The New Boy

by c m

It's been two years now.

Two years since I first met him here at school.

He'd already been here three years. Eight is the age at which boys go on to their Preparatory Schools. Well, most boys. I only arrived when I was eleven. The reason? Well, my family live deep in the countryside and, until I was eleven, I went to a local school. A small local school. But the teachers there saw something in me. They reckoned I was bright enough to win a scholarship to a Public School when I was thirteen. But as a small, local school, they didn't have the numbers, or the space, to run a scholarship class. So, at the age of eleven, they told my parents that the best thing would be to move me to a bigger Preparatory school…one with the resources and level of teaching that I now needed if I were, indeed, to win a scholarship.

But that meant travelling away from home. It meant going to a boarding school almost two hours away from where we lived. Neither my mum nor I was particularly happy about that, but - apart from the fact that my parents wanted me to be educated to my full potential - the fact was that money was tight, and a scholarship that would pay half the cost of my Public School fees would be almost essential if that was to be the route my education was to take.

So off to boarding school I went.

The system at the school was that new boys were given what was called a 'Guide'. A boy in the same year whose job it was to help the newcomer integrate into the ways of the school, answer any questions and be there to help. If you got lucky, the boy assigned to be your Guide might also turn out to be someone with whom you formed a friendship.

And I got lucky. Very lucky. My Guide was a boy called Mark.

We warmed to each other almost at once. He was amusing, kind and smart. He was in the scholarship set with me, and was even in the same dormitory – at least for that first term. The fact that he was good-looking didn't do any harm either. Not that I thought of him in that way. In fact I didn't think of anyone, of either sex, in that way. Not then. Although with hindsight I suppose maybe I should have noticed that I was interested in looking at other boys' bodies in the showers. But then, every boy's curious like that, aren't they?

Mark took the time to induct me into the unwritten rules of behaviour that every school has: its customs; its quirks of language; its timetables; who to be wary of; which masters were to be respected, which to be feared….and which to try and avoid. He comforted me when I was homesick – which lasted about a month – and introduced me to his other friends so that right from the start I was rarely left on my own. With Mark I had, in fact, struck gold.

Physically we were opposites; he had blond hair and steely-grey eyes and the body of an athlete. I was dark-haired with brown eyes and the body of…well…not an athlete. About the only thing we had in common physically was that we were the same height; slightly on the tall side for our age. Our personalities were closer; we shared the same sense of humour, the same sense of adventure, and the same sense of mischief – even if Mark was a little bolder than me when it came to putting some of our pranks into practice. It turned out that we were also both avid readers who enjoyed reading the same sort of books and authors. But what I most appreciated about him was that looked out for me. He cheered me up when he could see I was a bit down; he sought me out if I was on my own and he genuinely seemed to enjoy my company – as I did his. And so we became fast friends. By the end of the year, we'd each been out at exeats with the other's family, and I'd even been invited to join Mark for their annual skiing trip in the following Easter holiday.

By twelve, I'd already started to experience the sexual awakening that goes with puberty. I soon discovered the joys of masturbation – and even had a fumbled experience with the boy in the bed next to me in the dormitory. For him, it was a one-off experiment, but for me…well…I'd enjoyed it more than I'd expected. And that worried me. Did it mean I was queer? Not that I knew much more about that than the word itself. It wasn't something that was talked about except in hushed tones, usually accompanied by shakes of the head and mutters of how perverted and unnatural it was.

But, to my horror, as the hormones continued to rage through my body over the coming months, I realised that I was developing feelings for Mark that weren't consistent with just a normal friendship. I found myself looking at him, imagining what his hair and his skin might feel like under my fingers…and waiting to see him emerge from the showers (and being embarrassed by the way my body reacted when I did). And a little voice inside me started telling me that yes, I must be one of 'them'. I must be queer.

And that left me in agony. The way I felt about him made me feel good inside, not bad. And yet it was wrong. Everyone said so. The headmaster had made that perfectly clear in his highly stilted 'talk' that happened as boys entered their final year. Sex was something between a man and a woman once they were married, and homosexuality, he'd said, was against the law of the land, the law of God and the laws of Nature…not to mention the rules of the school. Any boy, he said, found indulging in such wickedness would be publicly beaten in front of the whole school before being expelled.

Most boys had just stifled giggles at the Headmaster's words, but there were quite a few who made their feelings about queers all too obvious afterwards; talking about what they'd do to any poofs and fairies they came across. Although I never heard Mark use that sort of language.

I told myself that my feelings would pass; that they were just a temporary aberration caused by what was happening to my body. But my feelings didn't go away. And by the time I was thirteen they had, indeed, intensified. It wasn't principally a sex thing (not that I can't pretend I didn't often find myself thinking of him when I had a wank), it was much, much more. I craved his company and his approval. I felt slightly jealous when others spent time with him. I felt a silly sense of pride watching him play cricket and hockey, rejoicing with vicarious pleasure when he took a wicket or scored a goal. In short, I was hooked on him in a way I found it increasingly impossible to control.

One or two boys noticed. They started to tease me, asking me how my 'boyfriend' was. I got into a fight about it, and when Mark asked why and I told him, he got very angry. I don't know what he said or did, but the teasing stopped. And when I thanked him he just said, 'You and I are friends, Davey – the best of friends. I don't care what they think, I know there's been nothing like that between us and if I want to spend time with you, and you want to spend time with me, then that's what we'll continue to do. To hell with what anyone thinks.' And he put his arm round my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

I loved that he'd stood up for me, and even if it had been hard to hear him say, in effect, that he didn't feel the same way about me as I did about him, well…what did I expect? Although a little part of me hung onto the hope that 'there's never been anything like that between us' wasn't quite the same as 'there isn't anything like that between us.' Clutching at straws? Maybe. Probably, in fact - but then what does logic have to do with obsession?

Part of me wanted to talk to him about how I felt – we'd come to be very open with each other, about most things (including when, where and how often we beat off) but the subject of sexuality had never come up. Well, in 1965 it didn't. And I certainly wasn't prepared to risk raising it and then finding it had destroyed our friendship – or worse, that he then not only hated me and thought of me as a pervert but told all his friends about me.

I eventually plucked up the courage to broach it with him in a sideways manner that left an escape route open. I asked him one day if he thought any of the boys in the school were queer.

'Statistically, I suppose they must be,' he said, 'but no-one in this place is going to admit to it, are they?'

'I guess not,' I said, noncommittally.

I saw him looking at me. 'You're not queer are you?' he asked.

'No, of course not. Are you?' I replied, with a slightly forced laugh.

'Not as far as I know,' he said with a smile, before adding, 'Let's talk about something more cheerful.' And that was the end of that conversation.

But it was a conversation I replayed in my head time after time. I wish I'd been brave enough to say something other than 'of course not' when he'd asked me if I was queer. Why couldn't I have said 'I honestly don't know', or 'would it bother you if I was'…anything to have kept the discussion open. And 'not as far as I know'? That was hardly a ringing denial on his part was it. What if he was like me. Queer too. What if I'd just been brave enough to…but let's face it; that was just a fantasy. I'd been a coward when I had the chance…and now I couldn't undo what was done.

Then recently things got worse. A lot worse.

I still don't know who was involved, but as I was making my way from the hobbies hall to the main building, a bag was pulled over my head, my arms were pinned behind me, and I was punched and kicked by at least three, maybe, four boys who told me that they knew I was just a disgusting little queer, and that I deserved what I was getting. Of course I denied it. They laughed. 'It's not just you and Mark - whatever he says - 'we've noticed you hanging around the showers, taking ages getting dressed. Enjoying the scenery are you, you little pervert?' A final kick to my groin left me retching on the ground and the last voice I heard as they walked away, laughing, added, 'next time we won't just kick you in the balls, we'll cut them off.'

Mark found me as I was limping back up the stairs to my dorm.

'Jesus, Davey, what's happened?' he said.

At first, I just shook my head. I couldn't tell him. The kindness and concern in his voice had put me on the verge of tears, but I was determined not to cry.

'Come on Davey, it's me, Mark…tell me what happened. You can trust me. Please tell me.'

And he put an arm round my shoulder. And that burst the dam. I started to sob helplessly.

'I got beaten up, Mark. They said I was a queer, that I was getting what I deserved and that next time it would be worse. They threatened to cut my balls off.'

'Fuckers. Who told you that? Who did this to you?'

'I don't know. They put a bag over my head.'

I heard his sharp intake of breath, and then moments later his arms were wrapped tightly around me. I winced with pain.

'Sorry, Davey, I should have thought.'

'S'OK. But my chest hurts. Most of me hurts. A lot.'

'We have to report this, Davey.'

'No, Mark…please? It will only make things worse. Everyone will start saying it…you know what it's like here. I'll be permanently branded as a queer. Please don't tell anyone.'

'But you might have cracked ribs, Davey…and you'll be covered in bruises.'

'I'll be fine. Honest. Please, please don't tell anyone?'

'Well, if you're sure, but…this isn't right, Davey. It isn't right. And why would they think you're queer anyway?'

'It's just bullying, Mark. It's just a name they call anyone they bully. You know how it is. They said…they said that I fancy you and I hang about the showers and…it was all just words to hurt me.'

'Haven't they learned their lesson saying that about you and me? I've sorted them out once and I'll do it again….'

'Please don't Mark. We know it's not true and it'll only make things worse. Reacting will only encourage them. Let's ignore it. Please?'

'If you're really sure that's what you want, Davey….'

'It is.'

And then he pulled me into to him. This time gently and comfortingly. And to my shame I took advantage, snuggling closer into him, inhaling the faint woody smell of whatever deodorant he was wearing. I put my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arms around him, revelling in his warmth, his closeness and the feel of his embrace. I couldn't help myself. And I realised the simple truth…that I loved him. I loved this kind, sweet, beautiful boy.

Which made things so, so much worse. When you can no longer pretend, when the weight of reality descends on you, crushing you, the pain becomes almost too much to bear.

Now, in the aftermath, I make sure, of course, that I'm in and out of the showers like a jack rabbit, but my feelings for Mark just grow ever stronger. The prospect of sharing a room with him, on his own, for a week while we go skiing both thrills and scares me. Any semblance of control over the physical reaction I have whenever I get close to him is almost impossible. And when Little Davey decides to pop up and say 'hello' (which happens almost every time I'm near him), it's all too embarrassingly obvious; nature and puberty have blessed me with what most boys of my age would consider to be something to celebrate, but which is, as a consequence, very awkward to hide when at full mast.

I'm torn between wanting to tell him how I feel on the one hand, albeit at the risk of losing him completely, and protecting my friendship at the cost of suppressing my real feelings on the other. And what if…what if…deep down inside…he feels the same? What if we're both hiding our feelings, saying nothing because we don't want to risk what we already have, when actually we could have the 'so much more' we both really want...yeah, right, get real, I tell myself. What are the chances of Mark being queer too (and, yes, I've now accepted that that's what I must be). What, really, are the chances of my one true friend being part of the same tiny minority as me? Hold on to what you've got, my brain says. You deserve more, my heart replies.

The Easter holidays arrive. Mark's father drives us down to Chamonix. I've never skied before and they've arranged for me to have lessons. Mark's already quite accomplished, but he's always there at the end of my lesson to collect me and shepherd me gently down the slopes as I put what I've learned into practice. And, to my immense surprise, I find that I pick things up quickly – really quickly; skiing is clearly the sport for me. Mark – and his father – are mightily impressed that by the end of the week I am really quite competent and able to join them on some family runs.

The room Mark and I share is comfortable, with two single beds separated by a bedside table. And with the luxury of an en-suite shower room. Mark is entirely uninhibited about stripping off in front of me at bed time, but he's curious about why I either turn my back or wait for him to go into the shower before I take my clothes off.

'Come on Davey, it's not like we haven't seen each other naked at school.'

'Not recently,' I say, without thinking.

He pauses. 'Hmmm…maybe that's right, but why not?'

I blush. 'I seem to get erections at inconvenient moments,' I say, '…all the time, in fact.'

He just laughs. 'We all do…it happens at our age. But I don't think we need to be embarrassed with each other about that. If it happens, it happens. I can understand it might be awkward at school…but with me?'

'I know you're probably right…but…I…well…it's just….'

Mark can see my anguish and, being Mark, he solves the problem. 'Hey Davey. It's fine if that's how you feel, it's no problem. But…are you OK with me still stripping off like I do, or would you rather I didn't?'

'I'm fine with that. And sorry for being stupid.'

'It's not stupid. You're my best friend, Davey, and I wouldn't want you to feel awkward for the world.'

And all I can think about is that I've just missed another chance to have the talk I really want to have with him.

And then the most embarrassing thing in the world happens. The following day I'm in the en-suite taking an early afternoon shower to wash away the considerable sweat that's still clinging to me from my skiing exertions that morning. I'd gone on ahead of Mark while he went to find his parents to tell them that we were heading back to the hotel to shower and change.

In the shower, and thinking how positively edible Mark had looked in his tight-fitting ski suit, I get a full-on erection and decide that some relief will be in order once I've finished drying myself. And so there I am, sitting on the loo, fully aroused, my head back and my hand pumping up and down like a piston, completely unaware of anything except the pleasure that's welling up inside me, when the bathroom door opens and Mark's standing there, eyes wide at the sight that meets him. Time seems to stand still as we both just stare at each other for a moment, before he hurriedly shuts the door.

'Sorry, Davey…I didn't know you were in there…maybe lock the door next time?'

I'm so embarrassed, I wish the ground would just open up and swallow me.

'I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry,' is all I hear myself saying.

'Hey Davey…nothing to be sorry about. We both do it. You know we do.' Then there's a little giggle. 'And if I had one that big I'd certainly be playing with it all the time…is that why you're embarrassed about stripping off at school – and in front of me?'

Despite my shame I can't help but smile.

'Umm…well…maybe that's part of it,' I say.

Things go quiet for a minute. Then he says, 'Is it OK if I come in now?'

'Sure,' I say, having now wrapped a towel around myself.

And Mark opens the door. He's naked. And erect. The first time I've seen him that way. 'I need a shower too,' he says, 'and I figured maybe you'd be less embarrassed if I was in the same state as you…although not quite as impressively, I admit.'

My jaw drops at the sight of him – and I'm immediately rock hard again. As the tent in my towel shows. He smiles.

'And now we're both in the same state, I think we should compare ourselves properly,' he says.

So I drop the towel.

'Fuck,' he says, 'I wasn't imagining it. You're huge.'

'Bigger than average, I guess.'

'Bigger than average? You could do someone a mischief with that.'

And that makes me laugh. And the embarrassment is suddenly gone. We're now just two friends who've seen each other aroused and compared sizes. Mark steps into the shower.

'Umm…don't let me stop you from finishing what you started,' he says.

'I…err…think I might keep that for later. Enjoy your shower.'

And I leave him to it. And I think once again what a wonderful friend he is to have found a sure way to defuse a potentially excruciatingly embarrassing situation and make me feel OK. And I suddenly feel that I can trust him with how I feel. That I can tell him. That he won't hate me if I do – even if he doesn't feel the same way about me.

In bed that night – after we've both stripped off together for the first time before putting on our pajamas – and before turning out the light, I screw up my courage.

'Thanks for being cool about what happened earlier, Mark.'

'Hey, I got to see the biggest stiffy I've ever seen…I feel privileged,' he says with a grin.

'Yes, well…umm…thanks…but what I wanted to say was…' I take a deep breath. 'I really like you, Mark.'

He looks a little puzzled. 'Well, I really like you too, Davey…you know that.'

'No,' I say, 'I mean I really, really , like you….'

'And I really, really like you,' he says softly.

But I'm not sure he's understood what I'm saying…or what I'm trying to say.

'No…no, what I mean…I mean…oh god….I mean that I think I like you as…well…that is…as…more than just a friend…'

My words tail off and just hang there in the silence. Which seems to go on forever. Then he gives a crooked little smile.

'Are you telling me you're queer, Davey? That you fancy me?'

There's an edge to his voice. And suddenly all my bravado deserts me. What have I done? All I can do is hang my head, nod miserably, and wait for the coming storm.

'Please don't hate me,' I mumble, 'I couldn't bear to lose you…as a friend…I mean, I'm sure you don't feel the same way, but I had to tell you, Mark…but please, please don't hate me…the truth is…I…I love you Mark, I love you so much,' and then, tears rolling down my face, I bury my head in my pillow.

I'm scarcely aware of him coming over to my bed and sitting down beside me. But then I feel him lifting me up and wrapping his arms round me.

'Hate you, Davey? I could never hate you. And I think I've known for a while now that you like me, well…in that way. And I'm fine with that, Davey. More than fine.'

He lifts my head up so that my eyes meet his.

He wipes the tears away from my eyes with his thumbs.

He moves his hand to the back of my neck and draws me gently towards him.

I can feel his breath on my face.

And then he kisses me.

Iomfats.org

The New Boy

by c m

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