The Gestapo Comes to Sussex

     Paul Harrison (not his real name) lived at the top of my street in Eastbourne, Sussex. We both attended St Mary’s Boys’ School. Paul was a plain, freckle-faced boy with auburn hair. His rambling late-Victorian house was set in a lush, jungly garden that tumbled untidily down an incline; in the centre of this acreage there was a rectangular fish pond in which half a dozen fat, orange-and-white koi drifted through the bronze water. There were pieces of statuary set here and there, overgrown with weeds or brambles. At the bottom of the garden was a thicket of young trees which grew up through elderly stone pathways, disrupting and crumbling them into dysfunction.  The general neglect of the garden had a magic quality, which fascinated me: much later, I read John Ruskin on the importance of allowing Nature to make its mark on man-made structures – and here was his principle in action. Paul couldn’t really understand my fascination with the place; his familiarity had led to general disinterest. He was more interested in playing with his plastic toy soldiers in his bedroom, a pastime in which I would increasingly be enjoined.
    Paul lived with his mother – a rather imposing figure with a Roman nose and French bun. His grandparents also lived in the house, although his grandfather was very rarely seen as he spent most of his life in a private study room. I liked his grandmother – a small, mousy woman, who prepared poached eggs and beans on toast for us both whenever we arrived at his house, together, after school.
    Paul was a bossy kid who always directed our play. It would be him who set up the little soldiers on his dusty bedroom carpet; it would be him who decided which military campaign we would be reenacting on this or that day. I had no real interest in these games: the activity of rolling pellets of Plasticine into the serried ranks of little men and watching them tumble seemed rather pointless to me and I always hankered for another trek around the leafy world outside.
   At some point, our relationship took a sudden turn into something more grown-up: this was once again spearheaded by Paul.
    One summer afternoon, in our ninth year of life, we were once again in his bedroom, after school. The curtains were drawn across the lead-lighted window against the bright sunlight. Motes of dust twirled in the air. The room was hot and stuffy. The door was closed. I could hear Paul’s grandmother washing up in the kitchen.
    “Let’s show our willies,” he said, flatly. With that, he unzipped his fly and lowered his trousers. He fished around in his underpants with his fingers and plucked out his penis. It looked identical to mine, although it was beginning to stiffen slightly. I stood up and followed his example, more out of politeness than any real desire to expose myself. Paul reached over and grabbed my little prod. I did the same to him. It didn’t feel very erotic, at least to me. He stood close to me and we noodled our members together for five minutes; then he zipped himself up again and we resumed our places on the carpet, with his plastic battalion.
   Some weeks later, I was again ensconced in his room after school. This time he decided we should enact some scene from his imagination about a British soldier (to be played by me) who had been captured and was now being interrogated by the Gestapo (to be played by him).  
    “Take your shirt off,” he said, “and I’ll tie you to the door.” I meekly complied with the order and meekly removed my white school shirt. He raised my arms and, with his school tie, tightly fastened my wrists to the coat hook that was attached to the top of his bedroom door. He hadn’t bothered to take down the various jackets and scarves that also hung from the hook, so that my face was now buried in the various fabrics. The next stage of the routine was one which clearly gave him a good deal of pleasure. He suddenly went into character and began speaking to me in the accent of an evil cartoon Nazi.
    “Zo! Vee heff been obserffing your movements vor some time, Herr Johnson, yes? Your ections are vell known to us. You vill now tell us ze names off your contacts, yes?” Then he took his dressing gown chord from the end of his bed, doubled it, and swung it smartly across my naked white back. It stung rather a lot. He swung again. And again.
    “You VILL talk!” he demanded, striking me more severely with each lash. His breathing had become heavy and his voice had risen to perform its short, barking orders that punctuated each slashing blow.
    “Yes!...You!...VILL!...Talk!” I might have cried out at some point during this ordeal because the timorous voice of Paul’s grandmother could now be heard on the other side of the door on which I was tethered.
    “Paul. Paul… Paul,” she said, “What are you doing, love? What’s going on?” Snapping suddenly out of his starring role, Paul became flustered and threw the dressing gown chord onto the floor, just as his grandmother opened the door. She pushed the door, with its unusual cargo, and I was forced to shuffle backwards as it inched forward. Her head peeped into the room and took in the shameful scene. She hurriedly retreated.
    “Well, I think it’s time for Steven to go home now,” she said as she returned to her washing up.
    A month or two later I was again at Paul’s house, this time on a Saturday afternoon. Also present were twins, David and Mark Gold (not their real names). I recall that there was much boisterous running through the garden and the house. After several hours of this we found ourselves sitting quiet and exhausted on the big wooden staircase in the entrance hall.
    “Let’s show our willies,” said Paul, flatly. Immediately, we all stood up and fished out our cocks. I was intrigued to see that the Golds’ were circumcised – the first I had ever seen.
    “I dare someone to put a willy in their mouth,” said Paul. There was an eruption of laughter at this preposterous suggestion. “No, I really, really, really dare someone to do it!” Feeling the sudden overwhelming desire to be both shocking and the centre of attention, I volunteered to do this outrageous thing.
     “I will.” At this, the boys hooted with pleasure.
    “Ok, do it with mine,” said Mark Gold. He stood up and once again unzipped his fly. He hitched his trousers down over his haunches and his little acorn was presented. To the hushed excitement of the others I bent forward, opened my mouth and took the thing inside.
    “What on earth are you doing?” said Paul’s grandmother, who had appeared quietly at the foot of the stairs. Mark scrabbled to pull up his pants and the other boys stood up and shifted about guiltily. “I think it’s time that Steven went home now.”