supplicium post mortem

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.

---

The wicked schoolboys are back, Heaven help us.

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

R old boy,

I simply cannot convey in words (written or oral) the dyed-in-the-wool beastliness of Firestone in complaining to Pater about last term. He’s the most caddish of Housemasters, and I’ve every intention of making his life hell come Michaelmas. Pater has been to Timbuktu and back over it, declaring me a perverse aberration in the annals of the Howells clan, and plenty more besides. The upshot is he’s gone and engaged my old tutor (you may remember me telling you about Singer-the-stinger?) for the whole of the beastly hols. It’s enough to make one contemplate suicide, if there wasn’t yachting with you and your uncle to look forward to at month’s end.

Singer’s been riding hard as ever, only worse. There’s more than one splinter in the affected area and no-one to lend a palliative hand, with Clara in France and you nowhere near. Days invariably begin over the birching block, as Singer’s a great believer in clearing accounts before work begins. Gives rise to rather a Sisyphus effect, I can tell you, which leaves one mystified re. why to try at all, as the following day will only begin in tears (metaphorically speaking, of course!). I confess to having lost heart once, sitting one day with my proverbial boulder at the foot of the hill and refusing to push, but Singer lived up to his sobriquet and, drawing blood before tea, reinstated my zeal.

Speak of the devil, must dash. Vile Virgil, then birch.

Yours, F

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What is Flash Fiction Friday?

Read other folks writing this week:

• Rafi
• Frenchies
• Rayne
• PapaTomLA
• Nettagyrl

—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.

---

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.

---

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!

You sat beside me yesterday at the Requiem Mass. You were tallish, your voice vaguely English, your shorts blue camo, white tshirt, sandals without socks. I was the young widow wearing black. We were only six in the Resurrection chapel; you took Communion grazing my elbow but never spoke. You seemed like a tourist, arriving late and dashing away after, but you knew the words to the creed (rite I) and to everything else except the special bits in the leaflet I held, trembling, to share with you.

You smelled nice – understated, classy aftershave – your voice a comforting baritone. Standing beside you, I imagined for the first time that there could be someone else for me, someone my age, fit, groomed but not fussy, who would drop into such an old-fashioned church and join such a service of a sunny Saturday noon. Was it chance, or were you mourning someone, too? A parent, a friend?

You had the air of ex-public school prefect, since deepened, opened, and made more humble by life. I’d like to see you in linen trousers, an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled up below the elbow, waiting on the porch, prepared to interview a tomboy in khaki shorts & scraped shins about where it is she’s been all day. Afterwards, we could concoct something in the kitchen with the strawberries that wanted eating.

Come back tomorrow for Mass at 11. Let me show you around town, and introduce you to…a couple of people.

---

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?

Check out other missed connections this week:

• Travis
• Frenchie
• PapaTomLA

—God…

—Quite.

—For something so bloody…

—I didn’t think it was.

—Painful, that was bloody terrific.

—It gets easier.

—It’s very wicked, isn’t it?

—Yes.

—Is it the wickedest thing you can do?

—Absolutely.

—And you made me do it.

—I did.

—I didn’t want to.

—No.

—And then you made me spunk.

—I did.

—Is that what happens to naughty boys?

—It is.

—What else happens to them?

—You know perfectly well.

—Do they get the cane?

—They do.

—Then do they get buggered?

—Good and hard.

—Is it very naughty?

—The naughtiest.

—Do it again.

—We ought to have some sleep, you know.

—I don’t see why.

—You’ll look like a raccoon at Chapel, for one.

—Do you suppose there’s something wrong with us?

—The game, you mean? It’s only pretend.

—But other people…?

—Damn other people. Other people do worse, and call it…

—What?

—Ordinary.

—I don’t want to be a pansy.

—You aren’t. We aren’t.

—What are we, then?

—Friends.

—Friends?

—And if two friends can’t be naughty together, what can they do?

—What if we’re caught?

—There’d be trouble.

—Would we be whacked?

—Oh, yes.

—Hard?

—Very hard.

—Before the whole school?

—And their mothers and sisters.

—Not that!

—Oh, yes. And then we’d be sent to Borstal, and you know what happens to boys there.

—Tell me.

—It’s late.

—We can sleep when we’re dead. Tell me…

---

Those schoolboys have been at it again. They really aren’t safe for work. Make of them what you will, but I thought these were the same who appeared in “Dawn,” and they certainly attend the same school as those in last’s week’s “Cricket.” I simply cannot explain their rudeness except to say they appear to inhabit an era different from our own.

Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Sweltering Celt. The theme this week was sleep.

— So what do you make of the new boy, day two?

— Titchy one? Not much.

— Really?

— Haven’t had a chance, honestly. Second XI are driving me right round the bend.

— Ah.

— Clearly you’ve made something of him, though. Speak.

— Promising, we think.

— On or off the pitch?

— Both.

— Go on.

— We-ell…he gives off like he doesn’t know he’s born, but.

— Mettle?

— In spades, I’d wager. Had to umpire the Third this afternoon.

— Oh, and you suffered.

— Hideously! But as for yon tadpole, he’s a straight bat.

— Wake me in a year’s time.

— Should’ve seen his face when he was dismissed.

— Oh?

— Positively sulked. Scrumptious.

— Dear me. We can’t be doing with poor sports in this house.

— Certainly not.

— Where’s he now? At nets?

— Bound to be.

— Send him up. As he is. And before you think it, you can make yourself scarce.

— Glutton! If you’re going to get those flannels down, the least you can do is let me watch.

— Filthy boy. Impatient boy.

— Guilty.

— The flannels may or may not come down, but the only thing he’ll feel today is the sole of my slipper.

— Today.

— Vive hodie. Leave tomorrow to develop itself.

— Oh, the developments!

— Get out, you. Out.

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Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Sweltering Celt. The theme this week was sports.

—First time?

—Not the first time feeling like hell, thanks.

—Mind you don’t let Matron hear you talk that way, or she’ll wash out your mouth as well.

—What do you mean, as well?

—Oh, dear. You haven’t heard of Matron’s soapy water, then?

—What about it?

—Ha. You’ll see. She’ll be getting it ready right now. That’s why she makes you wear a nightshirt.

—For a sponge bath?

—Are you green as a newt in absolutely everything? No, don’t answer. Just prepare yourself for a thorough, and I mean thorough washout.

—I don’t know what you mean, but it’s low to rag someone in the San.

—Who’s ragging? It’s her favorite remedy, for more or less everyth—Shh, back to bed! See what she’s got on the trolley?

—What’s that tube for?

—Oh, you’ll see. Will you see. Good luck, newt.

---

Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Sweltering Celt. The theme this week was cleaning. I’m running for the airport, but I really couldn’t resist.

They lounged on the chapel roof together, smoking, as a grey light faded up around them. A gradual enchantment, he thought, nothing like the abrupt arrival of Faerie in the MacDonald he’d been reading. Dawn for them was not rosy-fingered, promising sun, but rather suffocating, extinguishing stars.

He pinched the cigarette but refrained from flicking it over the edge. Certain fellow prefects were going through a zealous phase; finding it would only encourage them. He wished such people could wear their power more lightly. His colleagues could never understand the lack of contradiction in delivering a sharp and deserved sixer to a daring-do fourth-former and then passing unofficial hours with him as he just had. Why did people so insist on categories and absolutes? He massaged his jaw. His fingers smelt of cheap tobacco and sex.

Billy (as byzantine nicknaming called him) lay along the leads, his eyes bloodshot but relaxed around the edges for a change. Nothing like a good buggering to dissolve the arrogance and tension.

“God,” Billy groaned, “I can’t bear the hols.”

Mention of the holidays seemed as brash and intrusive as the notion of Latin. How he would himself endure the long, sterile summer he didn’t know. On second thought, he did know – as he had the last four years, with longing. Longing for sensation, charge, the real McCoy. Longing for return of the enchantment now obliterated by the dawn, for the return of good things.

He traced Billy’s eyelid with a fingertip: thin, alive.

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What is Flash Fiction Friday?

Check out other stories from this week:

• vanimp
• PapaTomLA
• Rafi’s World