
I had the deepest melancholy all that day, and that sense of longing.
God Save Her Majesty the Queen.
God Preserve the Prince of Wales.
Rule Britannia!
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