A Christmas Infatuation

by Jolyon Lewes

"And don't forget - you'll need to wear your long socks."

I trod slowly upstairs, the back of my neck prickling with embarrassment and my tummy tight with fear of the humiliation I knew would be coming my way. I'd just turned sixteen yet my father had told me that for this day trip to London I'd be wearing my grey short trousers. They'd ceased to be part of my school uniform when I was thirteen.

I'd long hoped the shorts would be disposed of but my mother insisted they'd last till I could no longer get into them so these past three years I'd had to wear them occasionally but only in the garden or for cycle rides in warm weather. Now I'd have to wear them for a whole day, in public, on a cold winter's day and with my father for company.

I'd grown no stouter but quite a lot taller since I was fourteen so the shorts still fitted me but with legs not quite two inches long they now looked spectacularly short. I was a very shy boy and hated those damned shorts with a passion.

I'd be taking 'O' Level exams in the summer and success would mean specialising in the sciences, aiming at medical school, something my parents had wanted for me since I was ten. My father was taking me to The Science Museum in London to see the Wellcome Foundation exhibition on medicine. The visit was something I'd been looking forward to but I hadn't expected to have to dress as a boy of thirteen for the occasion.

"And you will wear your new blazer," he called as I headed upstairs to change into the shorts. When I came downstairs I was inspected.

"Right, you'll do," said he, ignoring my obvious unhappiness at having to wear short trousers. That they were so short they were almost hidden by the navy blue blazer heightened my misery.

"Do you have to look so miserable?" asked my father. "You're supposed to be grateful to me for taking you to an important exhibition that'll prepare you for your future."

"But I am grateful," I said, "I am! "

"For God's sake stop saying 'I yam.' When you say 'I yam' you sound like a petulant child of ten!"

Indeed, I felt like a petulant little boy but held my tongue, lest it provoke my father into one of his rages. I was keen to see this exhibition but couldn't see why I had to dress like a thirteen-year-old. My father, however, held all the cards so the simplest course of action for me was to submit and hope like hell I wouldn't be spotted by any of my schoolmates.

I put on my gabardine raincoat. Reaching my knees it would at least disguise the appalling brevity of my shorts, as well as keeping off some of the cold.

"Get that off!" yelled my father. "We'll be in the warm most of the time and with this easterly it won't rain so you won't need a coat. You've got a pullover on. Just take your scarf and gloves."

On the way in the car to the railway station I looked at my bare thighs, horrified by how far the grey shorts had ridden up. I was fearful that people might see my underpants peeping out.

We arrived at the station and at the ticket office the reason why my father had told me to wear my shorts was immediately obvious.

"Return to London for one adult and a child, please," he said.

"But I'm sixteen, Dad," I whined.

"Sixteen, is he, sir?" said the man in the ticket office. "That'll be a full adult fare, then. Another fifteen shillings. I'm surprised you don't know how old your son is."

A couple of women waiting behind us in the queue tut-tutted pointedly. Fuming, my father forked out the extra cash.

On the platform he hissed "You've gone too far this time, you stupid boy. You've humiliated me in front of people I know. Just wait till we get home - you'll be in for it and no mistake."

On the windswept platform we waited for the train, my bare thighs exposed to the biting wind. I wrapped the scarf all round my head and stuffed my gloved hands into my armpits. How could my father be so cruel as to deny me an overcoat? At last the train arrived and I could get into the warm.

The journey wasn't a lot of fun. I sat in the compartment facing my father with two women either side of me and a youth of about eighteen sitting beside my father and staring with obvious interest at my bare thighs. Instinctively I tried to tug the legs of my shorts down to cover a bit more of my legs but my efforts failed and I saw the youth smirking at my obvious dilemma.

"Stop fidgeting!" said my father. "If I had my way you'd be in shorts till you had some hairs on your legs but your mother says now you're sixteen you should wear long trousers."

"Yes, Dad," I said, blushing at the knowledge that the other passengers now knew how old I was. "I hate short trousers."

"That doesn't make sense," grumbled my father. "You told me you liked looking at boys in very short shorts so I can't see why you complain when you're wearing them yourself."

So I had to sit there, ever aware that the youth was staring intently at my bare thighs and from time to time rubbing his crotch. He looked lecherous. Did he fancy me?

Worried my underpants might be showing I stood up, tugged hard at the legs of my shorts and sat down again.

"For God's sake stop fidgeting!" said my father."You've embarrassed me enough already today and for that you'll be getting a thrashing when we get home. Keep fidgeting with your shorts and you'll earn yourself more strokes!"

I felt my neck tingling as, totally humiliated, I fixed my gaze steadfastly at the floor. Would my father use his cane on me? Surely not! I looked up to see the youth taking an even keener interest in me. He crossed his legs, presumably to try to disguise from the women beside me that he was nursing a massive erection and obviously enjoying my predicament. It wasn't as if he was remotely good-looking and I didn't like the idea of being fancied by someone like him.

To go back a bit, at twelve I was a very naive boy and knew nothing of the facts of life. In those days sex wasn't on the school curriculum. One day, my father took me for a drive in the car and clumsily tried to explain the world of sex.

"Do you ever find your willy getting hard?" he asked.

I blushed and said it sometimes happened when I saw a nice boy wearing short shorts..

"What about when you see a pretty girl?"

"No, that doesn't make it happen. It's only when I see a boy and the shorter his shorts the better. Why does that happen, Dad?"

That concluded my instruction on the birds and the bees and my father didn't answer my question. Instead he called me a pervert. From that day he never again looked me in the eye. Even years later, when he had to shake my hand after I'd achieved some distinction or other, he'd pointedly look away rather than meet my eager gaze. He never could get over having a son who was gay.

A few weeks later he was given by an old schoolmaster friend a nasty-looking cane and he said I'd be getting a taste of it if he ever caught me in what he called an act of perversion. He made me hang the cane on my bedroom door, to remind me never to have 'unclean thoughts' when I was in bed.

I assumed he meant I must desist from thinking about boys in shorts, or boys at all. Luckily, he didn't see me at school, where there were scores of tasty boys in shorts for me to enjoy but at home I had to be really careful, especially when it came to masturbation. I suspected that any incriminating evidence would be attributed to my thinking about boys in shorts and I'd be caned. In those days most Boy Scouts wore quite short shorts and I wasn't allowed to join my local troop in case I was tempted to exercise my perversion.

All in all, having to keep my thoughts to myself and being wary of getting too friendly with any other boy, lest my father thought I was going astray, I grew into a lonely and repressed teenager.

As we approached London I decided the best thing to do was to pretend I was only twelve or thirteen. After all, I looked that age, my face yet to need shaving and my legs still entirely hairless. It was only when I spoke, in a deep voice of which a man of twenty would have been proud, that I gave away my age. So the simplest thing was to get through the day without speaking.

On arrival in London the women were first to leave the compartment, followed by my father. I had to stand and wait for the unpleasant youth to get his luggage off the rack. Then he turned to me, leering.

"Hope you enjoy your thrashing tonight," he said. "I'll be wanking myself silly thinking about it!"

He patted my bottom and was on the platform before I had time to think of a response. He turned to look up at me as I made to step off the train. "Those shorts are bloody obscene! They're bloody fantastic!"

Once at The Science Museum I put my plan into action but of course my father thought I was totally uninterested in the displays we'd come to see. I was actually fascinated by the stuff to do with medical research but with other boys my real age within earshot I said very little, hoping they'd just regard me as a young kid instead of a boy soon to join the Sixth Form. Thanks to my ridiculous shorts I knew I was getting plenty of looks from people of all ages and I felt terribly conspicuous.

After an hour my father needed a coffee so we went to one of the cafes and I was bought a mug of hot chocolate. I had to sit on a high stool and this made my shorts seem shorter than ever and I was anxious not to have to talk but of course my father asked me what I thought of what we'd seen.

I cringed when I saw a dark-haired boy about my age studying me. I could see his eyes tracing the curves of my bare thighs and I felt myself blushing. But at least he wasn't as grim-looking as the youth on the train. In fact he was smartly-dressed and rather handsome. He caught my eye and gave a little smile. Not a smirk like the boy on the train but a friendly smile.

"I asked you what you think of this place," said my father. "Are you interested or not?"

"I am , Dad, I am interested."

"There you go again: 'I yam, I yam. For God's sake stop it!"

My head was filled with a sort of buzzing and tears came to my eyes. I was being humiliated in front of the handsome boy and in my father's eyes I could do nothing right. Worse was to come.

"For God's sake will you stop fidgeting with your shorts! You've been doing it all day!"

"But they're so short, Dad and I hate them!" By now I was sniffing and my voice had gone a bit squeaky. I wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Hate them do you? But you told me it's boys in shorts like yours that get you excited! Carry on like this and you'll be wearing them all Christmas. For God's sake stop snivelling, you little pervert!"

People were staring at us and I found myself looking for a friendly face but the onlookers obviously sided with my father for all I got were hostile looks. Sitting on that high stool with my feet dangling several inches above the floor I can't have looked very tall and in those stupid shorts I must have looked like a stroppy boy of twelve or thirteen. The handsome boy was nowhere to be seen.

I opened the Museum guide and tried to concentrate on its contents in a pathetic attempt to escape my father's bullying comments and the disapproval of the people watching.

"I need to get something to eat," said my father. "You can go and look at more of the exhibits and meet me back here in an hour. Then we'll go home."

Exploring the Wellcome Foundation displays by myself without my father breathing down my neck should have been good but I was nervous of being seen by the people who'd heard my father calling me a pervert. Boys much younger than me were in long trousers and I saw the way they looked at me and giggled. I wished the handsome boy was there because he might have had sympathy for me but of him there was no sign. It wasn't long before I returned to the cafe to find my father reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette.

"Right," he said, "seen all you want?"

"Yes, Dad,"

"Well, let's go then. We can get an earlier train."

I was allowed a packet of crisps at the station and then we set off on the train. I was glad the lecherous youth wasn't in our compartment but instead there was a horrible old man who spent his time ogling my bare thighs and again I kept trying to tug down on the hems and again my father told me to stop fidgeting. I wondered if he'd remembered his threat to thrash me.

Alighting from the train at our station I found the weather had turned intensely cold and I was glad of my scarf and gloves but my bare legs really felt the icy wind and I wanted to get home without delay. The man collecting our tickets was the same man who'd sold us the tickets that morning.

"Tickets please, sir," he said to my father. Then he added, with rich sarcasm "Now, let me see. Your son's sixteen, isn't he? Poor blighter's a bit old to be in tiny little shorts like that!"

My father rebuked the man for being insubordinate and I thought matters wouldn't end there. They didn't.

"You've humiliated me again! " said my father to me as we walked to the car. "Just you wait!"

We drove home in silence. I was dreading the threatened caning. My father had been a warrant officer in the army which had made him into a disciplinarian. He could put his subordinates on a charge but corporal punishment in the army had long been banned so the only way he could carry it out was on me.

Apart from chatting to girls at school I'd never made real female friends. I did have some male friends at school but nobody very close. Knowing that my father detested my liking for boys I kept my distance from any boy seeking more than just a laugh in the classroom and a friendly jostle on the playing fields. There was once a boy who said he fancied me. He was very nice-looking, especially in the showers after games but I dared not respond to his occasional shows of affection so he eventually lost interest. Little did he know he was the subject of most of my fantasies.

Back to the present: Would I be caned as promised? I was told not to change into long trousers. I heard my parents arguing in the kitchen and went to my bedroom to await events. Sure enough, my father called me down to the living room. He looked furious and began to shout at me. Something had riled him on that journey to London. And it wasn't just because my announcement that I was sixteen had cost him another fifteen shillings.

"That youth on the train to London - you were flirting with him, weren't you? Forever hitching up your shorts and looking at him suggestively. It was disgusting!"

"I don't know what you mean Dad, he was a horrible boy and I felt embarrassed because he kept looking at me!"

"I bet if he'd been in shorts you wouldn't say he was horrible."

To that I had no answer because I recalled the boy's massive erection but the interview was interrupted by my mother calling to say the cooker had stopped working.

"OK," said my father. He looked at me scornfully and said "This is a man's job. I'll go and see to it."

Well, he took ages to fix the cooker and we had to have a cold meal. The house was cold too and my father saw me rubbing my thighs to try to warm them. This seemed to prompt his next comment to my mother.

"Forecast is for a freezing Christmas. The boy will wear those shorts tomorrow. Look at him rubbing his legs - it'll make a man of him to be out in the cold with bare legs."

When I went downstairs next morning my mother greeted me with a kiss, saying my father had gone early to his place of work, a firm of lawyers where he was Personnel Manager. My mother smiled at me.

"I think somebody's heard he was trying to get you a child's ticket on the train yesterday. Is that true?"

"Yes, Mum but I stupidly blurted out that I'm sixteen."

"And quite right too, Acer. I can't imagine why he thought he could get away with it."

"That's why he was so cross with me last night, Mum. Because I embarrassed him at the station."

"Oh, I thought it was because you were misbehaving with a boy on the train."

"No, Mum, I wasn't! That's just not true!"

"I'm glad to hear it and I believe you. Let's see what he says when he gets home. Now, how about bacon and eggs?"

When my father returned he seemed different. He looked less belligerent and for once even called me Acer, although he never looked me in the eye. He said I could wear whatever I liked at the carol service. No mention of those stupid little grey shorts. The day turned out to be very much pleasanter than I'd feared, despite the snow that fell all afternoon.

We went to the carol service, which began outside the church, with a rendition of While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night , the twelve choirboys looking frozen to bits in their white surplices, blue cassocks and assorted footwear. They warmed up a bit in church and sang like angels. I wasn't really looking forward to the gathering after the service when curiously spicy drinks and mince pies would be offered but this event proved the turning point in my whole year. Guess who came up to introduce himself - yes, it was the handsome boy from The Science Museum!

"Hi, I'm Stuart and I think we were both in London yesterday. The Science Museum. Do you remember?"

"Oh, God, yes, you were in the cafe." I shook his hand."Fancy you remembering ordinary little me!"

"You certainly aren't ordinary, Acer. It is Acer, isn't it? Such a beautiful name. I'm ashamed to say I followed you around when you left your dad in the cafe. What I mean to say is I'm not really ashamed at all. It was quite an experience to watch you. You were obviously interested in the exhibition but terribly self-conscious in those shorts and I felt really sorry for you. You kept trying to tug them down a bit but it didn't work, as I think you knew. I've seen you before in this town and hoped to meet you properly and here you are!"

"I was incredibly embarrassed all day. My father wanted me to look only thirteen so he made me wear those shorts."

"I know, Acer. My dad's senior partner in the law firm and I know all about your dad trying to get you a child's fare on the train."

"But I'm actually sixteen," I said. "And how did you know my name?"

"My dad told me. I go to boarding school in Norfolk so I'm only here in the holidays but I saw you riding your bike a few times in the summer and wanted to get to know you."

"My dad hates my name so usually he just calls me the boy. Why did you want to get to know me?"

"I thought you looked nice," said Stuart. "By the way, I'm seventeen. Look, I'll go and get more of these interesting drinks. In fact, let's get a bit squiffy!"

I looked at Stuart as he went off for more drinks. A bit taller than me and a bit bulkier, he looked much more self-confident and altogether, extremely handsome. Did he fancy me?

When he came back with two large glasses of the curiously spicy drink he was grinning.

"I got the lady to add some Bacardi to these," he said. "Good job you're not on your bike today!"

As Stuart handed me a glass I noticed hairs on his forearm, beside his watch. I supposed that meant he'd have hairs on his legs too and maybe even on his chest, making him look even more manly than me, not that it would be difficult.

After a few slurps from his glass Stuart looked around the room and said "Not much talent around, is there?"

Naturally, I assumed he meant there weren't many pretty girls so, feeling slightly crestfallen, I replied "No, the girls here are either ridiculously young or old and haggard."

Smiling at me and looking me in the eyes, Stuart said almost in a whisper "Girls? No, I meant boys, Acer!"

I felt myself blushing. Stuart put his hand on my arm. It felt nice.

"Don't look so bashful, Acer. Look, I'm sorry - do you have a girlfriend?"

"No," I mumbled, blushing more deeply.

"Nor me," said Stuart. "Let's finish our drinks and go outside. Fancy a quick walk?"

The cold hit me as soon as we stepped outside and I wrapped my scarf tightly round my neck. What was he going to say next?

It wasn't just the icy air that was making me tingle: I thought Stuart might say he preferred boys to girls and maybe even say he fancied me. Oh, how I wanted to be fancied by someone nice. That lecherous youth on the train was certainly not my cup of tea!

I was a bit disappointed when Stuart's topic of conversation wasn't boys but sport. He asked me what games I liked playing and which county I supported in the cricket championship. His choice was Nottinghamshire and I said mine was Kent. We chatted about cricket, rugby and finally racquet sports.

"D'you play squash, Acer?"

"No, never tried it but I quite like tennis."

"I could teach you squash. I'm a member of the local club and this time of year it'd be easy to get a booking for one of the courts. How about it?"

"Yes, great," I replied, anxious not to lose Stuart's interest.

That evening he rang to say he'd booked the court for ten o'clock next morning.

"I'll bring racquets and balls, Acer. All you have to do is turn up with your tennis kit. I can't wait to see you in it!"

In bed that night all I could think of was Stuart. He'd said he couldn't wait to see me in my tennis kit and he'd been gazing at my bare thighs in The Science Museum so did he want to see them again? And what about his thighs? Would they be lovely to behold, perhaps with a scattering of dark hairs? I realised I was beginning to fancy him rotten. His face was simply beautiful.

But could I risk a relationship with a boy? Well, I was in luck - Dad could hardly stop me being friends with his boss's son! I had the best wank of the year so far and fell asleep thinking of Stuart stroking my thighs.

Next morning was Christmas Eve and as cold as ever. My parents seemed pleased I was going to play squash with the senior partner's son. The club was a twenty-minute walk so I set off in plenty of time, my sports bag in hand. Stuart was waiting for me, in a dark blue tracksuit and with a smile on his face.

"Acer! Great to see you again. Let's go to the changing room."

Two other players were there, men in their thirties stripped to their briefs and ready to put on their outdoor clothes. Stuart removed his tracksuit to reveal a very fine pair of legs with - yes - a dusting of dark hairs below the knee, his thighs being almost as smooth as mine. His tennis shorts were very brief, as was the fashion in 1970. I began to fumble in my bag and the other two players departed, wishing us Merry Christmas.

"Not nervous, are you, Acer?" said Stuart. "Oh, I see you've brought quite a selection of kit. Let's have a look."

I pulled out three pairs of white shorts, two T-shirts, a polo shirt and a cream sweater.

"I don't think you'll need all of this today," said Stuart. "Nice polo shirt and what about these shorts?"

"They're my PE shorts," I said."Tiny little things. I'd rather wear these tennis shorts." I felt myself blushing.

"They're a bit long. Would you wear the PE shorts, just for me? The more of you I can see the happier I'll be."

I thought he was joking but his expression was earnest and when I looked at him he crinkled his eyes in a kind way, putting his hand on my shoulder and saying "I've made you blush, Acer. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm so sorry."

Instead of unzipping my jeans I stood still and asked Stuart if he fancied me. Now it was his turn to blush but he kept his hand on my shoulder.

"More than I can say, Acer. I've wanted to make friends for months but since The Science Museum I've thought of nothing else. Do you mind!"

"Mind?" I squeaked. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me!"

Stuart squeezed my shoulder and gave me a broad smile. "Oh, thank God for that!"

Now I was smiling, too. "I think we'd better do some squash before we get carried away. PE shorts it is!"

Buzzing with excitement I went into one of the cubicles to change into my polo shirt, PE shorts and plimsolls. When I came out Stuart said I looked gorgeous. I blushed yet again. He explained the squash court markings to me and we began to knock a ball about, bashing it against the front wall and running about the little court like whirling dervishes. I was amazed by how hot the rubber ball got.

I don't think I learnt many of the rules because we were laughing too much. It was as though a massive amount of tension had been released; Stuart had admitted he fancied me and I was thrilled to be held in esteem by such a strikingly handsome and generous boy.

Up till then I hadn't dared to think he might like me but now I knew he more than liked me - could this be the start of a wonderful friendship?

After about forty minutes we left the court and went to the changing room. No other players were there. Stuart and I felt few inhibitions about saying what we thought.

"You look really good in those tennis shorts, Stuart."

"And you look ravishing in those PE shorts but they're not nearly as short as those grey shorts of yours! Let's sit down."

We were both warm enough to stay in our sports kit and we sat on a bench to chat. Stuart sat to my left. It wasn't long before his right knee touched my left one and I felt a charge of electricity whizz through my body as his skin made contact with mine. Our thighs were the same shade of pink.

"When I saw you on your bike in those tiny little grey shorts I knew I had to get to know you," said Stuart. "And then in The Science Museum my hormones went ballistic!"

"Well, I saw you looking at me but then you gave me a kind little smile," said I. Then I told him about the youth on the train.

"Yeah, not nice but I can see why he got so excited," said Stuart. "Those grey shorts really are incredibly short. When you were sitting on that stool I could see a couple of inches of your bottom!"

"I never knew that," I said, feeling myself blushing yet again.

Stuart shuffled closer to me until his right thigh was pressed against my left one. Suddenly I realised I had an erection. I looked down at Stuart and saw he had one too. Then I heard people outside and knew we wouldn't be alone for long.

"We'd better get changed," I said. "Mustn't get caught like this!"

"Come 'ere," said Stuart. "We've just time for this."

Putting his left hand on my right thigh he turned to me and clasped me round the neck with his right hand, pulling my face to his. We had the most wonderful kiss, the first I'd ever had with a boy. His left hand had moved to the top of my thigh. It was an exquisite sensation.

A minute later the door opened and in came two young men. "Morning, chaps," one of them said. "You look jolly - have you had a good game?"

"We certainly have," said Stuart, grinning. "The court is yours."

"My cheeks were burning as we changed into our outdoor clothes. Stuart walked with me almost all the way home. We said very little.

"I hope you didn't mind it when I kissed you," he said.

"It was just wonderful," I said, my cheeks tingling.

"Oh great, cos I've been wanting to do that for months!"

At a road junction Stuart said he lived 'down there, the house with those big pine trees outside.'

"So, goodbye then Stuart," I said, suddenly feeling deflated. "Thanks for the squash lesson."

"Not so fast, Acer!" he replied. "We ain't even started yet! I s'pose we'll both be busy tomorrow but on Boxing Day my parents will be out hunting all day so why don't you come round and we can get to know each other properly. We'll have food and stuff and nobody to bother us. Do say you can."

"It'd be magic," I said. "I'd really love it."

"I love your name, Acer. I'm going to bed tonight saying it over and over again."

"Thanks, " I said. "You're the first person to say that, apart from my mum. See you on Boxing Day."

My parents were happy for me to spend Boxing Day at Stuart's house and Dad even apologised for trying to make me look much younger just to save fifteen shillings. He didn't, however, say those grey shorts could now be disposed of.

One of my presents on Christmas morning was a little hand saw. Why? I'd never shown the least interest in woodwork. But then I read the words on the gift label.

'Acer, this is for you to saw that cane into tiny pieces. I see no reason ever to want to use it on you. Happy Christmas, Dad.'

Later that morning a Christmas card addressed to me popped onto the hall carpet. It depicted two little birds perched close together on a fence in a snowy landscape. It was signed by Stuart. A folded slip of paper fell out. I read what he'd written and stuffed the paper in my pocket to read again, many times:

'We can sit together like the two little birds, Acer. It would make my day to see you in those grey shorts again so do bring them - please! Can't wait to see you tomorrow.'

In bed that night I had a wank to beat all others, knowing that in twelve hours or so Stuart really would be stroking my thighs and probably doing even more exciting things to me. He was totally infatuated with me and I'd never felt happier! This would be the best Christmas ever.

Talk about this story on our forum

Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.

[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]

* Some browsers may require a right click instead