Continuing with Roald Dahl's Boy: between 1925 and 1929 when Roald Dahl was between 9 and 13, he went to St. Peter's School, Weston Super Mare, Somerset. Here is Dahl's rather unkind and funny description of his first impression of the Headmaster: "I have already told you that all Headmasters are giants, and this one was no exception. He advanced upon my mother and shook her by the hand, then he shook me by the hand and as he did so he gave me a kind of flashing grin a shark might give to a small fish just before he gobbles it up. One of his front teeth, I noticed was edged all the way around with gold, and his hair was slicked with so much hair cream that it glistened like butter" (78-79)
One of the authoritarian figures at the school was the Matron: "At any time she liked, the Matron could send you down in your pyjamas and dressing gown to report to the merciless giant, and whenever this happened you got caned on the spot. The Matron knew this and she relished the whole business.
She could move along the corridor like lightening, and when you least expected it, her head and her bosom would popping through the dormitory doorway. 'Who threw that sponge?' the dreaded voice would call out. 'It was you Perkins, was it not? Don't lie to me Perkins! Don't argue with me! I know perfectly well it was you! Now you can put on your dressing gown and go downstairs and report to the Headmaster this instant!"
In slow motion and with immense reluctance, little Perkins, aged eight and a half, would get into his dressing gown and slippers and disappear down the long corridor that led to the backstairs and to the Headmaster's private quarters. And the Matron, as we knew, would follow after him and stand at the top of the stairs listening with a funny look on her face for the crack. . . crack. . . crack of the cane that would soon be coming up from below. To me the noise always sounded as though the Headmaster was firing a pistol at the ceiling of his study.
Looking back, it now seems clear that the Matron disliked small boys very much indeed. . ." (85-86)
[On Saturday, I leave New Orleans. I am going to miss it. I have told you about my visits to Cajun Dale, the dick dancer club on Bourbon Street, primarily designed for women but occupied by the cutest chocolate dancers. When I went there a few days ago, my _c_o_c_k_ leapt to attention when my cutie, the very dark Mignon was at the door in fatigues with dog tags. On the one hand, he didn't make a very convincing bootcamp soldier, the thick curly nappy hair wouldn't be permitted in bootcamp. But the uniform on that cute, dark boy was a big turn on. Seeing that I was aroused, he bent over and whispered in my ear that we should do a lap dance. I told him that the bump and grind routine didn't do it for me, what I wanted to do was to spank and kiss him. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me into the men's room. It was empty. We both slipped into the stall and closed the door.
"Stand at attention, boy," I whispered.
He complied. I reached out and twisted his soft dark ear and whispered into it. "Say, yes sir."
"Yessuh," yummy little Lousiana ebonics whisper.
"When I whup you, you say the count and add sir," I whispered in his ear, taking the opportunity to lick the soft dark interior.
"Yessuh."
Whap. One suh. Whap. Two, suh. Whap. Three, suh. Smack across the sweet dark face for variety. Four, slight grimace of pain, suh. I got to beat him forty times for a very reasonable tip.
Some of the smacks were on his bare chocolate ass; some were on the fatigue trousers, and I was enormously turned on by rubbing against the coarse military fatigues. For me, green military fatigues are a big turn on. I don't see anything attractive about the horrible Desert Storm fatigues. While fellatio isn't my thing, I was turned on by sucking on his dog tags while viciously twisting his cute pecs. Dinge sadistic faggotry for ever!]