supplicium post mortem

Here is a story from the archives, as a Lol Day prize. On many levels it is cringe-inducing for me, but I think, towards the end, it gets at the huge force that had me and M in its grips. Keep in mind we had been corresponding for just about three weeks when I wrote it. I had no idea I was in love with him, or he with me; and I don’t think I was able to see it even after writing this story. Now, our fates appear glaringly obvious to me, as if writing can tell us things we can’t see with our minds.

I wrote Vice as revenge for the first story Mark wrote me, The Benefit of the Doubt here. Also mentioned is Mark’s story The Fishing Trip, discussed here. Dixon and Tremlett are his friends in The Fishing Trip, Mr. “Big Tim” Harrison is Housemaster in question, and Dr. Malcolm Headmaster.

This is yet another story written before I had ever experienced the cane or any RL play. Trivia: it appears that this is where I acquire my middle name, ha ha!

Vice

© Casey Morgan 1995

1.

MI6 was getting good. After months of failure, they’d finally begun to crack the Finnish anonymous remailer and thus zero in on some chief offenders in their own green and pleasant. A stray pervo in Birmingham, a hoard of terrorists in London, some Wilde imitators at Oxford. But even Morley, who headed the investigation, was surprised to unearth a user at the School. He was familiar with the place. And he knew the master in charge of its computer systems. So, rather than file the appropriate reports, he got on the train and paid a personal visit, in hopes of resolving the situation on the qt.

Mr. Harrison–housemaster and English scholar–was a man of many talents. After his former student had left him, he went directly to the Media Centre. In no time he had traced the account in question: Mark Hastings. Well, who else would it be? So it was that after Vth form English, Big Tim loped across the playing fields to Dr. Malcolm’s house.

“I might have know it.”

“It would seem he’s quite an accomplished documentarian,” Tim added. “I took the liberty of photocopying one or two examples.”

He dropped on the desk something called ‘The Fishing Trip.’

“And this particularly vulgar waste of good paper…”

‘The Benefit of the Doubt’ fell beside its sibling. The remainder had been tucked away in Mr. Harrison’s very secure filing cabinets.

“I suppose he must be summoned, formal interview and the rest of it.” Dr. Malcolm sounded weary. Ever since booking his summer holiday to Tangier, this all too human headmaster had been having difficulty concentrating. In particular, he was fed up with Mark Hastings and was running out of resources to meet him creatively.

“Ever since Hastings came here, he’s done nothing, it seems, but try to get himself beaten.” Tim looked at his friend obliquely.

“Hmm.” Dr. Malcolm stuffed his pipe between his teeth and bit hard. “Perhaps he hasn’t received a sufficiently strong dose.”

“Hmm.” Irony and understatement seethed on the carpet between them, though to an eavesdropper, the words would have fallen flat. These two men understood one another perfectly.

“I believe,” Dr. Malcolm murmured at last, “I know just the thing. Something to ensure he won’t be rushing back for more.”

read the rest of the story here

The dreams don’t stop. Neither does the hope that he’ll be upstairs when I come in the door, that I’ll hear his footsteps clumping along the floorboards and down the spiral stairs. It will be such a relief, as it always is when he comes home. Like stepping into air conditioning from a brutal, New York summer.

People don’t talk about him as much as they used to. Everyone else seems to have repaired the colossal tear in the matrix that his disappearance caused. His job has been filled. It is no longer tasteful to think on him.

I cannot tell you… I cannot tell you—anything. I know…I know. Everyone has part of their life which is now in the past. I am no different from any single person still walking this planet. I don’t like the word unfair. But how come I have to keep living when he didn’t?

The card I gave him on our last anniversary is still in the bedside drawer that used to be his, its message a kind of steganography:

xoxoxo me

h&l&nt & tc4mh, l&h ohbb uhc, h-h, & ont4cdm b/c sagg.

I asked him if he understood, and he read the whole thing confidently aloud: hugs and love and nice things, and the cane for marky, long and hard on his bare bottom, ha-ha, and only nice things for casey because she’s a good girl.

There is no one to talk to this way anymore. Even the dogs don’t get it.

God, help me.

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What is Flash Fiction Friday?

This really was a bumper crop for 3F. Don’t know if it is fall industriousness or the thrill of a hard challenge, but these writers deserve a big hand (won’t say what kind or where) or at the very least nice comments on their blogs. Read on, Macduff!

• Rafi
• Sandy
• Abby
• Nettagyrl
• PapaTomLA

Casey was turning nine, and at each birthday, memory grew fuzzy. If she had once been fifteen, or thirteen, or ten, recollections carried no more authority than a dream. Even if she protested (I’m eleven!), Mr. Prior dismissed such wishful thinking: Don’t be ridiculous. Casey is nine, full stop.

Now that she was nine, Mr. Prior said, she would be old enough for the cane. Only the junior cane, and only if she was very naughty.

I’m not naughty. I’m good! But I don’t care. And anyway, at least I’m too old —

She was not too old, he’d interrupt, for anything. Not too old to have her temperature taken that way, not too old for That Thing, not too old to be put across his knee, and not too old to sit on it afterwards.

Mr. Prior would never be in league with her false maturity, he told her, any more than he would condone her false modesty, false niceness, false anything.

She didn’t see why he bothered so much. He had his real kid to care about, his real kid to buy birthday presents for. Not her.

This notion made its way down the pike almost as often as I’m-too-old, and Mr. Prior afforded it about the same respect. You are my real kid; I love you as if you were my own. He would hold her, at times wiggling, until she gave up, gave out, gave in. Surrendered to a birthday, again nine, again his, still loved.

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What is Flash Fiction Friday?

Read other folks writing this week:

• the marvellous Rafi
• the marvellous PapaTomLA
• the marvellous Nettagyrl
• a warm welcome to the marvellous Graham Grey

He tried to make his muscles un-clench, but it was like moving sandbars with teaspoons: too many muscles, too much tension. His comrades had impressed upon him how much more the cane would hurt if he fought it, just as the prefects waiting for him in the library would slaughter him if, as Antony put it, he brought his infernally awkward self along to the interview. Antony had been right about everything so far. His people were among the Coll’s first, not exactly its founding fathers, but among its founding sons. Antony’s surname could be found on any number of bronze plaques and silver cups in the cases lining Long Corridor. The prefects, Antony explained, itched to demonstrate their power. They would lounge across armchairs in the vaulted-ceiling library, monopolizing the chamber from five o’clock onwards. It was traditional to face prefectorial inquisitions there, the twelve idly flicking through newspapers while you trembled across the vast Persian rug. Whether or not you possessed a valid defense, it would never move a murder of prefects. By the time you received a summons to the library, your arse, as Antony put it, was a fish on their hook, fit only for the fire.

It was tradition, Antony said, for a new band of prefects to make an example of one boy from each form. Their handiwork had been on display in the changing rooms all week. The IIIrd always got it last.

It was going to hurt. He had to relax. Now.

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What is Flash Fiction Friday?

Read other folks writing this week:

• Rafi
• PapaTomLA
• Nettagyrl

w4m – 26/40 – Pen-y-ghent

You pulled me up the last 10 feet of Pen-y-ghent. Me: crazy old rucksack, purple pullover, braids. Weather was closing in, and lots of people were trying to get to the top. The rocks were slippery, and everyone was helping the person behind them. I’m not sure if you remember. It was 14 years ago.

I’ve changed, but not that much. The guy I was with – I married him. I’m widowed now. I remember your lean, suntanned legs, your Irish sweater rolled up to the elbows, and the way your arse looked in those shorts. We talked about you on the way down, discussing what we’d like to see you get. He voted for the cane, as usual, but I rather fancied seeing you grit your teeth over the birching block.

Your weather-blown strawberry blond hair made your eyes look like they were laughing. I can still feel your grip as you hauled me up, rucksack and all. What is it about feeling a man’s strength that raises the pulse, even more than a steep climb in the teeth of a downpour? When I topped that crag, you pulled me into you. Our eyes locked, you grinned, and I thought you would kiss me. All I said was, Thanks. You said, Sure, cheers. I haven’t thought of that day until now. Fourteen years – lifetime – no time. I rather fancy being hauled up something again.

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Come write your own missed connection – real or fantasy, who will know? Post the link today (Wednesday) here or on Twitter (@caseydamnmorgan). What is Midweek Missed Connections?

Read other missed connections this week:

• PapaTomLA

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will be sick to the back teeth by now of hearing about the great bookcase cleaning-and-reorganization of 2009. I was so physically exhausted yesterday that my legs and arms were trembling. Some of this was the exertion of assembling, moving, and improvisationally securing to wall of the newest overflow bookcase. But otherwise it was a day filled with lifting, reaching, humping, etc. The rule for the day was to finish everything I started, on the spot. I have a deep-seated habit of leaving things almost-done. I’m trying to retrain myself.

I never listen to the radio except in the car, but yesterday I put on WCBS FM and was treated to great music from “the sixties, seventies, and eighties.” The music plus the work took me back to all the move-packing I did in high-school and college, as well as memories of moving into my current home at age 24. I made myself throw away M’s scratched plastic sunglasses (which resided on the bookcase), and this only enhanced the sensation of living some past identity. I really do not want to go back to my 20′s, to that person whose “family” was my mom, brother & sister, dad & stepmother. You could not pay me enough money to relive ages 15-25. Yet here I am, as aimless as I was then, but with more responsibilities. Actually, I had more aim then. I was going to be a famous theater director. Then I was going to be a famous writer. The fact that these are no longer my aims does not translate to failure in my mind, but success – in escaping the grip of my childhood worship of Accomplishment. Today what I want is the Real Deal in my personal life, a family of my own, a vibrant spiritual life, and the space and permission to write all the books that are in me. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind being a famous writer, but the best kind of famous for me would be 1) making sufficient money from it; 2) being known and respected enough to be asked to read and speak places; 3) being known and respected enough not to have to shop my  projects around. I would not want to be famous like, say, Neil Gaimon and have a frantic, celebrity life that required an assistant. I would never want to be famous enough to have the media pry into my personal life.

The bookcase reorg. project had begun months ago, but yesterday I woke up to find that TL had written on the board, “Wednesday is Procrastination Busting Day.” Oh, brother. To hear her tell it, if you quit procrastinating, things take a lot less time than you feared. In reality, the bookcases took a lot longer than I feared, which – Newsflash TL! – is why I procrastinate in the first place. But here’s the kicker: I’m in the shower at 9.30 pm after 13 hours of work, hardly able to stand up (pity party!), and there’s this voice saying, Ok but you still haven’t made any progress with the book project (a typesetting job that has nothing to do with the bookcase reorg). And as much as cdm would like to whine and say this voice belongs to TL, it really doesn’t. In reality TL was saying: Well done, Casey. Things look great. You worked so hard today and I’m very impressed with your determination. Ice-cream tomorrow! Casey did not hear this, however. Casey only heard: You’re still not doing enough. It was this same, sinister voice, I suspect, that panicked us as we tried to fall asleep with worries about what on earth we will do when one day we have to pack up this whole house and move somewhere else.

RP and M were onto this demon, and managed Casey with it in mind. Hence rules #2 and #3. Casey’s four rules, by the way:

1. Be honest about feelings and needs.
2. Be kind to yourself.
3. Do what you want, not what you should.
4. Ask other people what they feel, don’t decide things for them.

Yesterday, I was capable of identifying that demon, intellectually rejecting the way it wanted to poison a day’s hard work, but I wasn’t able to dispute with it vigorously, as RP could. I had no sword, no chariot, no bow. I had no one valiant on my side.

I did come across some very old dockets. I think these were something M produced before we got the docket book. They date from the first autumn of his residence here in Gotham, my first as a full-time teacher. What they were doing tucked away in the memoir of a neurosurgeon, I have no idea. Seeing his handwriting, even only his initials, is worse even than seeing his photograph. Why should his writing persist when he can’t? Clearly, I am nowhere near being ready to tackle the Basement Reorg. or the Man-closet Cleanout.

The last docket appears to have been issued by a choleric and muddled member of staff at St. Mary’s. Click to see the back. I don’t remember the story behind this one, but I think RP ended the escalating drama by informing Casey he’d called Miss K, sorted her out, and would now be sorting Casey out, ha ha. I like his little “as discussed” on the back.  November 6, 1996 looks to have been a train-wreck of a day. Eventually, RP stopped biting at things like a pile of dockets and just did what was required to stop the downward spiral. Sigh.

I had poster’s remorse as soon as I clicked Publish last night. A murder of worries descended: in clearing up my nationality, have I become less appealing? Less mysterious? Less interesting? Or, more to the point, less authentic?

My father, a son of the industrial mid-west, has always been scathing about posers. You should hear him excoriate his cousin (my “aunt”), who raised her children in the UK and whom he accuses of being “a big phony” and “more British than the British.” By confessing my American upbringing, have I made it impossible for people to read my UK-set pieces without thinking, faker?

The subject for today’s exegesis (Quick! Click away!): How to regard being drawn to an alien thing that on some level you feel you are? In this case, let us speak of the English schoolboy. To persist with writing them would appear to be monstrously inauthentic. How dare an American girl pretend to know them? Yet, they have been with me more than half my life.

Cue timeline of my tgi imagination: Little House on the Prairie (which debuted when I was 5), followed by the Orphanage (after seeing Annie at age 9), eventually succeeded by the English boys’ school (zapped whilst watching Stalky & Co. at age 16). There were of course other influences, then and now, but the imagination has moved on little since eleventh grade.

Cue, perhaps, digression into the idle coveting of my brother’s willy, on the grounds that it would be so much less effort to wank with it. This was before Judy Blume or whoever informed me of erections. Before I blundered onto English schoolboys (perhaps not incidentally after achieving my driver’s license – “You’re becoming a tiger!” my driver’s ed teacher exclaimed with relief after weeks of me driving like an agoraphobic mouse), before that moment of gazing, slack-jawed at Robert Addie on A&E, I disliked boys as a category. Boys were bad, noisy, dirty, perverted, insensitive, got into big trouble deservedly, and made life a lot less nice when they were around. (Note: crushes, and boys with whom I was momentarily “going”, though not kissing, were excluded from this estimation.) Boys, in short, scared me, especially their sexuality, though I couldn’t have put my finger on that. I did know, in high school, that boys only wanted one thing, and on some level I thought that if I kissed a boy, that meant I was agreeing to sex. My junior year in college, on the eve of my first kiss, I asked my wild roommate if that was true. She said, Of course not! but I didn’t quite believe her. Later, having discovered a.s.s. but not yet M, I assumed that letting a man spank me was tantamount to saying, You may fuck me, or at least grope me. What a relief to learn that this need not be so. Of course, back then my mind labored to Discover the Rules, rather than to articulate my own boundaries. Sigh.

FYI for you, the first days I spent with M on his first visit to Gotham did involve kissing and a few other activities that would have shocked my teenage self (though not fucking); however, this did not mix with tgi. M and I may have made out on the futon, but Marky and Mr. Prior were scrupulously chaste. I got all those bruises with only 12 strokes of the cane through Calvin Klein boxer briefs and school trousers. RP only touched Casey to pull the tail of her shirt out of her trousers (a purely dramatic gesture, as it makes zero difference re. padding), and to shake her hand afterwards. I don’t think they were even on hugging terms then.

M did later introduce me to the workings of the male anatomy, and to a delight in dirty English schoolboys. His was an unrepressed, joyful sexuality. Sex was Fun and Nice, a Nice Thing. He loved his willy, and if other people wanted to look at it, it was no surprise to him. This, you might imagine, was alluring and foreign to my mind.

This mind – to insert yet more exegesis – had by age 26 become so thoroughly warped by the toxic combination of WASP prudery and Ivy League feminism that it had imprisoned me in a complacent academic aloofness guarded by sheer unconscious terror. (See Equity Day Off, the dialogue with Judy, ha ha). My party line was that I was All For Sex, any sex (so long as it was Safe); in all likelihood, I thought, I was even bisexual. Sex was No Big Deal; it was a choice, a creative expression of my most actualized personhood. I liked wanking, therefore I must want wild sex, like my friends and fellow peer-counselors in college. This particular peer counseling group was for sexual concerns. We did all-night shifts manning a phone line where people would call to ask about condoms, or to chat through the dilemma of having a crush on their roommate. We led them through being Straight, Gay, Bi, or Questioning. If I had gone to school a little later, the whole universe of Queer would have necessitated a longer training course, ha ha.

The point is I talked a good talk, but – gosh – I just couldn’t manage to get any guys to like me as anything other than a friend. Maybe you’re starting to get the picture. The narrator in Equity Day Off is a pretty accurate portrait, except that I never in college got anywhere near to admitting my real interests. My obsession with England was, at best, picturesque and Anglophile. My obsession with English schoolboys (being them, loving them) was too puzzling and unnerving to contemplate with my full mind. Hence Gender Politics, Feminist Theater, Cultural Discourse, blah fucking blah.

After spending a lot of time in England (biking, hiking, writing for a travel book), some of the attraction became clearer. There was a way that English people’s neuroses were like my own. I understood them instinctively in a way I didn’t understand Americans back home. It was like discovering a whole life I’d forgotten about through amnesia.

It would take a book, or more, to trace my love and hate affair with England (+ Scotland, Wales, Ireland). And the thing with being married is that to a certain extent you become merged with your spouse. Not just in sexual intercourse, or in name (actually I kept my surname), but in vocabulary, habit, and so many, many things. So, in ways intrinsic and extrinsic to that marriage, I have absorbed many things English, words being only part of it. Certain pronunciations, for instance, send shudders down my spine: our pronounced are rather than hour; wrath with a flat, twangy a vs. a deeper sound rhyming with Roth. Also, arse pronounced properly (soft r) turns me on like no tomorrow, whereas ass leaves me ice-cold. FYI for anyone attempting to talk dirty to me, ha ha.

All this exegesis and still, perhaps, I come off as an Anglophile fraud. Know that I am no Anglophile. I  detest the English on many grounds. I possess no twee, cultish fascination with tea and scones and things that are “so British.” Ugh.

What, then? Is it an attachment to the home of the English Vice? And overdose of strong literature at an impressionable age? The lingering effects of marriage? Or is it in some fashion the English schoolboy stowaway in me, recognizing scents of home when the sea winds blow that way?

—There’s something about Rees that gives one pause.

—His tragic inability to take a joke?

—That, too, but I had in mind the way he looks at one.

—Oh. Yes.

—At you, for instance, in the changer after Smokey gave you six.

—Yesterday, you mean, out of the shower?

—Yes. Of course everyone looked—cracking good stripes—but Rees looked.

—I suppose one ought to be flattered.

—And last week he was hovering around outside Smokey’s study window.

—Not peering, surely?

—Listening anyhow, the afternoon you got done for smoking. Then there’s the fact that he’s always first to the changer and last out.

—Now that you mention it, he does have a way of appearing whenever anyone’s showing off marks.

—And he’s always under the showers when you are.

—I hope you’re not implying—

—I imply nothing. I merely observe, and what I observe is that he looks at you in lessons as if you’re not wearing a stitch.

—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.

—Of course not. Remember when your crib crashed to the ground in the middle of exams last term?

—Do I ever. Radcliffe half killed me. I was an inch from blubbing.

—Remember who was sitting in front of you, whose seat jogged your form?

—You don’t mean to say Rees dropped me in it?

—I can only say he took an uncommon satisfaction in your comeuppance.

—I thought that was ’cause I’d ragged him so hard the night before.

—Perhaps. You were a sight to behold, though, then and yesterday.

—Oh, yes?

—You’ve a nice line in barely-concealed wincing.

—Thanks.

—But Rees, to summarize, is a reprobate. That’s all there is to it.

—Evidently there’s not a soul in the House who keeps closer tabs on me than he does.

—Evidently.

—Indeed.

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The wicked schoolboys are back, Heaven help us.

Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of the Sweltering Celt. The theme this week is exhibitionism/voyeurism.

—A word of advice, before we let you loose on the beasts.

—Sir?

—Take the stick to someone the first or second day. Find the leader, and find a reason to cane him. When you do, cane hard.

—How hard?

—Too hard. Gets the message out. And you don’t want him coming back for more.

—What message, sir?

—That you’re not to be trifled with.

—Ah.

—Now then, take that, and that, standard issue. Practice. I recommend a pillow set about yea high.

—Yes, sir.

—When it comes to the act, for Heaven’s sake take your time. Observe all the regular ceremonies.

—Which are?

—Make the boy remove his jacket. Have him stand before you, look him in the eye, and announce the sentence in full.

—I’m giving you six?

—That’s rather prefectorial and brief. Better: Carleton minor, you have been insolent and self-indulgent mucking about in my lesson. You are now going to receive four strokes of the cane. Bend over.

—A bit artificial, isn’t it?

—Not at all. But make sure you hold the boy’s eye the whole time. If he looks away, make him look back.

—Right.

—Take time positioning him. For three or four strokes, you can have the boy touch his toes, but for anything more, it’s better to give him something to hold onto. If he seems overconfident, adjust his posture. Make him feel he’s conforming to your standards, not the other way round.

—Right.

—For the caning itself, you’ll hear every sort of opinion, but it is my long experience that slow is best. Count at least to ten between strokes, preferably twenty. You want him to have the full experience, remember.

—Yes, sir.

—Don’t let him get up until told, and of course observe the standard ceremonies afterwards, handshake, etc. When the boy says Thank you, don’t say You’re welcome. A simple nod is best. Whatever you do, don’t jaw him again.

—I used to hate that.

—Everyone does. Once the punishment’s given, it’s done and dusted. Full stop. And don’t tell him you hope you won’t have to do it again. Refrain from commenting altogether, unless a pithy Well stuck is merited.

—Right.

—You ought to stick to the cane, I think, but if it seems appropriate, you could put a third former across your knee for the slipper. I’d only do this in private, though, and be aware that he will feel the humiliation keenly. I think it’s best to avoid the slipper altogether this term, however.

—If you say so, sir.

—I hope you aren’t humoring me, young man. I know of what I speak! A good caning is one of the most fundamental sizings up there is between men and boys. Respect it.

—Oh, I do. But, sir… I feel I should level with you.

—How so, young man?

—I feel I must tell you that I am opposed to corporal punishment entirely. On grounds of conscience.

—Oh, yes? And how do you intend to maintain order?

—With clear expectations, praise, force of personality, and other non-physical sanctions.

—Right, well, I’m sure that will be a roaring success. But not unless you cane—effectively—at least one boy from every form. Once you’ve done that, you can use any methods you please.

—Is that an order, sir?

—Oh, don’t bristle, young man. I’ve said you won’t be persecuted for those beliefs of yours. Though how a Marlborough prefect wound up a white-feather man is a confounded mystery.

—So I’m told, sir.

—Right, then. To sum up: cane early, cane hard, observe ceremony. Never punish in anger, in haste, or in confusion. Clear?

—Crystal, sir.

—Then kneel, young man. And rise. Your rod and your staff. Go forth and educate.

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Not the wicked schoolboys, but their masters this time…

Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of the Sweltering Celt. The theme this week is ceremony. Congratulations to Ang & Doc on their wedding!

—Four o’clock, is it?

—That’s what it says here.

—Well, it was inevitable, wasn’t it? Had the cane before? …What, never?

—It isn’t exactly my fault!

—No one’s said it is… Ri-ight. Eyes front, listen to me… Listening?

—Yes.

—Do sport beforehand. Eight or nine circuits as fast as you can take.

—Why?

—Nerves. Two: look smart. Shower, comb your hair, polish those shoes, make sure there’s a crease in those trousers.

—You make it sound like going to church.

—Don’t mock. Three: It sometimes helps to count backwards in your head. Only four more to go. Etcetera.

—What if you’re told to count them out?

—Then disregard, obv!

—Obv.

—Where was I? Oh, yes: Be on time. Unless you want to go for extras, which I don’t recommend first time out.

—No fear.

—Five: Don’t clench. Makes it hurt more. Trust me. Try breathing in when you hear the swish.

—What if… ?

—What?

—What if you can’t stay down?

—Hold onto something, rail of the chair, your ankles, anything. Do not get up until told to. Like I said, don’t go for extras.

—What if…

—You can take it. Believe me. It’s bad, but not as bad as you think.

—Ha.

—Oh yes, six: When you’re told to stand up, don’t forget the thank you.

—Check.

—Cheek under duress. There’s hope for you yet. Right then, off you go.

—Thanks.

—You’re welcome. See you at four.

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A slight twist on this week’s theme of teacher. Read it as you like, of course, but for the first speaker, I recommend cf. with the unnamed prefect in Dawn. Thanks to Ang for Microfantasy Monday!