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.