I'd personally like to express my appreciation to Clogghopper for his
wonderful production of "Africa". It is a perfect complement to the
Gallery collection.
I, all my life, have always had a love and affinity for boys of colour
[my God, that sounds so very Victorian, doesn't it?] and am not quite
certain why. I suspect that, growing up as shy, timid and
self-conscious as I was, I was easily intimidated by my classmates,
who of course were nearly to the child exclusively composed of
Anglo-Saxon genes. I did romanticise about being a boy in a land far
away, in a culture more to my comfort, at a time long, long ago in the
future past. My close chums and I played naked Indian [of the North
American type][cowboys were not allowed to be naked] and naked
caveboys ... young Egyptian princes bathing ... yes, you guessed it
... naked. You can imagine how I loved the old Tarzan films, and Sabu
... The Naked Prey [although the naked one in that classic film was a
white chap] ...
Now, understand that I find white boys quite attractive, but I don't
get a nostalgic or sentimental feeling when looking at them as I do
with boys of colour. My Mum oft laughed and told me I'd always wanted
to be an American Indian boy, or a little Mexican lad. Suppose she's
right on that.
My first experience feeling affection for a boy of colour was during
that fulcrum period of maturity, puberty. I was probably 13 years
old. The boy was East Indian, I believe ... a tossled head of curly,
brown hair ... and quite slight. We were in gymnasium class together.
He didn't know me, but in class I always hastened to make the showers
at the same time he did. He was 12 years old, and slender to a point
of grace, of smooth, milk chocolate-browned skin which lightened to a
warm cream colour where his shorts usually covered. Physically he
looked younger than twelve, his body wound like a spring in boyish
energy, his buttocks smooth, his genitals modest and well-shaped,
without a hint of hair. There was something wonderfully exotic and
intoxicating as through the steam I watched him rinse, turning and
bending, flexing back and rising into the spray as the warm water
cascaded over his boyish curves.
Of course, being in a group shower with the other boys, I dared not
get close enough to do a properly CLOSE inspection, but
surreptitiously watched him, while struggling to appear NOT to watch
him, with fleeting glances out of the corner of my eye ... all the
while working to appear that I was busily washing my own pale body and
completely oblivious to the boy's presence there.
One day I was a bit careless, I suppose, with my lingering stare. So
entraced was I, watching him cavort under the shower that I was
standing completely still, mindless to the tepid shower water rushing
over my own shoulders and down my back, buttocks and legs. The
showers were notoriously cold--tepid was about as good as one could
expect--somewhat like English hotel suites--and as I stood there, I
slowly became aware of the stream warming down my back. It was
actually warm! It felt good, so naturally I was startled. I swung
around to a chorus of laughter and discovered to my horror an older
boy was urinating on me!
Well, you can imagine my humiliation ... and my relief. My fine
classmates were so entertained by the prospect of seeing someone pee
on me that they completely missed seeing my entrancement with my young
East Indian Boy. Given how young boys can be unmercifully tortured
for being "a fag", even then, I counted myself as indeed lucky.
Yes, my tormentors were Anglo Saxon. I was somewhat gratified that
the Indian Boy did not laugh at my expense.
I never spoke to him ... nor even dared to speak to him. And the end
of the session, he and his family must have moved, for I never saw him
again.
This is a TRUE story by the REAL Victor Victorian.
And don't worry, Teddy. I can take care of myself.
VV
God Save Her Majesty the Queen.
God Preserve the Prince of Wales.
Rule Britannia!
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