A Good Little Church Boy

Having been depressed again recently, I thought I would get some more down on the Blog. I stopped having counselling a few months a go, but I found that getting it off my chest did help It's taken me a while to want to do this so here goes.

Church On Sunday

My Father always insisted that we attend Church on Sunday, unless we were away such as the holidays already mentioned. If I was at camp we had a service anyway and if it was Remembrance Sunday or St Georges day, I would attend Church with my Scout troop.

Our local Church was a fairly modern C of E building.. My Father despite his ideas was in no way a Catholic, despite his beliefs about 'sin', but every Sunday, come rain or shine, my Brother and I would put on a tie, sometimes our school uniform, but always in a shirt and trousers and walk to Church. The only time I ever remember being driven was when my mother was alive.

Our Vicar throughout my childhood years was a man called Mr Vincent. He was probably in his late forties as I remember him, dark, greying hair with quite a long-ish bushy beard which could vary in length. Sometimes it was quite long and halfway down his chest. He wasn't fat but more expanded in the waist and when he wasn't wearing his dog collar, he would wear a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows.

The other thing I recall about him was he had terrible dandruff and when he wore his black shirt it would be covered in flakes from his scalp and from his beard. He was never married that I knew of but lived on his own in a large old Vicarage behind overgrown shrubs and trees.

We would usually sit as a family when I was younger, presumably so my Father could keep an eye on us, but later on after my Brother had left home, I would usually be allowed to sit wherever I wanted, with Nathan as his parents went to the same Church, and we would try for the back pews, or at least as far back as decency permitted.

Unless my Father was angry with me or building up to one of his explosions, Nathan and I would meet inside the Church and take a pew together.

I remember nothing of Mr Vincent's sermons, I probably wasn't listening as Nathan and I would whisper to each other and muck about as quietly as possible, always standing when a hymn was called, although perhaps not singing and trying to avoid the gaze of the Vicar as he stood elevated by his pulpit.

Again if my Father was in a good mood, Nathan and I would walk back together, sometimes to his house, sometimes to mine through the park. If his parents were going somewhere without him, there would be opportunity for us to masturbate together in his room.

Masturbation was my  main 'sin' in my teens.

None of this would be possible if my Father was in a bad mood. I would have to sit next to him and make it look like I was paying attention. Of course he knew Mr Vincent quite well. It was he who had performed my Mother's funeral and must have watched us two boys growing up in front of him every Sunday. However until I was 14, my Father had never approached Mr Vincent about my upbringing before.

I think the reason was that my Father's temper and his view that I was becoming uncontrollable were snowballing into something bigger than it actually was. I was usually in fear of my Father and would try to be on my best behaviour most of the time, but this was no good if he was approaching one of his explosions. Whatever I did, he would find fault, eventually culminating in me getting a good hiding!

One Sunday he stayed behind to talk with Mr Vincent and I went off with Nathan as usual. There was nothing unusual about that as he often exchanged pleasantries with him and discussed the wrongs of the world and the youth of that day.

A couple of days afterwards when I arrived home from school, Mr Vincent was in the living room talking with my Father. I greeted him as my manners had taught me to do and I was asked to go to my room whilst they talked some more. I knew then that they were talking about me.

This set me into a panic as I knew my Father was up to something.

After some time there was a knock at my bedroom door and Mr Vincent came in.

He asked me to sit down and as there was only my desk chair, he had to sit on my bed which I recall I wasn't very happy about. It made me feel uncomfortable.

My Father had indeed told him all about how 'sinful' I was and when Mr Vincent mentioned the 'M' word I wanted to curl up and die with embarrassment. He also mentioned about evil forces at work and I wonder now if my Father had referred to the strange goings on in the house at the time.

Boys Brigade was suggested by Mr Vincent

He suggested two things. Firstly that I join the Boys Brigade which was run by himself and a couple of other people in association with the Church. In fact, they were always present at Remembrance Sunday marches and such and I knew a couple of boys within the BB who went to my school.

Secondly, that I come over to his house on Saturday mornings for some personal tuition and Bible study with him. He would set me some reading and perhaps an essay each week and then we would discuss various aspects of the passages included.

At this, my heart just sank as I thought my Father had done this to prevent me from going to Football practice on Saturday mornings. I felt he was just trying to get back at me and stop me from having a life. On top of all that, I had a lot of homework to do most evenings and I couldn't see how on earth I was going to have time to write essays on the Bible as well.

After he had gone I stayed in my room sulking until my Father came in and said that he had agreed with Mr Vincent's ideas all except the Boys Brigade and the only reason for that was that he would have to fork out for a whole new uniform and there was no way he was going to do that!

It was just as well as I was happy in the Scouts and all my mates were there and I didn't want to leave. In fact I had always thought that I would stay on into the Venture Scouts and beyond and maybe even become a leader myself.

I sulked in my room.......

When the next Sunday came round, Mr Vincent asked to to come into the vestry with him and gave me some reading to do and some questions to answer. The following Saturday, I was to go to the Vicarage at 9:30 with my work and we would see how it went from there.

I hated reading the Bible and the passages I was given were uninteresting and dull. However I duly did the work set and turned up on time. It was a huge old house that smelt very musty and was very untidy. Maybe he didn't have a housekeeper? I never knew.

In actual fact, he came over as kindly and understanding. I think my Father must have painted a picture of me being unruly, wilful and disobedient, which I wasn't and when Mr Vincent realise this, he was well disposed towards me. He embarrassed me by talking about onanism and how I felt about it. I think he understood all boys did it, but of course, I was doing it with Nathan as well which was a definite no, no!

What actually happened was that after a few months, the Saturday sessions got further apart as he realised he couldn't do anything for me until they eventually stopped altogether. Nothing was ever said about not coming. He had better things to do with his time and so did I.

I only ever went to one Boys Brigade meeting, in my School uniform, before that idea was dropped on it's head as well. I stayed with the Scouts until I was nearly 17.

A Haunted House?

The house we lived in whilst my Father was in the Army was married accommodation rented from the Forces. This was a two bedroom semi and it was while living here that I first saw 'the ghost' or whatever it was.

I remember I was seven years old and sharing a bedroom with my brother. Our two beds were on either side of the room with mine facing the door about 3 foot from the bottom end of my bed. The door onto the landing was slightly open as was usual. This allowed some light to shine through from the hallway at night. My Father usually turned the landing light off when he retired to bed.

On this particular night I was awakened suddenly and on looking around, I noticed that the door was wide open and framed in the doorway was a dark human shape. My first thought was that it was my Father standing there, but there was something about the shape that told me it wasn't him. It just didn't have his outline. When I realised this I began to feel afraid, thinking it might be a burglar and not being able to take my eyes off it. I just stood there and although I could see no face, I felt it was looking right at me and barely six foot from my head.

I don't know how long this went on for, but it seemed a long time, when slowly, it started to move into the room. I didn't walk, it just sort of moved and I knew at that point it was supernatural.

I was paralysed with fear and wanted to call to my Brother who I could hear breathing in the next bed, but something stopped me from using my voice. As it drew closer, I thought the best thing to do was pray and I started saying the Lord's Prayer over in my head. All at once, I found the strength to move and hid back down under my sheets, still saying the Lord's Prayer and still terrified that it would grab me. Nothing happened!

After about half an hour or so, I peeped out from underneath and could see nothing at all. On looking further, I could see that the door was still open, but the room was empty so I knew I hadn't been dreaming. I leapt out of bed and pushed the door closed as quickly as I could, lest the 'thing' was still on the landing and meant to grab me.

Eventually my fear subsided and I fell asleep.

When I told my Brother about it the next morning, he didn't laugh but said he too had seen the shape before and suspected it had been our Mother, who died less that 18 months before that incident. I wasn't so sure as the shape didn't resemble her either. Why would she come and give me a fright like that if it was her?

After that, strange things began to happen, usually minor, except that my Father would blame us for them.

Objects would go 'missing' in that they were not where they had been left and could not be located when required. I remember a small china cat that stood on the mantle piece undisturbed for years went missing at one point. No one had been near it as far as I knew but it was special because it had belonged to my Mother. One day it was simply not there anymore.

I asked Luke who denied all knowledge of its whereabouts, but I had to be more careful of enquiring to my Father as I knew he would suspect we had broken it. It took him about 3 days to realise it was gone and sure enough we were interrogated by him. I knew then it was not him as he was a very moral person who would have been angry with himself if he had broken it. We got the usual line “If I find out you two are lying to me........” as a warning. The cat was never found.

We moved out of the married accomodation within a couple of years of the strange figure appearing and my Father rented a bungalow with two bedrooms. Luke and I had a bedroom at the back of the house whilst my Father slept at the front. The bathroom was between these two bedrooms. Down the side of the house was a path that led from the front garden to the back. This side of the house was where the two bedrooms were located.

I don't know if ghosts can move house with a person, but the strange things seemed to follow us there.

Often at night I would hear footsteps walking down the paved path that ran along the side of the bungalow. There was no window on that wall in either room but I had two, one of which was just after the corner of the building and anyone coming into the back garden would have to pass this. I never saw anyone coming round the corner although the footsteps would continue until it seemed they reached the lawn. I remember the step was purposeful and heavy enough to be a man in shoes and I would hear them at least once a month if not more.

Another incident I wrote about in my diary occurred one Saturday evening. My Brother, who was about 14 at the time and I were watching the 'Generation Game' on TV. My Father came in and told Luke to go and do the washing up (my Father made sure we each had our chores to do) and Luke asked if he could see the end of the programme. My Father being who he was told him he had go and do it straight away and started to walk out of the living room.

Suddenly a smooth round stone shot across the room and struck my Father on the shoulder from behind with quite a force!

I don't know where it had come from, but it was the corner of the room where the TV stood. I didn't see it start but Luke could certainly not have thrown it as he was sitting on the other side of the room, near the door and it was travelling towards him. I distinctly saw it whizz past me before hitting my Father, who assumed it had been Luke. He flew back into the room and belted him round the head a few times. Even me telling him it couldn't have been Luke earned me a back hander as well! Luke was carted off to the bedroom and thrashed for something he didn't do that night. I know because I saw it!

On walking into the kitchen one day, I discovered the room was filled with a smoke-like substance. My first thought was that there was a fire, but the oven and cooker were not on. We didn't have the kind of electrical appliances that you do now, so no toaster, nor even an electric kettle. I stupidly opened the window to let the smoke out, which could have been very dangerous allowing air to get to the source of heat. I never discovered what had caused the smoke. Nothing was ever found that was burnt.

Most disturbing of all was after my Brother had left home and I slept alone in the back bedroom. I used to hear a 'shuffling' sound outside my door as if someone in slippers were pacing about. The footsteps were slow and heavy like they had difficulty in walking or were elderly. The house had previously belonged to an elderly man who had died. I was too scared to open my door and look out and I never did. This went on for some years and seemed to increase in intensity at certain times of the month. I would hear it two or even three times a week at its peak.

Even worse was a distinct 'mumbling' that began to accompany the footsteps. I could never make out any words as they were too 'distant' even if I listened at the door. It was like someone had the radio on in another room.

Also surprising was that my Father, who was asleep only at the other end of the corridor, never heard, or never mentioned the noises to me. If I was awoken by them, why wasn't he?

I woke up one night, freezing because my sheets and blanket had all been pulled off the bed and were lying on the floor. This was at the foot of the bed and they had been securely tucked under the matress when I went to sleep, so I don't see how my movements could have caused me to kick them off. Afterwards this began to happen on a regular basis, but never on the same nights as the shuffling man noises.

Once whilst lying in in bed at night, I started to feel horny, getting an erection, I began to rub my pyjamas over my cock. I knew it would be difficult to cum but I was enjoying the sensation anyway. As I played, I gradually became aware of a noise that sounded like breathing from somewhere in the room. At first I thought it was the sound of me moving my hand but when I stopped, the sound continued. It was the distinct sound of someone breathing through their nose from somewhere in the room, but I could see nothing.

I lost my erection pretty quickly after that as I was petrified!

On at least 3 occasions over the later years I lived there, I distinctly heard a man's voice call my name. Twice this occurred in the early hours of the morning and woke me up. It could have been a dream but I also heard the same voice whilst I was in the kitchen one afternoon. It was the sort of voice that was summoning me to come to another room, an inquiry for my attention. I was quite alone in the house that day and it definitely was not my Father's voice calling.

Once I discovered a ball of screwed up paper alight in the middle of the bathroom floor! I had just entered the room to use the toilet and there it was, almost as if someone had just put a match to it that second. One side if it was burning and as I watched in astonishment, the flame spread all over it. Fortunately being in the bathroom I was able to tip water on it and douse the flame. My Father was in his bedroom at the time and as far as I know, he had not been to the bathroom for some time before then.

I had been bought a dark brown nylon shirt one Christmas by my Father (he always gave us clothes, socks or pyjamas). I didn't like this particular shirt as it was quite 'see through' and I was very self conscious and used to wear a vest underneath. I was made to wear this shirt for Church quite a lot.

One day, whilst going through my wardrobe, I discovered that this shirt had a hole about the size of a golf ball burnt into the tail. I knew it was burnt and not just torn as the nylon was melted at the edges. How this could possibly have happened I do not know as the tail would have been tucked into my trousers when I last wore it. We didn't have any radiators that I could have burnt it on and No one was living in the house except me and my Father at the time.

I knew he would kill me if he found out. The shirt was only a few months old at the time. As the tail was always in my trousers, he wouldn't know if I was wearing it, but hanging on the line he would have seen it. He also used to go through my clothes and pockets so I had to keep it well hidden from him. I tried sewing it but of course it never looked the same and eventually he found out. He went mad accusing me of smoking and punished me, again for something I didn't do deliberately!

One more thing I have just remembered whilst writing this blog. One day whilst my Brother was still at home, my Father having just been in his bedroom came flying out in a rage and dragged both of us in there. On the ceiling, up in the corner of the chimney breast was some tiny writing. It looked as if it had been written in a red biro and consisted, I later found out, of language my Brother and I would not have used in front on my Father. It was situated in a place where you would have had to move his dressing table and stand on a chair to get to it and was in a childish hand.

He, of course demanded to know which of us had done it and as usual, denying any involvement did us no good. We were both soundly beaten and made to clean it off.

Imagine my horror then when a week or so later, being in my Father's room when he was out, I noticed more writing behind his dressing table mirror on the chimney breast wall. I was sure that it had not been there previously and I was also sure that Luke had not done it. I cleaned it off before my Father came home and fortunately it didn't happen again to my knowledge.

It was almost as if the ghost was trying to get me into trouble by burning things or leaving things that my Father would find and blame me for it. I don't know how much stuff my Father saw when I wasn't around but he would go mad at us if he thought we had done something like moved his keys when they couldn't be found. Then there was the stone throwing incident.

It was deliberately thrown to hit my Father which it did and of course Luke was punished for it, but neither of us threw it at him, or indeed would have dared because of the consequences.

After I left home, I did see and hear strange things whilst I was living at the hotel and also in my various bedsits and other accommodations. As time went on, they became less frequent until they virtually stopped altogether when I was about 30 years old.  I still see people from time to time.

The Perils of Masturbation

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Carry On Camping

Apart from those two Summer holidays, the only other times I was able to go away was at Scout camp for a week in the Summer Holidays. I have already related an experience at one of these camps when I was fifteen. I can't remember when the first time I went away was. We were not allowed to stay at camp overnight before the age of about 11 anyway so if it was very far, I probably wouldn't have gone but for the first couple of  Camps I attended, Luke was there as well.

The only problem was with money so tight, my Father wouldn't pay unless we could afford it ourselves with what money we had saved. That was fine for Luke as he had a paper round in the mornings. I didn't get one myself until I was thirteen. Even on this meagre sum, my Father insisted that some of the money, a third, went towards the housekeeping. As I recall that meant about a pound a week was lost.

In order for me to go to camp one year, which I was desperate to do, I had to get some money together. I resorted to lies and deception for which I still feel guilty.

 Bob-A-Job week, cleaning shoes!

It was the usual thing for Scouts to do jobs for money in the 70's. They would call this 'Bob-A-Job' week in which the money paid for the service would be collected by the troop and given to charity.

One year, although it was not the set week, I went out in my uniform knocking on doors and asking if they had any jobs that needed doing. My plan was to keep the money that I had earned and put it towards the cost of the summer camp, which was wicked of me.

All went well, until I unfortunately got an elderly man who it seemed, was wise to exactly when the allotted week would be and asked some awkward questions about why I was doing it now. My quick thinking saved me as I told him that I would be unable to do the actual week as I was on holiday so I was doing my share now. I am not sure if he was convinced as he handed me the fork to dig his garden and I kept seeing him eyeing me suspiciously from his kitchen window. However, when the job was done, which took a couple of hours, he duly paid the money and offered to show me his collection of football programmes!

This was another occasion, when I lay awake wondering if he had contacted my Troop to confirm my story and if I would be taken to task the following Wednesday when I got to Scouts.

My Father hated a thieving and lying and several times I had been punished for doing both. I am sure he couldn't really tell if I was lying to him or not as he would always disbelieve me even when I was telling the truth! Perhaps that was just his excuse to give me a whipping anyway?

 I was not a good liar, my Father always knew.

When the camp week came, I would organise all my kit into an orange rucksack. There was no light weight camping in those days. My rolled up brown sleeping bag weighed a ton and I would go plodding off down the road in my uniform with my patterned socks and sandals on my feet.

The Scout hut, tents, camping gear and boys all had a very distinctive smell. I am not sure what it was but if I smell it now, it takes me right back to those times.

It may have been the canvas or just the unwashed youth themselves but once smelt, it is never forgotten, a kind of musty smell.

Usually, the tents we had were of varying sizes sleeping two or four scouts. The leaders in their own tents. At my very first camp, I shared with my Brother but after that, it could be anyone although you would try to get in with your friends.

Sometimes we would be split up by the Leaders in order to avoid too much larking about.

Once I remember being in a tent with three other lads, one of whom was a boy called Andrew. We had the usual laughs and conversations that lads do when freed from the restraints of the Family well into the night. We must have made so much noise that one of the Leaders, Mr Shirfield, angrily burst into our tent and told Andrew to get his stuff as he would be spending the night with him. The rest of us were told to get to sleep without another sound or else which we did. Andrew had apparently been singled out because it was his voice that Mr Shirfield could hear above all others. He came back the following morning having spent the night on the floor next to Mr Shirfield's camp bed not daring to even breath to heavily!

 The best camp site we went to was in the New Forest which had purpose built toilets and showers so at least you could keep yourself clean and showering was encouraged in my Baptist run troop as 'cleanliness is next to Godliness' we were told.

The showers were, however invariably cold and not very inviting standing on wet concrete trying to dry yourself.

There were many different troops at that particular campsite which was very large and probably full to capacity on the two occasions I was there.

There were also Sea Scouts and Air Cadets as I recall and on Sunday morning the whole camp would get together for an open air Church service in the centre of the camp around the flag pole. The sound of a couple of hundred boys all trying to sing a hymn, all out of time and mostly out of tune was not pleasing. One of the attending leaders, probably a Minister of some denomination would conduct the service which would have a message of goodwill and friendship mixed in somewhere.

Scouts just wanna  have fun.

We did feel like we were one unit as well. If ever I have felt the presecence of God or whatever God means, it was probably one of those Sunday mornings at camp and not in a drafty church pew where I spent most of my Sunday mornings.

However,all we wanted to do as boys was to get it over with and get on with that days planned activities. More often than not these would be 'home grown' such a s nature rambles, night hikes and building camps as there was a lot of acreage surrounding the campsite in the New Forest and of course much of the woods to explore. Occasionally we would be treated to something really exciting such as canoeing.

The most frightening activity for me was the 'Hare and Hounds' a kind of paper chase where one lad would have to run off with some minutes in advance and leaving some sort of clue, usually in the form of paper or rice to indicate his trail.

The other Scouts would chase after, the 'Hounds' as they were known and try to catch up with the lead boy. I say this was frightening for me because once I was chosen as the Hare which seemed like a good idea at the time, but I soon realised that keeping ahead was not as easy as it seemed. Having recently read 'Lord of the Flies' at school all I could picture was the pig hunt leading to the death of one of the boys and soon I was beginning to panic and the fear adrenalin was rushing through my body! To make matters worse, I tripped and fell, tearing the knee out of my Scout uniform trousers and badly scraping myself. That made me even slower and when I arrived back at the camp, I practically collapsed in front of Mr Shirfield like a gibbering wreck, hotly followed by the rest of my troop.

To cap it all my Father was not pleased at me wrecking my trousers which had to be darned as a new pair could not be afforded, but I paid in full for that! Even now I have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach if I see a man hunt of the television and I can't watch the film version of 'Lord of the Flies'!

 However, the best time of all was when we had our free time just to go off and do whatever we wanted, within reason, for an hour or two. We were free from the restrictions of home and for me at least, I didn't have to ask permission before heading off into the woods.

Freetime!

At a later camp when I was fifteen, I shared at tent with Andrew alone and it has to be said, he was responsible for leading me astray and teaching me bad habits during that week.

He had brought with him some 'nude' playing cards which was somewhat risky. He would go through the whole pack telling me about which girls he fancied and ranking them in order of preference, size of tits etc. and then I would do my comparison on who I fancied and why, not unlike 'Top Trumps' with marks out of ten.

Andrew swore he had had a hand job from a girl at school but as he was a bit of a bragger, I didn't believe him. However his stories about spying on his step sister whilst she was in the shower were more likely knowing him. All these things used to fuel my bate and give me lusty thoughts of a girl I had never met, soaping herself. The kind of illicit thoughts my Father was trying to prevent..

Spying on Sister in the shower.









He was the one that also told me how to masturbate without detection in bed.

That old phrase 'hands off cocks and n with socks' has never seemed more apt when he revealed to me that when he felt like a wank, he would put a sock over his dick and continue to masturbate, eventually ejaculating inside it. The job done, there would be no mess on the bedsheets and the sock could easily be put out to wash with the semen securely inside. There was no worry about being found out..

Of course I put this to good use at home and found it worked very well provided it was me that took the washing to the laundrette as the socks tended to go hard with the semen when dried out and I am sure my Father would have been wise to it.

 Hands off cocks and on with socks!

He was responsible for a lot of young squaddies who were probably all as horny as me. If he was aware of this trick, and Army Sergeants usually are wise to a thing or two, I am sure he would have caught me out.

I remember Andrew having a wank in his sleeping bag one night when he thought I was asleep, presumably with sock in place. We all wore pyjamas when camping in those days! The unmistakable sound of gentle rubbing and breathing getting slightly heavier cannot be mistaken. I have done it myself in a hostel dormitory full of other  lads. You are desperate for a wank but are just as desperate not to be heard for the sake of embarrassing yourself!

I wasn't going to have a wank in front of Andrew. He was far too straight to suggest mutual masturbation and so I resorted to the toilet block and as I have already told, I was caught out by one of the scout leaders.

He also told me he could make himself cum just by squeezing his dick between his legs and this was a trick he used when he was at school in a boring lesson. I had my doubts. Not about the trick, but about doing it at school as I couldn't imagine his cum filled underpants soaking through to his trousers would go un-noticed for long. This was how he assured me, he had had his hand job. It was under the desk from a girl in his class who sat next to him. I can't see that he would get away with cumming all over his shoes without being noticed either. What a liar he was.

Nylon Pyjamas, great for life saving!

Talking of pyjamas, we would sometimes get taken to the swimming pool on a Wednesday night and one of our badges involved life saving techniques. For this you needed your pyjamas which acted as clothing and you had to take them off whilst in the water. Then, try and fill  them with air and tie up the  leg ends to use as a floatation device. Nylon pyjamas were the best for this sort of thing as they were practically dry by the time you got home, so I was  ahead of the rest in that respect, especially as I probably had to wear them that night.

That was to be my last Scout camp. By the following Autumn I would be sixteen and my Father had told me I was to spend the Summer working to pay my way before I was old enough to go into the army. I had already worked extremely hard to pass my examinations and was looking forward to a little break but it was not to be whilst I was living under his roof.

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

I sometimes think when I am particularly depressed that the incident of December 1976 and the severe thrashings my Father used to give me were all due to my sexual activities.

My punishments were frequent when I was in my teens.



I know my Father was punishing me for wrong doing, although sometimes it was in no way justified, what I mean is some sort of divine punishment. If God was looking down on me, was he trying to get his message across by showing me that I would come to physical pain, a hell on earth, if I didn't stop my personal self abuse?

It is these sort of thought that can lead me onto a downward spiral and I start to think that it may be to late to absolve myself.
Some time has passed now since I told my secret and the world has not ended. I feel better for getting it off my chest!

If I try and think of a time when I was happy during my childhood, it would certainly be when I was away from my Father, at Scout camp. It may have only been for a week in the Summer but it gave me a sense of freedom. A weight was definitely lifted from my shoulders during those times.

I was happy in the scouts.






We had few holidays when I was a child. I can recall going away twice.

The first time was before my Mother passed away. My Father had rented a static caravan in Devon near Oakhampton. This was in about 1967.

It was very basic with no running water and was situated in a meadow behind a large old Farmhouse with the pig sty at one end and trees and fields at the other.

I was about six at the time and my Brother and I would roam the fields and woods exploring together. Occasional family trips to the beach at Bude would occur and if lucky we would have an Ice cream.

I have mixed memories of that that holiday, some good ones because of the happy time I spent with my Brother, of sunny beaches and salt water. My Mother was still well as far as I could remember but it was to be our last holiday as a family.

I have a distinct memory of being chased around the field by my Father because I had angered him over something. Being small, he easily caught me and I was dragged screaming back to the caravan for punishment. I also remember standing outside a supermarket and a man came out and asked me, politely, not to lean against the glass window. As soon as he was gone, I received a swift back hander from my Father which took me by surprise and knocked me to the floor, presumably because he had been embarrassed in front of the store manager.

Even in those days I would masturbate and I would go off alone and swing in a gate or other convenient post, rubbing my groin up against the wood for pleasure.

Once, my Brother coming across me suddenly asked me what I was doing and I embarrassedly told him I was just 'swinging'. A few days later I found him doing exactly the same thing in the same spot. Whether it worked for him of not I don't know, he didn't tell me for sure, but I suspect he knew there was something more to my 'swinging'.

Aside from my Scout camps, which I was not allowed to go to every year for lack of funds, that was our last Holiday, until I was in my mid teens.

My Father had decided that he wanted to go away for a week. My Brother by that time was in the Navy and as there was no way I would be left alone at home, I had to go with him, much to my reluctance as we were not getting on at all by this stage.

Surprisingly, he left me to my own devices for the whole week whilst he did his thing. Again, he had hired a caravan for the week near Tintagel in Cornwall. This one was on an actual campsite of about fifty static vans and there was a shop and social club along with toilet and shower blocks.

The only rules were I had to be in bed for ten o clock at night and I was not to get into any trouble. However, trouble has seemed to follow me throughout my life whatever I do!

My Father even gave me some money to buy some food and I lived for the week on Cornish pasties and orangeade with a box of rice crispies for breakfast.

My Father's aim for that week was to chat up as many women as he could and spend his evenings with them in the social club. I don't know if he ever got his leg over, hopefully not as he was very strict about matters like sex before marriage and was always trying to catch me out for masturbating, so it would have made him something of a hypocrite!

I spent most of my time walking into Tintagel or exploring the beach and the cliffs

It was on one of my rambles that I found a small cave in a secluded cove. There at the back was the first condom I had ever seen, used of course, but I picked it up and examined it closely. The thought of some young couple coming there specifically to have sex was a big turn on and I ended up having a wank alone there several times that week.

I went back to the cave almost every day and sometimes later in the evening to see if I could catch anyone at it.

One time the cave was filled with some lads, older than me having a lark. I was very wary of groups of youths in those days, not having a great deal of self confidence as I was regularly bullied at school and something of a loner, so I crept away silently. They emerged from the cave as I was walking back up the path and on seeing me, started calling. I don’t know if they wanted me to come back or if they were jeering at me. I must have looked very un-cool in my nylon shirt, shorts and sandals anyway. I just looked back and didn't respond. Fortunately they didn't follow me.

The campsite toilets were clean enough, but that didn't stop the walls being written on with lewd comments  and usually drawings of some large penis or female genitalia. There would be suggestions of wanting to meet at a a certain time for sex and whole paragraphs of dirty stories. Some of this was quite a turn on for me and I would lock the cubicle door and stand reading then with my penis in my hand, wanking.

Most of this graffitti was cleaned away soon after it was written, but one afternoon I visited the toilets and walked into a cubicle where someone had had a wank and cum all over the toilet seat and floor. I quickly relieved myself and on leaving the cubicle, practically bumped into the man who was coming in to clean. As I was walking back up the roadway, I looked back to see him standing in the doorway scowling at me. I assume he thought it had been me that had made such a mess, but it wasn't. I just got the blame!

This kind of toilet literature has been a fascination for me ever since and as I have spent quite a lot of time hanging around public toilets. I have had plenty of opportunity to read it. I have even added to it sometimes with suggestions of my own and it has been a great source of stimulus for me as well.

That week I met a girl on the beach one day, her name was Natalie and we got chatting about things. She was on holiday with her parents and younger sister and staying in the same campsite. We spent sometime chatting about this and that under the watchful gaze of her Father as she was about the same age as me and had a very developed chest as I recall!

We became friends for a few days and I even took her to see the cave I had found where she kissed me full on the mouth which was quite a surprise!

She made no judgements about my clothes or hair and when I told her about the regimes I was living under with my Father, she was even sympathetic and understanding.

I thought she may be up for it, especially as she told me I was to come to her caravan in the evening as her Parents would be going to the social club and leaving her and her sister in to go to bed by themselves.

I still had a couple of hours before I was supposed to be in bed as It was only eight o clock when I made my over to her caravan.

She said her sister was in bed and we sat down and chatted for a bit, keeping quiet so as not to disturb the sleeper. She had a bottle of lemonade into which she had tipped some of her Father’s whiskey and topped his bottle up with some water so he wouldn’t notice.

Even now I am never sure how someone who drinks whiskey cannot notice when it has been watered down!

This was not the best combination of drinks to be sure, but it was alcohol and we didn’t care!

After lots of chatting she got back into kissing me and I spent a lot of time feeling under her top. This snogging went on for some time and developed further into some heavy petting. The whole thing came to a head when her little sister appeared on the scene and wanted to know what we were doing. She insisted Natalie was not allowed to have boys in the caravan and that if she didn't get rid of me straight away, she would tell her Dad.

Of course Natalie protested and tried to get her to go back to bed but she was having none of it. When little sis also saw we were drinking alcohol she went into a right strop and Natalie suggested I leave as she was making so much noise, it would surely get someone who was passing to knock on the door.

I left with a boner straining to get out of my trousers and fearing the Natalie's Dad would surely be round as soon as he was told of the situation. After all he had seen me at the beach for the last couple of days, so I would be the main culprit.

As I lay in bed I could think of nothing else but that knock at the door, but it never came, so whether she managed to clam her sister, I never found out as I spent the next day avoiding the beach and Natalie and the following day was Saturday and my Father and I went home. I never saw her again but have often wondered what my first time with her would have been like.

Paying for My Sins

I have had to think long and hard about this post. I am currently having some councelling about my depression and that is part of the reason I started this blog. I was told it would be a good idea to write down some of my life and clear the air.

I have never told anyone about this incident before I told my Councellor who was very un-critical about the whole thing. My Brother doesn't know and neither do any of my friends or work colleagues. I have thought it was always better to keep it a secret. Also, thinking back, I wonder if I ever gave any consent for the actions which took place at that time or if it was in some way, my fault. It all happened a long time ago and I was in some ways lacking in confidence and quite naïve, not about sex as such, but about where it might lead maybe? Also I don't want to sensationalise the incident or cover the text with illustrations to trivialise the whole thing. There have been some new molestation stories in the news today and I don't want to trivialise anybody else's pain.
I had previously had sex with an older man, but this incident was very different.

This naivety got me into trouble around Christmas 1976. My Brother was stationed at Plymouth and asked me if I thought my Father would let me go down and stay with him for a few days. As our relationship was very poor by then, I think my Father was glad to see the back of me and agreed quite easily.

I had no money and certainly couldn't ask for any. As soon as the School holidays started, I packed my rucksack and started off hitching. It was cold but dry and things didn't start very well and I had to walk most of the way to the motorway which took me several hours.

I got a lift from a family going to Wales  almost as far as the M5 but by this time it was dark and getting late and I stood for sometime at the services getting colder. I only had a raincoat for warmth! Eventually a lorry pulled over and asked me where I was going and he seemed to be going in the same direction so I got in. I wasn't really sure where I was going having only just glanced at a map to see where Plymouth was.

I was cold and tired and his cab was inviting. The driver was a big, balding bloke with a beard and he asked me lots of questions about where I was from. I think he assumed I was a sailor as I was headed to Plymouth. He said he could take me most of the way. He seemed pleasant enough. After an hour or so, the conversation waned and I began to nod my head, feeling drowsy with the motion of the Lorry. He suggested I climb into the sleeping compartment at the back of the cab which I thanked him for. There was his bed at the back with a rather grubby sleeping bag and pillow, but by that time I didn't care. The cab was warm and cosy compared to outside. I took off my shoes and lay on top of his sleeping bag.

The next thing I knew, he was on top of me, pulling my trousers and pants down. I don't know how long I had been asleep but the lorry had stopped and there was just the light from the cab to see by. I asked him what he was doing and he said something like “You have to pay for your fare!” I can't remember as it was a long time ago and I never recorded any details in my diary.

I struggled with him as much as I could but it is not easy with something like twenty stone of man on top of you in a confined space. There was something in me that said I should be doing as this man says, maybe because of having to do exactly as I was told at home all the time. maybe because I thought it would be easier giving him what he wanted. I just don't know.

When I wouldn't stop struggling, he produced a flick knife and held it to my throat telling me that If I didn't stop he would slit my throat. I never thought of shouting and I honestly believed he would have cut me.

I maybe just assumed that we were miles from any where, which we were, unknown to me at the time.
I will never forget the look in his eyes.

He raped me three times.

 

When he was done he threw me out of the lorry.

It was freezing cold and I had to find my shoes which he had hurled as far into the darkness as he could. While I was asleep he must have gone through my rucksack and taken the few sandwiches and my torch I had, presumably looking for money. It was pitch black and I had no idea where I was. I couldn't see any lights. I had to climb a fence to find my shoes which were in a field. All I had on was a vest, a thin nylon shirt and a  raincoat which I tore climbing the fence on the wire. On top of all this I was petrified he would come back for me. I also thought I was bleeding from my rectum which added to my distress.

After what seemed like a long time, I found my shoes. I couldn't feel my feet  and my socks were soaking but I began following the road in the direction I thought he had driven. Why? Because I reasoned the he was heading towards Plymouth and that  was where I wanted to go.

At some time during the night, it may have been early morning I saw the lights of a car coming towards me and hid in the hedge, just in case it was his lorry. I eventually came to a village and spent the rest of the night in a bus shelter. I think it was somewhere in Somerset.

In the morning a local Farmer, up early, saw me and took pity on me and gave me some warm tea from his flask. I asked him the way to the Motorway, discovering we were about ten miles away. I had no alternative but to walk, no way of phoning my Brother and I certainly couldn't go home. I was frightened of accepting another lift from a lorry driver but again, I had no alternative as no-one else seemed to stop for me.

I eventually got to Plymouth late that evening, hungry, tired and weepy. I think the shock had finally got to me.

When Luke saw the state of me, he wanted to know what had happened. I couldn't tell him or anyone despite the fact we were very close in those days.

I was very glad to find that I hadn't lost any blood at all and in fact it was probably that man's semen. I felt ashamed with myself and whilst having a hot bath, I suddenly started crying my eyes out prompting Luke to ask me gain what was wrong.

Since that day, I have often seen men that resemble the guy who picked me up. I have no idea what he would look like now, even if he is still alive, but I have a little fear in the bottom of my stomach whenever I see someone like him in the street or driving a lorry. My main emotion at the time was guilt, I thought I had done something wrong. Later I became very angry and now I have put it down to  a bad experience.

The final blow came when I got back home and my Father on discovering I had torn my raincoat, thrashed me severely. But there it is, my guilty secret for what it is worth. It all happened a long time ago.

Clothes Maketh The Man

My clothes had a lot to do with how I was perceived at school. I was seen as a bit of a 'nerd' because of the way I dressed and because of my haircut which was very short for the fashion of the time.

I was called all sorts of names by certain boys, bullied and often ended up in fights when I could take no more. My Father would be angry with me if I arrived home with bruises and the odd black eye. I was often punished for getting into scrapes as if it was my fault for starting them, but this was just another excuse for my Father use his stick on me.

We never had much money. My Mother died when I was young and my Father who worked full-time in the Army had two boys to bring up. We had to survive on his money. We had little family, an Uncle in Southampton, no Grandparents, there was simply no-one to give support to my Father's income.

He always bought all our clothes and continued to do so until I left home at 17.

One of the less expensive and widely used materials of the late 60's and early 70's was nylon and this fibre could be weaved into all kinds of clothing which was durable, hard wearing and easily laundered.

A typical  100% nylon shirt

I started at primary school with a grey nylon school shirt, shorts and long grey nylon socks which was pretty standard uniform at the time. However, I was somewhat self concious as my grey shirt was practically see-through. Fortunately I did sometimes wear a vest underneath to hide my modesty.

Grey nylon school shirts were 
commonly worn at that time

My Father also bought nylon underwear, vests and pants, nylon pyjamas and nylon bedsheets. Nylon was cheaper than cotton at the time and it also had the quality when washed of being drip dry with no need to iron.

Most of the family shirts could be washed out by hand in the sink. Larger sheets and underwear would usually need to be taken to the Laundrette and this fell to me or my Brother as part of our chores once every couple of weeks.

For each and every birthday and Christmas, I would be presented with a new shirt, socks or underwear as my gifts. My socks were always the short, patterned nylon type which came in numerous colours. 

Once my Father even bought me a string vest! He had some of these himself, but when worn with a nylon shirt it was easily visible underneath and more suited for the Army or Navy than a thirteen year old lad as I was. It was definitely not the thing to be seen in! I received a lot of verbal and physical abuse form other boys in my school because of my vest which I couldn't hide except by keeping my blazer on. My school shirt was a turquoise/ blue colour and quite thin and I was the only boy in a string vest. Most of my other shirts were dark colours such as brown or navy blue and most nylon seemed to come in these darker shades as I also had brown  or blue sheets and pyjamas at various times. 'Brentford Nylons' was the main shop that my Father would buy bedding and pyjamas from. This was a big supplier chain and I remember going there to try the shirts on but my school shirts came from a local uniform supplier.

I was bullied over my string vest                                    

My Father and Brother were also nylon shirt wearers. I had a lot of hand me downs from my brother's wardrobe as he grew out of his shirts and trousers. Later when Dad joined the Prison Service, he was issued with nylon shirts with his uniform. It really was the wonder fabric of the time. However one thing that used to really annoy me was when he slipped his shoes off whilst watching TV. He would rub his nylon socked feet together until they crackled with static! he seemed oblivious to what he was doing however.

Nylon shirt and string vest, obvious when worn together

I only ever had one pair of shoes, usually plain black leather slip-ons with elasticated sides and these had to make do for at least a year of school and home wear. Aside from this I had my plimsoles for PE and a pair of brown open toed sandals. These three were my only footware. In those days, there was no thought of wearing sandals with bare feet except at the beach. I would never have been allowed to do so anyway, my father would have thought it scruffy and hippie-ish, so my sandals were always worn with my patterned nylon socks! I usually wore them during the summer when I was not at school around the house and for Scouts on a Wednesday night or when we went camping.

Socks and sandals was never a good look

When I moved up to secondary school, I wore a turquoise blue shirt with black trousers, maroon blazer and navy tie which was of the 'knitted' type. The fashion around this time was for flared and high waisted trousers with platform shoes, but my trousers were plain and not flared. School rules would not have let us undo the top button of our shirts or loosen our ties, let alone my Father. He would certainly not have let me go to school without my blazer or my tie hanging loose. He bought me a navy blue ‘crimplene’ raincoat which I had for many years as my only winter coat. Everyone else was wearing those green or blue 'parka' type coats with the wrap around hood. Once I tore the coat of some barbed wire which gave my Father yet another excuse to thump me. It got sewn up again and I had to continue to wear it as another could not be afforded.

As for the Scouts, I had a bottle green nylon uniform shirt worn with a red scarf or 'necker'. The shirt was actually a hand me down from my Brother and had a very shiny appearance which was one of the characteristics of nylon fabric. Although I wasn't the only boy in my troop with a nylon shirt, it certainly made us stand out from the others. I have some photographs from a local newspaper which were taken after we had visited the print offices with the troop. Although in black and white it is obvious I am in a nylon shirt as the camera flash reflects off the shiny shirt!

We visited a newspaper 
printworks with the Scouts

Even when we were small we always had to look smart in a shirt and trousers when at home and always in a tie for Church on Sunday. I never owned a pair of jeans until I could afford them myself and I could choose more what I wanted to wear.

Even now I feel more comfortable in a shirt and tie than I do casual. I guess this is because it was 'safe' when I was wearing smart clothes. I knew my Father wouldn't complain or have reason to berate me. I was obeying his will!

One of my first jobs was as a waiter in a hotel and I was dressed formally for that all day in a bow tie and waistcoat. I have since been in other uniformed services. I  have worked as a Hospital Porter and a Security Guard. Wearing shirt and tie just feels more natural to me. My Father has succeeded in bending me to his will and even after all these years I still possess some nylon shirts and I still wear socks with sandals!