As you are probably aware, V. S. Naipaul has won the Nobel Prize in Literature. I have been reading Naipaul's first published novel, The Mystic Masseur (1959). Below is one interesting moment in Naipaul's early novel; what follows is a pervie rewriting of the same.
Naipaul's version
[Ganesh, the protagonist, wants to become a school teacher.] They sent Ganesh to a school in a rowdy district in the east end of Port of Spain. The headmaster's office was also a classroom choked up with young boys [ I love the phrase "choked up with young boys"]. The headmaster sat under a picture of King George V and gave Ganesh an interview. {Veddy British, don't you think? Wouldn't Americans say, "interviewed Ganesh"?]
"You don't know how lucky you is," he began, and jumped up immediately, saying, " Gimme a chance. It have a boy here I must give a good cut-arse [what a lovely word] to. Just gimme a chance."
He squeezed his way between desks to a boy in the back row. The class was instantly silent and was possible to hear the noise from the other classrooms. Then Ganesh heard a boy squealing behind the blackboard. The headmaster was sweating when he came back to Ganesh.
The Perv's Version
The headmaster's office was also a classroom choked with young boys. The headmaster sat under a picture of King George V, cloaked in ermine coronation robes. The headmaster was an enormous, bald, paunchy black man.
"You don't know how lucky you is," he began, and jumped up immediately saying, "Gimme a chance. It have a boy here I must give a good cut-arse to. Just gimme a chance."
At the word, "cut arse," Ganesh's slender little Hindu _c_o_c_k_ stirred in his trousers. As a would be English teacher, he found the dingy headmaster's eloquence a turn on; as a confirmed pervert, a devotee of that vice sometimes known as the English vice, he found the term a turn on and a distinctly useful addition to his rather Latinate English vocabulary. What a joy it would be to say to his next bumboy, " My dear. You must maintain a stiff upper lip, for I fear that it is time, for me to administer you a loving but severe cut arse."
"Uh sir," he said ingratiatingly.
"Yes?" said the headmaster.
"I think it might be useful to me as a would be teacher to learn from your expert instruction the least painful and most beneficial way to administer a cut arse to a young miscreant."
"Least painful," snorted the huge black man. "When I administer cut arse, the bugger know about it. Yes sirree. He don't be sitting for many a day. But you is right. You Hindus is clever, but you will forgive me, lack gonadic energy. Come, I will instruct you>'
Ganesh followed the headmaster as he squeezed between desks to a boy in the back row. He was painfully aware of the adolescent boys' cynical eyes on him particularly when his pitiful but distinct little erection bumped against the desks, and he involuntarily apologized to the desks, " Uh, I am so sorry."
One little nappy headed black boy grinned too obviously. Without pausing in his surprisingly rapid progress, the massive headmaster clouted him twice on the head. "Eyes down, you sons of female canine animals," he said in no more than a conversational tone.
Ganesh was shocked. Even though all the boys' eyes immediately dropped down to their desks, so they looked like demure virginal girls, rather than healthy little hooliganish adolescent boys, he could still inexplicapably feel their gaze directed at his pathetic but unmistakable erection.
The miscreant adolescent in the back row was a delicate golden skinned young sixteen-year-old Hindu. Ganesh would never discover what exactly he had done; he would never be entirely sure whether the boy had in fact done anything or whether the headmaster was just asserting his authority to cow the boys, or maybe he was just punishing the boy to impress Ganesh.
Without saying a word, the headmaster shot out one enormous black hand and grabbed the boys' delicate golden ear. Twisting it savagely, he yanked the boy up. The pain must have been horrific, for the boys' ear flushed crimson, and his large dark eyes filled with tears. But he knew better than to make a sound. Instead he hastily jumped to his feet, and half bending over with the force of the headmaster's tug, staggered behind that authoritative figure behind the blackboard.
The headmaster winked at Ganesh, "Before we is administering cut arse, you must see that this miscreant young man is not hiding no shield over his arse. Feel his arse."
Ganesh flushed. The boys were dressed in blue Oxford shirts, and khaki trousers. This young man had a slender but shapely tush, and just looking at his tight, elegant khaki trousers, it was more than clear that there was nothing under those trousers except perhaps pristine white jockey shorts.
But who was Ganesh to turn down an opportunity. With a slightly trembling darkish brown palm (Ganesh was from deeper South in India than the unfortunate student), he tentatively began stroking that cute arse, trembling slightly at the anticipation of pain. Getting more daring, Ganesh prodded the tempting arse cleft with his second finger and was gratified to hear the boy gasp with pain.
"Good one," guffawed the headmaster. "The next time you is _s_h_i_t_ting, you will remember what punishment was administered. Now, Mr. Ganesh, before you start, you swing the cane a few times."
He then proceed to swish the wicked looking cane through the air a couple of times. The delicate young Hindu boy noticeably winced a few times, as the cane sang through the air.
"Then get a feel for the material." At this point, the headmaster eroticallly (erotically for Ganesh and him, that is, not for the unfortunate young Indian boy) began rubbing the cane against the soft cotton khaki arse of the boy. The boy trembled with fear at the cold hard feel of the bamboo.
"Anticipation is more than half the punishment," the headmaster whispered to Ganesh. Then, he carefully and deliberately swung the cane back and with a whistling sound brought it down on that khaki arse. The boy gasped with pain a few seconds after the bullet like crack. But he managed to clasp his hands firmly against his sides.
He got six savage blows. "Whack; whack; whack; whack; whack; WHACK." At that sixth whack, the boy groaned.
The headmaster shook his head regretfully. "No good, Srinivasan. We are not bringing up no batty boys. No faggot girlie boys at this school. You will take it again."
"Yes sir," gasped the boy, the beginning of a tear trembling on the edge of his delicate black eyelash. Ganesh had to resist bending forward to lap up one salty drop.
WHACK.
"Now," said the headmaster. "Kneel in front of the class till recess, so everyone can see what a crybaby batty boy you is. Maybe some of them will take pity on you and penetrate you during recess and give you some baby to carry up your arse."
Ganesh winced at the headmaster's coarseness, but looking knowingly at the bulge in Ganesh's grey trousers and the give away drop of moisture there, the headmaster declared, "You will enjoy schoolmastering. But remember more important than your books, more important than your certificates, more important than your lesson plans is your rattan cane. For tis cut arse that gives meaning to schoolmastering. You will hear that schoolteachers get to mould young people. Quite true, and its the most delightful parts of them that you do get to mould."