Mrs Connelly's Red Indian Summer Camp for Boys: Part 3

 Christopher was thrilled to be back in the back seat of Wendy’s car. He’d been getting really fed up with Terry Harper’s games, the whole point of which seemed to involve getting Christopher and his fellow Red Indians as humiliated as humanly possible. The pow-wow Terry had organised had been the last straw. This forthcoming event had been widely known about throughout the neighbourhood due to Terry and his merry band of cowboys telling everyone they could think of to be in the public park where the Indian Braves would be seen dancing about a totem pole. The pole was actually an old disused telephone pole which had carried a line, long since gone, to a hut sited on the opposite bank of the river which flowed through the park. The pole had been suitably painted and decorated by boys over the years and everyone thought it made a wonderful, colourful addition to the park.

When the day finally arrived the boys donned their Red Indian outfits and set off for the pow-wow. Somehow word got around that Cindy, Terry’s sixteen year old sister, would there at the totem pole wearing a Red Indian outfit! In the fevered imagination of the pubescent redskin boys, they saw Cindy dressed in a costume as flimsy and revealing as the ones they were wearing, little realising that squaws were always very modestly dressed… at least in the tribe to which Cindy professed allegiance. Those of a less generous disposition might think Terry deliberately fanned the flames so that he would be rewarded by a good turnout of Red Indians, but whatever the truth of the matter plenty of boys turned up dressed in their skimpy outfits… many sporting boners barely hidden by the boy’s tiny loincloth. When Cindy did arrive wearing a squaw’s outfit that left only her head, arms and ankles visible, the disappointment of the Red Indian boys was palpable. Cindy’s appearance coincided with the arrival of families, mums and sisters who had come to watch the boys make complete spectacles of themselves as they danced around the totem-pole.

Cindy made short work of ensuring the Red Indians gathered for the pow-wow understood that in this particular tribe, squaws were in charge. Terry and Ben were there too and later on gave a demonstration of their expertise with the lasso for the benefit of everyone who’d gathered to see the Red Indian ceremony. Christopher ended up being lassoed and tied, arms high above his head, to the totem-pole along with David. Both boys quite unable to straighten their loincloth flaps that had become twisted and dislodged during their futile struggles with the cowboys.

Some of the mums had brought picnic baskets with them… all of them had brought cameras and one or two even had Super 8 cinecameras with which to record the event.

“Don’t the boys just look so cute…” “... they’re adorable…” “oh, how charming!” “... they’re having such fun in their Red Indian outfits… I’m so pleased you told me about the pow-wow, Enid…” “Let’s make sure it’s a regular treat for the boys…”

Christopher remembered how he struggled against the bonds that held him taut against the totem pole. He guessed, correctly as it turned out, that the mums and girls watching him were not about to interfere with the game and help release him. Consequently, more than usually red-faced, he could do nothing but watch as the cameras snapped his picture to give the mums a memento of their day out in the park.

When Christopher was told he would be going to Mrs Connelly’s Summer Camp he was overjoyed to finally be getting away from Terry Harper and his pal Ben. Nothing, Christopher reckoned, could be worse than being tied to a totem pole in the public park in front of all the mums and girls with the tiny front flap of his loincloth not even covering his smooth boyhood.

In the front seat of Wendy’s car, Francis was having problems with his loincloth. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t cover his penis properly. Francis was sure that when he wore it before, providing he wasn’t ‘boned up’, he could cover up, but now, try as he might, his nob-end poked out from the bottom of the front flap of his loincloth.

“Francis!” Wendy cried after having spotted him out of the corner of her eye as he furtively tried to pull his loincloth down to cover his penis, “Francis, stop playing with it… it really is distracting seeing you fiddling with your penis…”

“I’m not… I’m just trying to get this stupid flap to do its job… I wasn’t playing with it…”

Wendy laughed as she changed gear: “... that’s your story, is it?”

Christopher grabbed hold of the back of Francis’ seat and looked gleefully over his friend’s shoulder: “Is he doing it again?!” he cried enthusiastically.

Wendy laughed once more as Francis jerked his loincloth flap down in an attempt to cover the head of his penis: “No I’m not!” he snapped at Christopher before realising: a) he’d just uncovered the shaved base and first inch and a half of his penis and b) that he’d understood exactly what Christopher meant by ‘it’.

Wendy managed to glance down at Francis: “I’m not sure that making any difference, Francis… do your best because we’re nearly there…”

“Nearly there? What do you mean ‘nearly there’? Surely we’re miles from the camp site. Where’s nearly there?” Francis said as he struggled with the tiny buckskin flap.

“I’m not driving all that way without a break, Francis… besides it’s almost lunchtime and I’m famished… How about you, Christopher… fancy a bit to eat?”

Christopher was game and Wendy pulled in at the next fast food eatery, one of those instantly recognisable, but totally forgettable monuments to post modern dining that litter the highways in both senses of the word. Still, which ever way you looked at it, the building and the food were both undeniably convenient.

“I can’t go in there wearing this!” Francis protested. Having readjusted the front flap of his loincloth, the head of his penis along with the tip of his foreskin was still visible.

“No one will notice,” Wendy said as she and Christopher got out of the car. She looked back at Francis, still sitting with his hands pressed to the front of his loincloth. “Christopher isn’t bothered… and his bottom is bare… no one will even think twice even if they do see anything, Francis… now come along, I’m not leaving you in the car on your own…”

Wendy walked around the car and opened the passenger door. She spoke to Francis in a gentle tone: “Come on… there’s nothing to be frightened of… do it for me,” and she leant down to kiss her boyfriend. “That’s it… just be careful, Francis… I know it’s difficult and there’ll be lots of people in there, but just ignore them and we’ll have a nice bite to eat before we hit the road again…”

Despite these entreaties, Francis hesitated: “But… but, Wendy, mum didn’t pack anything else for me to wear… can’t I just stay here and you could bring me out something to eat?”

Wendy realised she’d have to be firmer with Francis: “Look… as you’ve just so eloquently pointed out, the only thing you have to wear is your Red Indian outfit… to be honest I’m not that bothered about how that makes you feel… but as it is, you’re going to have to get used to wearing it, because that’s all you will be wearing at the summer camp… unless I happen to mention to Mrs Connelly that you have… oh, I don’t know, but for example let’s say, a skin complaint which is exacerbated by contact with... oh, for instance buckskin and as you didn’t bring any other clothes with you… see what I’m getting at, Francis?”

Christopher laughed. He knew what it was like to be a nudie and the thought of Francis being stripped of his costume gave him an idea and he piped up: “Can I have your outfit, Francis… I know it’ll fit me… y’know, if you go nudie at the camp…”

Francis scowled at Christopher and slowly edged out of the car. He knew when he was beaten. Carefully, very carefully, he stood up still clutching his loincloth. Francis couldn’t understand why Christopher, wearing the tenderfoot outfit with no rear flap, was so insouciant, while he was as nervous as hell at the thought of entering the packed diner.

Wendy locked the car, turned to face the boys and sighed: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Francis, stop fussing about with your loincloth… it won’t get any bigger pulling it about like that…”

Christopher sniggered. Wendy shot him a questioning glance and Christopher shook his head as if to say it was nothing. It appeared to him that girls never seemed to understand smutty double entendres.

Wendy led the way and the three of them walked across the car-park. Christopher leaned over and whispered to Francis: “...the loincloth might not get any bigger, but your nob…” Christopher got no further as Francis slapped the back of his head with an open palm to stop him saying any more.

“Will you boys behave,” Wendy chided them, “I don’t want you showing me up…”

As they neared the entrance Wendy told Francis that if he carried on playing with his loincloth he’d only attract attention to himself, which was a somewhat remarkable thing to say, as if no one was going to notice two boys dressed in the skimpiest of Red Indian outfits they were ever likely to see in a public place.

Christopher very gallantly stepped forward and held the door open for Wendy who strode into the dining area. The place was packed. Wendy turned and called for Francis to get a move on. Some customers had looked up when they saw Christopher standing next to Wendy, but as he was facing the room no one had as yet seen his bare bottom.

There seemed to Francis to be reason for hope as he looked around the room.

“There isn’t any room, Wendy,” he said urgently, “Let’s get a take-out and go back to the car…”

But at that moment a woman got down from a stool. She’d obviously seen Wendy looking for seats.

“You can sit here… we’re just leaving,” she paused looking at Francis and Christopher, “You boys off to play Cowboys and Indians?” The woman looked closer at the outfits. “Girls,” she called to her daughters, “Girls… come and look at these costumes…” She smiled at Wendy, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such authentic looking outfits and these loincloths… so cute… this beadwork… simply divine…”

For Francis it was just as if he was back in the ‘Copper Kettle’ tea-room where the front flap of his loincloth had been closely examined by the ladies before a photograph was taken by Mrs Barton, the keen local amateur photographer. Francis gulped. It was happening all over again, just as it was in the tearoom… only there were many more people in the diner. Francis remembered the words Mrs Barton had spoken as he and his sisters posed in front of the camera. “Francis’ loincloth,” she’d said, “...the flap… it appears to have slipped to one side… Thank you… yes, that’s it... just lay it along the top of Francis’ penis… Yes, I can see the flap doesn’t quite reach the head of the penis, but that will have to do...” Mrs Barton had been asked for copies of that photograph by all the ladies who’d been present… and some who weren’t even there, Francis had been told later by his sisters. It was common knowledge that mounted and framed photographs of Francis in his costume were to seen prominently displayed in many of the lady’s houses.

“Do you mind?” the woman asked Wendy as she leant forward, her arm stretched out almost touching Francis’ loincloth flap.

Wendy couldn’t help but grin. She was thrilled the woman had asked her rather than Francis if she could inspect the beaded flap: “Go right ahead…” Wendy said generously. She must think I’m taking a couple of young boys out for a treat, she thought… clearly doesn’t realise how old Francis is, Wendy chuckled… or perhaps she does!

“Mum! This boy’s bottom is bare!” one of the daughters squealed when she moved behind Christopher.

“It’s a tenderfoot loincloth,” Christopher explained. He was beginning to take this sort of reaction in his stride and almost proudly added, “It’s an authentic Red Indian outfit… only older Indian Braves have flaps at the back… like Francis… I’m still a tenderfoot you see.”

The girl’s mother heard what Christopher had said. She pointedly looked at Francis’ exposed bald pubis and then peered around him to see the thin rear flap of his loincloth and with a puzzled expression asked Wendy: “How old is this, er boy Francis, then?”

“He’s sixteen going on twelve,” Wendy replied laughing at her own little joke, before correcting herself, “...no, seriously Francis is nearly seventeen, aren’t you, honey?”

The teasing brought a hot flush to Francis’ already rosy-red cheeks, as the woman and her daughters giggled at Wendy’s joke… even Christopher thought it was funny and sniggered.

“Aren’t you, honey?” Wendy repeated a touch more firmly when Francis said nothing.

The woman’s fingertips were barely an inch away from the front flap of Francis’ loincloth when he finally summoned up the courage to reply: “Er… um, yes…”

“My… that does surprise me… somehow you look younger to me…” the woman said.

Wendy effortlessly sized up and took control of the situation: “You mean because Francis doesn’t have any hair down there?” She paused and as the woman appeared to be interested, she continued, “Long story… but when Francis was playing Cowboys and Indians recently he was captured and ‘scalped’ by the cowboys… I say ‘cowboys’... well, they are certainly boys alright… the boys are what?” Wendy glanced at Christopher.

“Terry Harper is ten… he’s the ringleader,” Christopher supplied the answer.

“Thank you, Christopher… yes Terry and his cowboy posse… they, er take souvenirs from the Redskins they capture… that’s if they’ve got anything to take,” Wendy informed the woman. She smiled,  “But, let’s face it, I think Francis looks a lot neater like he is now when he’s wearing his loincloth…”

“... and why is he… why are they I should say, dressed up in their Red Indian costumes now?” the woman asked.

“I’m giving them a lift to their summer camp,” Wendy told her, “The boys all dress up as Red Indians and play all sorts of games… It’s a real treat for them.”

“But isn’t Francis a little old to be running about in a loincloth?”

“I guess so, but I’ve not heard him complaining about it,” Wendy replied being somewhat economical with the truth much to Francis’ annoyance, but Francis thought it safer not to get involved in what could easily turn into a protracted argument. He just wanted to get out of the restaurant as quickly as possible.

“Actually, the summer camp is Christopher’s treat,” Wendy explained, “but he and Francis are such good friends that Francis insisted he went along to the camp as well… to keep Christopher company y’know… isn’t that so, Francis?”

Francis’ heart sank and inwardly he groaned. Why was Wendy drawing this conversation out with this woman? Couldn’t she see how embarrassing it was for him to be standing almost naked in front of them, to say nothing of the rest of the customers?

“Yes… yes… yes,” Francis said urgently in an attempt to get things moving, “C’mon Wendy…” Then like a dork he added, “... we don’t want to be late getting to the summer camp…”

Wendy smiled at the woman, “See what I mean? Francis can’t wait to get there…”

“Well I’d better not hold you up any longer,” the lady said and turned to Francis, “Now you be a good boy, look after Christopher and behave yourself at the Red Indian camp… and I’m sure you’ll have a fun time with all the other boys… come along girls,” she added addressing her daughters who were still enthralled by the sight of the two boys dressed in their ever so flimsy costumes.

Francis felt as if he was a little boy and blushed accordingly.

Christopher raced off ahead and thoughtfully ‘bagged’ the stools vacated by the woman and her daughters. Francis wasn’t quite so enthusiastic since the stools were situated near the centre of the diner around a high table and once perched on them he realised he would been easily seen by almost everyone.

It was bad enough at the counter as Francis had been made to stand by Wendy as she ordered the food and drinks. Since boys in Red Indian costumes have nowhere to keep a wallet, Wendy paid for the snacks. While they waited Francis found himself having to politely apologise as other customers brushed past him touching his very exposed body. Francis didn’t understand how he managed to be in everyone’s way and thought it was all accidental, but Wendy smiled to herself since she was observant enough to realise this was nothing of the sort and people were taking advantage of the opportunities afforded by Francis’s skimpy costume. Who wouldn’t want to brush up against a nearly naked boy like Francis, she thought.

When at last Wendy and Francis returned to the table he spoke to Wendy in urgent, hushed tones: “I don’t know why, but people kept bumping into me… I tried standing out of the way, but it didn’t make any difference.”

“It’s very busy in here, Francis… and I expect they were just surprised to see you in your outfit… I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it, Wendy… it’s just that some of them were… I mean… they were touching me… with their hands… it was dead embarrassing…”

Wendy laughed: “Oh, don’t be silly, Francis… I’m sure you were just imagining it…” She sighed to herself. Francis was so innocent, she thought, a quality she found to be one of his most endearing traits… well, perhaps not that innocent she thought again as she remembered what she’d caught Francis doing among the bamboo in his mother’s garden.

The plastic seats of the stools were most uncomfortable for boys wearing Red Indian costumes, as Francis and Christopher found out when they finally got to sit down with their snacks and fizzy drinks. Christopher wriggled about on the stool making all sorts of squeaking and farting noises as he shifted his bare bottom across the plastic.

Christopher was clearly having fun, but Francis begged him to stop: “Please… everyone’s looking…” He turned to Wendy, “Can’t you make him stop, Wendy?”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Francis… Christopher’s enjoying himself,” she replied.

It came as a huge relief for Francis when Wendy at last announced that they had better finish up and get back to the car and resume their journey. But it was not before she had caused him further embarrassment by telling him in a voice sure to be heard by others that he and Christopher should make sure they went to the toilet before they left because she wasn’t going to stop the car again before they arrived at the Red Indian summer camp.

Back in the car Wendy patted Francis on his thigh: “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I bet you feel a lot better for having something to eat, don’t you?”

Whatever Francis felt about the stopover, he was certainly glad to be back in the car. Whether he felt the same about the prospect of spending the next few weeks at the summer camp surrounded by excited young boys playing Cowboys and Indians, he didn’t say.

As the car sped away Wendy wondered whether or not to tell Francis that she would be staying as a guest of Mrs Connelly at the summer camp. 

Donald - Part Two

Donald looked down at the crisp, freshly ironed pair of pyjamas that lay on his bed. Just seeing them, so neatly folded, brought back memories that he found at the same time both humiliating and exciting. He reached out his hand and felt the soft, comforting winceyette as he thought of the day one of his mother’s friends had called round.

Even though it was early evening, not long after the six o’clock Angelus bell, Donald had already been put into his pyjamas. He was almost fifteen and a half years old. Donald had been undressed and had his hands and face washed at the kitchen sink, before his mother brought him some clean pyjamas from the hot press. Donald knew better than to make a fuss as his pyjama jacket was buttoned up… all the buttons, mummy insisted, even the very top one. “We don’t want you to get a chill in bed, do we, Donald?” she would say as he felt the collar of his pyjama top tighten around his neck. Having that top button done up always annoyed Donald. For some reason he associated it with the sort of thing little boys had to put up with… and he was a teenager, for goodness sake! Why couldn’t his mother leave the top button undone? It wasn’t much to ask. And while he was at it, why did mummy have to harp on about catching a chill in bed? If she was so worried about catching a chill, he argued to himself, she would let me wear long trousers once in a while.

Donald had been kept in quite ludicrously short trousers, his legs bare to the tops of his thighs even in the coldest weather. The only time he’d had the courage to complain about the shortness of his school shorts, his mother had informed him in no uncertain terms that, “You don't catch a cold through your legs!” And that admonishment was enough put an end to the matter. True his gaberdine mac kept the worst of the rain off his exposed thighs during the not infrequent periods of wet weather, but it was still an embarrassment for him that people could see his long school socks and T-bar sandals below the hem of his tightly buttoned up dark blue mackintosh. Although during summer term Donald was ‘allowed’ ankle socks, which he naturally hated as it meant his hairless, smooth legs were constantly on full display and he could do nothing to hide the unblemished flesh from everyone’s gaze. He never got used to being called names, the most popular and least offensive being ‘girly-legs’, by boys as they teased him on the way to school.

He remembered how mummy would hold his pyjama bottoms open for Donald to step into and she would draw them up her son’s hairless legs, up and over his bottom. With practised ease mummy made sure the jacket was tucked neatly into the pyjama bottoms before tying a knot in the drawstring cord.

Donald recalled how he had heard a sharp knock on the kitchen door as it was opened and the voice of a neighbour: “Coo-ee, it’s only me, Mabel… oh, you’re getting Donald ready for bed.” It was Gloria Cooley, a friend of his mother’s, who had a twelve year old son, Rory.

“Not quite bedtime just yet, but saves time if can get Donald washed and into his pyjamas, so that he can finish his homework before I put him to bed,” Mabel replied.

“Actually it was about pyjamas I wanted to see you about, Mabel… you see I was thinking about getting Rory some new pyjamas and I was wondering whether to get him some proper boy’s pyjamas like Donald wears… you see Rory wears what he likes to bed… those pull-on tops and bottoms, you know like T-shirts and shorts… although I’ve caught the little rascal wearing nothing at all a few times!” Gloria laughed.

Mabel chuckled, but cast a reproving eye on Donald: “Boys will be boys I’ve no doubt, but I’d better not find you in bed in the nip in the morning,” she told him, “or you’ll find yourself feeling the back of my hairbrush before breakfast.”

Donald blushed as well he might even if he did find it a shock and perfectly unfair that a boy over three years his junior could wear ‘what he likes’ to bed… or even go bare naked! It was also very embarrassing to be ticked off like that in front of his mum’s visitor. But that was always the way with Donald’s mother, if she thought he needed to be put in his place, or even scolded, it mattered not a jot who else was present.

Donald’s mother and Mrs Cooley continued to chat for a few minutes as they discussed the various bedtime routines of their sons, although it transpired that little Rory didn’t have much of a routine at all. “... but I always make sure he’s in bed by ten-thirty at the latest,” Mrs Cooley explained.

Mabel told her that Donald was always tucked up in bed at eight o’clock on schooldays, but that when he was sixteen he might… “if he behaves himself,” be awarded an extension to eight-thirty. 

Donald sighed as he remembered mummy discussing his bedtime routine with Mrs Cooley. As it turned out, Donald was not given this later bedtime until he was seventeen. Even now he was married, his wife Joan insisted that Donald was in bed by nine-thirty each evening.

With a shudder, Donald recalled how the two mothers talked as if he wasn’t even in the room with them and, after all this time, he blushed as he remembered what happened next.

During a lull in the conversation, Mrs Cooley suddenly stepped forward towards Donald, turned to face his mother and asked, “Would you mind if I just had a look at the label on Donald’s pyjamas, Mabel?”

“Of course not, Gloria,” came the reply. Once more Donald continued to be ignored.

Mrs Cooley turned back to face Donald and without even looking at him directly, undid the top two buttons of his pyjama jacket. She pushed the collar back then took a firm hold of Donald’s shoulders and made him turn around so that she could examine the label stitched in by the manufacturer. Pulling the collar down to uncover the nape of Donald’s neck, Mrs Cooley twisted the label to read what it said. Donald, feeling rather like a tailor’s dummy, stood as still as he could before the collar was pushed back up. She then turned Donald back round again to face her and did up the two top buttons without bothering to make eye contact with him.

“I’d just like to get an idea of the length of the jacket, Mabel…” and without warning Mrs Cooley pulled Donald’s pyjama jacket all the way of the pyjama bottoms before smoothing it down at the sides so that she could see its length. Donald was anxious as the pyjama bottoms, loosened by the removal of the jacket, felt as if they were about to slip down. He scrabbled with his fingers to hold onto the winceyette pyjama bottoms, but Mrs Cooley told him not to fidget as she needed him to keep still while she checked the length of the jacket. These were the only words said directly to Donald who immediately did as he was told. He knew that his mother would have reinforced her command with a sharp smack of her hand to the back of his nearest leg and he was afraid that Mrs Cooley wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.

“There… just as I thought… they’re a good length, why the pyjama top is long enough to wear without the bottoms,” she said to Donald’s mother with a mischievous smile.

Donald was horrified and almost said something, but thought better of it. He stood as still as he could as Mrs Cooley fussed about and ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ as if trying to come to a decision. She pulled Donald’s pyjama jacket this way and that. Then all of a sudden she lifted the jacket up, baring Donald’s tummy as she examined the hem of the jacket. Donald jerked as he felt the jacket being tugged and this was enough to cause his already loosened pyjama bottoms to slip a little way down his hips. The shock of feeling this happen made Donald tremble with fear which was enough to precipitate the very thing he was so anxious to avoid.

“Donald!!” his mother snapped as she saw the pyjama bottoms slide all the way down Donald’s legs to land in a puddle around his feet, “What do you think you are doing?!!”

As Mrs Cooley continued to hold on to the pyjama jacket, Donald found himself bare from the waist down in front of the two women. He remembered with bitterness how he had of course been blamed for this incident.

“I don’t think Mrs Cooley wants to see your little tiddler, Donald,” his mother said and she turned to apologise to her neighbour, but neither woman made any attempt to restore the fallen pyjama bottoms to their proper place. So Donald stood in the middle of the kitchen with his boyhood displayed as Mrs Cooley continued to umm and ahh while holding up his pyjama top. After a few more moments she reached her decision: “No, I don’t think Rory would like to wear these… but I just wanted to make sure,” she said before finally letting go of Donald’s pyjama jacket.

“I quite understand, Gloria… It’s always best to think about these things before you decide what’s suitable…”

After further delay while the two women talked some more it was Mrs Cooley who finally bent down to pull up Donald’s pyjama bottoms, adding to his already fearsome embarrassment. Mrs Cooley tucked in the pyjama top and pulled the white pyjama drawstring tight before tying into a neat bow. It was as if Donald was just a little boy being got ready for bedtime and he hated himself for standing meekly while Mrs Cooley smoothed down his pyjamas once more.

“There… all done…” she said and patted Donald’s pyjama-clad bottom for good measure.

As Donald thought back this incident he couldn’t help thinking how he’d have liked to seen some other boy being put through such an humiliating ordeal. A boy like Rory, for example, who Donald had more reason than most to want to see taken down a peg or two.

While Donald had to endure the daily humiliation of wearing short trousers, Rory had been allowed to wear ‘longs’ for as long as Donald could remember… in fact Donald couldn’t even recall seeing Rory, nearly four whole years his junior, wearing anything but long trousers. Donald knew that at one time Rory must have worn shorts, since at the age of thirteen Donald was given some of Rory’s old play shorts… hand-me-downs that even the nine year old Rory thought too embarrassing to be seen wearing. “But there’s plenty of wear left in them,” Gloria had said to Donald’s mother, “And as everyone knows Donald likes to wear shorts, Rory thought Donald might like them…”

Mabel wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth and gladly accepted the bundle of Rory’s old clothes: “That’s very kind of Rory to think of Donald… it’s not many boys who would be so considerate. I’ll make sure Donald remembers to thank Rory when when he next sees him.”

“There’s some of Rory’s old T-shirts as well…” Gloria informed her.

Donald was mortified to be sent out wearing Rory’s old play-clothes only to be ridiculed by Rory’s playmates as they were told of the provenance of Donald’s clothing… such as it was, since, being the clothes of a nine year old boy, they left little to the imagination, exposing even more of Donald’s bare flesh to the health-giving fresh air and sun. The sleeveless T-shirts didn’t even reach down to Donald’s belly-button and the shorts were so small the elastic waistband was stretched low enough to reveal the awful truth that Donald’s pubis was perfectly smooth, showing no signs at all of pubic hair. 

Since he was a ‘late bloomer’ Donald’s mother saw little point in pretending otherwise and Donald remembered how his lack of development had been openly discussed on a number of occasions.

For instance on one Sunday afternoon, the time when his mother Mabel usually had three or four of the ladies who attended church with her, a mother new to the parish had been invited to join them for tea and biscuits. As usual Donald, dressed in a smart short trouser suit (his ‘Sunday Best’), was expected to help serve the ladies their tea. It was as he was bringing in the tea things the new lady spoke and asked how old Donald was. On being told by his mother that Donald was sixteen, the lady remarked: “I see you have him in short trousers… has he yet to get to that ‘difficult’ stage then?”

“Oh, Donald has still got a fair bit of growing up to do,” his mother replied quite casually, “He’s still my little boy and I think he will be for a while yet.”

Spoons were stirred in teacups and saucers rattled. Heads were nodded. Yes, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what was being discussed… discussed as if Donald wasn’t there in the room overhearing all that was was being said about him.

“Some boys bloom a little later than others, some earlier,” Mrs Cooley interjected, “My Rory, for instance, has already started… and he’s only twelve, bless him… and do you know, he says he’s a big boy now and insists he can bath all by himself…”

Donald could feel his face getting redder than ever. He was still bathed by his mother, something he knew for a fact that Mrs Cooley was aware of.

“Careful your Rory doesn’t develop any bad habits, Mrs Cooley,” another lady advised.

“Boys can be very shy at that stage,” one of the other ladies remarked.

“It’s the same with my Brendan,” another joined in, “He gets quite coy now he’s started to, y’know… grow up… and don’t get me started on the extra laundry that’s involved…”  

The were some mutterings of sympathy from one or two of the ladies before Mabel adroitly changed the subject, but not before embarrassing Donald further by telling her guests that her ‘little boy’ hadn’t so far troubled her on that account.

Donald was already flushed with embarrassment the moment he realised it was boys’ puberty that was being talked about so openly… and the fact of his own late puberty. He could barely meet the eyes of the ladies as he offered them biscuits and fancy cakes. Now all of them knew that it wasn’t only his legs that were smooth and hairless.

Donald shuddered at the thought as he recalled those Sunday afternoons with his mother holding court with her friends. Why couldn’t it have been Rory who was humiliated in front of everyone? Donald would have given a whole month’s worth of his pocket money, not that it amounted to much, to see Rory blushing and squirming with embarrassment as… as, oh what Donald really wanted to see was cute little Rory, the apple of his mother’s eye, have his long trousers and pants pulled down for a smacked bare bottom! In his heart of hearts Donald knew this was never going to happen. It was he, Donald, who got his bottom smacked… and not only his bottom, his bare legs too often felt the sting of his mother’s hand when they were out shopping and Donald had given her cause to admonish him.

Donald remembered when his wife Joan had seen him having the backs of his legs smacked when he was in his mid-teens. There must have been other occasions, but this was the one that stuck in his mind since it was when it became apparent to Donald that Joan had little sympathy for naughty boys, indeed he recalled how Joan had remarked on how effective his smacking had been and how red the backs of his thighs were. She even went so far as to say that she too would have no hesitation in employing this method when a sharp lesson in manners was called for.

All that had happened on this occasion was that Donald’s mind had wondered for a moment and he had failed to hear his mother telling him to help Joan’s mother by carrying her shopping. It seemed so unfair to Donald that he had been smacked on the backs of his bare legs in front of everyone for his momentary lack of attention. It was humiliating. He was a teenager, sixteen years old, didn’t mummy realise how embarrassing it was to have his legs smacked in public? The cheeks of his face had burnt as hot as the backs of his thighs.

The more he thought about these humiliating incidents, the more Donald longed to see these humiliations visited upon some other teenage boy. Oh, how he wished that he could somehow get a boy like Rory into trouble… trouble that would see the boy put straight back into short trousers after having his bare bottom smacked. Smacked until he was wailing and begging for it to stop. How Donald would enjoy watching the boy bawling his head off, his face smeared with tears, snot and drool dripping from his chin as he cried his eyes out, just as he had done on so many occasions. 

Meanwhile, unknown to Donald as he grew more and more excited at the thought of someone else enduring the sort of upbringing he had suffered, his wife, Joan and his mother, Mabel were having a conference. Mabel explained to Joan how she had visited Father Benedict and what he’d had to say. Then Mabel produced a pair of Donald’s short trousers.

“I kept these and some of his other clothes,” she explained, “just in case they might be needed… and I didn’t like to part with perfectly good clothes with plenty of wear left in them,” she added.

“Now, Joan… Father Benedict suggested that we find some way of helping Donald to get these silly ideas of his out of his system… Quite honestly I don’t even begin to understand why Donald should be so interested in boy’s short trousers…”

“But you should have seen him… I told you he was… examining a pair of junior boy’s school shorts… I could see him, plain as day as he turned them inside out to look at the lining…”

“Well, that’s as maybe, Joan, but together we’ve got to do something about it… and I think the best way forward is to give Donald a good dose of short trouser discipline, such as I gave him when he was acting up in those… those difficult years that boys go through… if you understand me.”

Joan nodded. She knew perfectly well what Mabel was talking about. Silly young boys who thought that because they were teenagers they were all grown up and deserving to be treated like mature adults, when they were nothing of the sort.

Mabel continued: “As you know Donald was rather late in that department, but that still doesn’t excuse his current behaviour, so taking him down a peg or two is just what he needs in my opinion… it worked in the past and I’ve no reason to think it won’t work now… he’ll soon buck his ideas up after a week or two spent in short trousers…”

Joan nodded her head again. She was fully in agreement with her mother-in-law. They had both been far too lax with Donald recently. An old-fashioned dose of discipline was the remedy required if he wasn’t going to go completely off the rails.

“Fancy… in Dunne’s of all places,” Joan recalled, “It was embarrassing to see him through the shop window looking at those boy’s shorts… I’m just thankful there was no one else there that I knew to see him.” She paused as she watched Mabel smoothing out the pair of Donald’s old short trousers on the table in front of them.

“You’re right, Mabel,” Joan said abruptly, “Let’s see how Donald feels when we put him back into short trousers for while… that will bring him back to his senses and I’m sure that will cure him of this childish behaviour.”

“I’ve brought along a few pairs of his boy’s briefs to wear… I bought them for Donald especially to wear with these shorts… he didn’t like them, but they need to be small so they don’t show,” Mabel explained.

Joan looked at the short trousers. There was hardly any inseam at all. Of course Donald would definitely need to wear the boy’s junior underpants that Mabel had brought with her.

So, with her mother-in-law’s help and encouragement, Joan’s mind was made up. Donald was in need of a lesson he would never forget. Let him see what it feels like to be kept in short trousers like a naughty schoolboy. She was sure that would soon cure him of whatever silly ideas he had when she saw him through Dunne’s shop window. 

The last thing on Donald’s mind as he stood in the shop was the possibility of wearing short trousers again. He’d had enough experience in being kept in them into late adolescence under his mother’s strict supervision. Quite enough to last him a lifetime. He recalled the horror of having to wear them and he shivered at the thought. No, Donald’s mind was set on taking revenge on all those boys who had teased him over the years. Oh how Donald longed to put a boy into short trousers… to make him suffer the humiliations that he’d had to endure. That was the sole reason for his visit to Dunne’s. He sincerely hoped that if he’d had a reasonable excuse to be in the boyswear shop, such as enquiring about short trousers for an imaginary nephew, he might just be fortunate enough to be present when a mother brought her son into the shop to be measured for his school uniform. Donald fancied that he might even have the opportunity to advise on the choice of clothing, telling the mother how his own ‘nephew’ was kept in short trousers at all times, summer and winter. Of course this was all Donald’s elaborate fantasy, a fantasy he had developed to in some way compensate for his own extended boyhood, a way of justifying his meek acceptance of his mother’s strictures.

A few days later Donald, his head still full of his fantasies, entered the dining-room to find his mother and his wife, Joan, sat at the table. He noticed a stool had been placed to one side of the room before he saw what was laid out on the table.

“Come in, Donald,” Joan said, “Your mother and I have been going through some of your things…”

“Sorting them out…” his mother added.

Although Donald was understandably anxious at the sight of some of his old clothes the women were handling, he managed to act normally. The very last thing he imagined was that the clothes were being sorted out for him to wear.

Putting on a brave face the addressed his mother: “I don’t know why you kept all those old clothes of mine… about time you got rid of them, I’d say…”

Joan spoke up: “Oh no, we’re not getting rid of them, Donald…”

“The-then what are you doing? I don’t understand…” Donald’s heart skipped a beat, “If you’re not getting rid of them… what are you sorting them out for?”

Mabel and Joan ignored Donald for the moment and carried on with what they were doing.

“Oh, isn’t that just what every boy would love to wear?” Joan enthused as she held up the startlingly short shorts of a boy’s short trouser suit.

“Those are part of Donald’s best suit… his ‘Sunday best’ we called it. I bought it for his fifteenth birthday… you will have seen him wearing it, Joan… Look how well tailored it is… made to last…”

“It looks as though it would still fit him,” Joan observed as she held the little trousers up in front of Donald, “What do you say, Mabel… do you think they would fit Donald?”

Donald’s mouth was suddenly dry as he looked from Joan to his mother to see want her reaction would be. His mind raced… surely they weren’t expecting him to put those on? Even just trying them on to satisfy their curiosity would be perfectly awful. The thought that Joan and Mabel might be planning to put him back into short trousers never occurred to him.

Mabel took the short trousers from Donald’s Sunday best suit from Joan and held them up. Donald watched nervously as his mother examined the shorts and then looked up at him.

“I don’t think Donald would have the least trouble in putting these on,” she decided.

Then Joan spoke up: “Your mother and I have come to a decision,” she announced, “... and it’s for your own good that we have decided that it’s high time you were taken in hand. We’ve both noticed that you’ve been distracted of late… I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to repeat myself and even the simplest of tasks seems to take you forever to finish… why, the other day I told you to mow Mrs Donoghue’s lawn and do to do a spot of weeding for her… you know how she can’t manage on her own… and did you do as I asked? No you did not…”

Donald opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short.

“Don’t interrupt and let me finish, Donald… there was no excuse, you wandered off to do heaven knows what… No, it simply won’t do, Donald and that’s why your mother and I have decided to do something about it…”

Donald was crestfallen. He hated to be admonished by Joan in front of his mother. It made him feel like a little boy. He was of course anxious to know what that ‘something’ was that had been decided. Whatever it was, he knew he would have comply with their wishes or face the consequences.

“We simply can’t have you wandering off and not knowing where you are… your mother and I have been very worried about you, Donald, so in order to make sure you understand how concerned we are and to help you, we have decided that the best thing we can do is to give you the opportunity to show how you can behave yourself by putting you back into short trousers again for a while…”

Donald couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Surely Joan wasn’t serious? Short trousers? Was that why they were looking through his old clothes his mother had brought round? Was that why Joan held up those humiliating short trousers from his Sunday best suit? They can’t expect me to wear that suit again… surely not?

Joan and Mabel had decided not to say anything about his being seen in Dunne’s boyswear shop, but Donald couldn’t help wondering if someone had seen him. Of course he daren’t say anything in case it was pure coincidence that he was now being told that he was to be put back into short trousers. It was difficult to know which was causing him the most anguish, the thought of being seen as bare-legged as a junior schoolboy, or that his visit to Dunne’s had been noticed.

It was his mother’s turn to speak: “Joan and I are in complete agreement… Joan knows how headstrong you were in your teens…”

“Headstrong!” Donald wondered what his mother was talking about. He never had any time to be headstrong in his teens… or at any other age. His mother kept him just as busy as she and Joan did now… how could they accuse him of being headstrong? It was so unfair, but once again Donald was plagued with doubts that his secret obsession, the urge to see boys humiliated and treated in the same way that he had been, was known to both his wife and his mother. But now, instead of another boy, it was he who was to be put into short trousers and treated as if he was an irresponsible twelve year old who couldn’t be trusted with the most menial of tasks. In the few moments he had left wearing long trousers, Donald cursed himself for his visit to the boy’s outfitters. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that his visit had some bearing on this new nightmare unfolding before him.

“... how I had to push you to be an altar-boy,” Mabel continued, “...how I had to make sure you were always on your best behaviour and dressed smartly without your shirt-tails hanging out like some ragamuffin… all the things a mother has to do unless she wants her little boy to grow up to think only about himself, with no sense of Christian duty.”

Hardly pausing for breath, Donald’s mother continued: “Now get undressed, Donald and we’ll see of I’m not right about your Sunday suit…”

Donald was horror-struck: “W-what, now… here?”

“Of course now, of course here… what else did you think I meant? Don’t be so silly and get those clothes off right now.” Mabel sighed and turned to Joan, “Honestly sometimes Donald behaves as if he’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.” She turned back to Donald again, “Now off with those things and let’s have no more fuss… I’m your mother and Joan is your wife and we’ve both seen you in the bare before, now get on with it.”

Donald knew it was pointless to argue with his mother and he also knew that in any argument his wife, Joan, would always take his mother’s side.