A Life Less Ordinary
Copyright © 2021, Dave Potter
Prologue
As I spend my days here on earth in quiet contemplation, I have ample opportunity to look back upon days gone by and to reflect upon the life that I have led. And, as I do so, I am struck by, through a series of circumstances quite beyond my control, it has taken a most unusual path that may shock some and interest many more. Therefore, I have decided, before my time on this earth expires and I go to join my Maker, to write now my reminiscences of this most unordinary of lives. My only hope is that it proves to be of interest to you.
L. Chell
Chapter 1
I was born on the 11th of September, 1977 to George and Mildred Chell, an impoverished couple living in the area of the English Midlands known collectively as the Black Country on account of the vast coal deposits below it and clouds of sulphurous smoke above. I was the last of three children, and they christened me Luke, presumably after the apostle (my elder brothers were Matthew and Mark). My parents doubtless intended to add a John to the collection, but never had the opportunity to do so, when both were killed tragically in the 1979 Miners’ Strike. My father, a miner in the local pit, was on the picket line fighting for his rights and wages, whilst my mother had, that day, left us in the care of a neighbour, and was manning the miners’ soup kitchen. When the police arrived on horses and charged into the strikers with guns and truncheons, those poor workers stood no chance. My father was killed by a blow to the head whilst my mother, the police obviously seeing soup kitchens as symptomatic of the enemy within, was trampled beneath the hooves of a horse. Both deaths were deemed accidental in the inquest that follows and so no one was ever brought to justice for their murder even though the evidence is plain for all to see. But then again, that is par for the course if you are a member of the British working class.
So, aged but a toddler, I was orphaned. I lived with an aunt for a while, but she had enough children of her own, so I was sent to the local orphanage where I spent my formative years.
But then, in the Year of Our Lord 1989, when I was twelve, something happened that was to change my life forever. There came a visitor to the institution and we orphans were ordered to stand in line as they inspected the dormitories. The visitor in question was a well-dressed man with a large top hat. As he walked through the room slowly, he seemed to scrutinise each and every one of us with his eyes and, occasionally, he would stop and ask the boy his name and age. He only did this with a few but, for some reason, I was one of them. I answered honestly and he nodded, smiled, and went on his way.
Three days later I was called to the Master’s office where I was told that great favour had been bestowed upon me. The gentleman visitor was none other than Lord Rothebury, a well-known philanthropist – which means, I learnt, someone who gives away a lot of money to good causes – and he had selected me and five other boys to be the recipients of his largesse, namely in the form of a bursary which would enable us to leave the orphanage and attend an elite boys school in which we would gain a first-class education. So, a week later, I and the others, said goodbye to our childhood friends and boarded a train to London along with a Mr. Wilkins, a representative of the school who was tasked with looking after us. That, I must confess, he did not do well, choosing to sit in First Class smoking his pipe and chatting to a pretty female traveller in a sky-blue crinoline – I had just started noticing the fairer sex at that stage – but when we got to Euston, he marshalled us all together and marched us to the Underground where we caught a train to Liverpool Street, in which we then boarded another train which was to take us to our destination, the blandly-named County School in the heart of rural Norfolk.
It was getting dark by the time the train pulled into the tiny station bearing the school’s name. We were transferred out of the carriages and into a waiting car which drove us the short distance to the school itself. As I was seated by the window, I was able to see the school as it came into view and I do confess that I gasped in amazement at my new home for, with turrets, gables and numerous chimneys, it looked more like a palace than a place of learning.
Eventually, we drew up at the entrance and were discharged. Each of us was assigned a maid and we were led up several flights of stairs to our rooms. Although tiny, with barely enough space for a single bed, I was in awe, for never before had I slept alone in a room of my own. Furthermore, this room had an adjoining bathroom where I was ordered to go to freshen myself up. I did as bidden and, when finished, with a towel wrapped around me, I found, to my astonishment, a long silk nightdress waiting for me, with a ruched collar. “Is this not more suitable for a girl than a boy?” I asked the maid as I felt the slippery, sensuous material.
“It is the standard school uniform,” she replied, before helping me into the bed and leaving me to my slumber.7
Chapter 2
Was life at the Norfolk County School what I had anticipated? That is a hard question to answer because, before my arrival, I guess I didn’t really have a clear idea of what to expect. We were taught little of the world at the orphanage beyond the important lessons in how to survive the daily grind. And these were all that I brought with me: keep your head down, fit in until you’ve worked out the lie of the land, and then, and only then, you might think about sticking it above the parapet.
Nonetheless, I was not expecting what happened to me on the very first day, and that was the school uniform. In the morning the maid woke me up and, after showering, I was ordered to change into my new uniform, my own clothes, she told me, having already been burned due to the possibility of them harbouring disease.
This new uniform, however, was most strange indeed. I later learnt that it was modelled on the style worn by noble boys during the late 16th century, but at the time, ignorant of history and fashions as I was, I had no idea of such things and the whole ensemble was to say the least, most shocking.
To start with, she handed me a pair of underpants. Unlike my usual pairs though, these were made from white silk and edged with lacy frills. Like the nightgown, they looked more suited to a girl than a boy. Unlike a girl’s underpants though, the area where my tool sat was not flush with the rest of the garment, but instead a sort of silken tube was incorporated which my member was fitted into. This was rather embarrassing because, about a year previously, I had started waking every morning to my tool being shamefully stiff and erect and, caressed by the silk, this situation was only exacerbated, which was most shame-making in the presence of a young female.
Then, over the pants I was given a pair of golden yellow tights to wear, again more suitable for a woman than a man, and, like a woman’s tights, made of some sort of elasticated material (though shiny like silk – I later learned that it was called lycra) which clung to every curve of my body.
Then there was a silken shirt for my upper body and, over it, a corset was brought out and fitted on me. I thought about protesting, but then remembered the rules of survival and kept my peace. Work out the lie of the land first, Luke, then do something. The maid – who really was rather pretty – then went behind me and started lacing, forcing my torso into a sort of upside-down cone shape and causing my breathing to get rather ragged. When she finally tied the laces off, I was panting for breath, although she then got out a tape measure, put it around my middle and announced, “27 inches, still another nine to go in the long run, though this will do for now.”
Then came another unexpected item: gloves, and not one pair but two! The first were in plain cotton and fitted over my hands, not really making much difference, but the second were made of dark green kid leather and were excessively tight, so that, when they were finally forced on and buttoned in place, I felt the blood restricted to my extremities and my motor control was much reduced. “Do not make fists with your hands or clench too much, or else the seams may tear and then you’ll be in for a punishment!” she warned me.
After the gloves came another strange item for this queerest of uniforms. I was not to wear trousers, but instead padded breaches made of striped gold and forest green. These were fastened around my corseted waist with the string fastening and came to mid-thigh. They were excessively heavy due to all the padding and wearing them my gait was strange, like my legs were somehow forced apart.
Following these came my top which was a doublet, again in the school colours of green and gold, fitted tightly around my corseted torso (without the corset I would never have got it on) and buttoned at the front.
I thought then that I was finished, but oh no! Next came ruffs, made of some white rigid material (starched, I later learnt), one for each wrist and a third for my neck. The wrist ruffs were around an inch deep and protruded around my wrist for about an inch, but the neck ruff, a grand confection of pleated material, was a full three inches deep and protruded in all directions for a good six inches or more! Wearing it, I had to hold my head high and my entire lower vision was taken up by its sea of white.
And after the ruffs, I was bade to sit on the bed – not so easy with padded breaches and a waist that can’t bend – whilst my new shoes were bought out. These were of matching green and each had a large gold rosette on the front. More shocking than that though, was that they also had heels of around two inches in height so, wearing them, I was forced almost on my tiptoes – or so it seemed at the time – and my whole body lurched forward.
Golden garter ribbons featuring rosettes that matched those on my shoes were also drawn up onto each leg, just above the knee. And then the finishing touch: a velvet cloth cap in forest green complete with a white feather. The structure was complete, and I was ordered to make my way downstairs to breakfast in the refectory, which I did, my legs forced apart by the ridiculous breeches, my gait unsteady due to the high heels, my breath limited by the corset, and much of my lower vision blocked by the enormous ruff.
So, this was the start of school life, I thought to myself, wondering what other surprises it might bring.
Chapter 3
If I am honest, after that unexpected introduction to school life, what followed was far more mainstream. I was inducted into the school as part of a cohort of fifty boys in a ceremony in the hall, and then we began our new lives. There were lessons, communal meals, games, and free time before sleeping. Just like any other school I suppose.
Well, almost.
The first difference was the uniform. Being dressed in such a ridiculous and ostentatious fashion every day affected our lives continually. We could not run and even walking was problematic in the breeches and heels, whilst the silken caress of our members left us all almost permanently erect (well, that was the case with me certainly, and I doubt any of my friends were different).
But it was more than that. You try writing with two layers covering your hands, particularly if one is excessively tight and slippery. The pen continually slips from your grasp and you tire easily. You try breathing in a tight corset too or playing football with your mates when dressed so.
For games lessons and clubs, we, of course, had a different outfit. Well, slightly different. The doublet jacket with ruffs and wide padded breeches went but the tights remained, whilst our high heeled shoes were swapped for pumps. However, after spending so long with our feet tilted at an angle, it became increasingly painful to wear flat shoes and so, after three months, our pumps were changed for ones that incorporated a wedge in the sole. Not so extreme as the shoes perhaps, but it did impede movement to a degree. And the tights, well, they allowed free movement alright, but with the continual silken caress still there, a separate pouch for our members and the instruction of the delectable Miss Wilkins who all the young boys fell in love with, meant that we played football, cricket or did our gymnastics with our arousal showing shamefully, causing us to blush and her to smile.
Our lessons too, I later learnt, were not quite like those given in other schools. We had the standard Mathematics, English, Literature, History, Geography and Latin, but we also studied subjects like Sewing, Embroidery, Cooking and Homemaking, which one might consider more suited to female students.
Oh yes, and then there was Deportment and Elocution.
These subjects were intended to erase the effects of our early years in orphanages and poor homes. Elocution eradicated our accents and also taught us to speak in a more high-pitched tone, whilst Deportment was about movement. We walked around with a book on our heads to ensure posture, practised curtseying and then, a sashay gait where we swung our hips from side to side as we move. We also learned to cover our mouths when we ate or giggled – and at the County School, one always had to giggle, never laugh – along with a range of excessively feminine gestures. Perhaps I should have suspected something, but, as I have already said, I was ignorant of education and the world.
Which is why they chose boys like me.
I studied hard and was an able student in all aspects, but that did not eradicate the reality of punishment, the threat of which forever hung over us. We were punished for the slightest thing; from getting ink on our ridiculous ruffs, to speaking in a low-pitched tone or laughing heartily.
The punishments varied. The most common and predictable was corporal punishment, which was issued to our form of ten boys every Friday. We would assemble in the classroom and our form teacher would call us forward one by one and then read out the black marks that we had accumulated during the previous seven days. Then the games mistress, Miss Wilkins, would administer a slap on our bare bottom for each misdemeanour. To be honest, I look back on these with a peculiar mixture of dread and pleasure. Nobody likes being hit on bare flesh and the sting could last, but Miss Wilkins did not always smack us as hard as she could have done and, having such a desirable woman doing it, excited me and my comrades no end. Indeed, many of the boys even committed an extra misdemeanour just to have more contact with her.
But one could only ever receive a maximum of ten slaps per week, and after that, other punishments were brought into play, these being decided by our form master. One was an exercise in humiliation rather than pain: it was decreed that toilet use was not allowed between 8 and 6 and so we were given bulky adult nappies to wear which, along with our huge breeches, spread our legs even further, made walking even harder, and were clearly visible under our tights in games, making the other students point and laugh. The shame of sitting in your own dampness for hours on end, waiting for the clock to tick down has to be experienced to be believed, as too the nicknames like “pissypants” and “pooeybum” which were not discouraged by the teachers.
Another harsh measure was to be given a gag to wear for a week whilst out of the bedroom. Reserved for serious offences (or the accumulation of five black marks), this meant that you were present but not in classes and free time. You were there but could not talk to anyone and so people forgot to include you in their games or ignored your presence.
And the final one that I shall mention, the one that we all detested with a passion, was the binding of our arms in a laced glove behind our backs. Reserved for really serious offences, the student was hauled before the class, his wrist ruffs removed and then the green leather glove laced over his arms, palm-to-palm, behind him. As they laced it tighter, it got increasingly painful and, wearing it, one was essentially helpless and incommunicado, particularly since the hateful gag always accompanied this measure. I only suffered it once, yet the memory stayed in my mind.
Little did I realise what good training it would prove to be.
However, most of the school life was pleasurable. I loved learning and did well, and I made some firm friends, several of whom I still know. My best pal was a boy named Colin in my form. He had come originally from an orphanage in Birmingham, and was bright and of slight build like me (indeed, there were no excessively tall or large boys in the school). He flourished under the County School system, having naturally submissive and feminine tendencies. During our free time we would talk and walk the school grounds together and we found that we had much in common from a love of steam engines and railways to an interest in the flora and fauna of the beautiful countryside that we now found ourselves in after a childhood of grimy smokestacks and featureless factories. One aspect of the fauna where we did not find common ground, however, was that of Miss Wilkins and some of the other pretty maids and teachers. I expressed several times how beautiful and alluring I found them to be, but then I noticed that Colin did not seem to share my enthusiasm and so one day, whilst tottering around the grounds in our heels, I questioned him on the matter and he declared, tearfully, that he had never found women attractive, but he did like men. Now, as we all know, such thoughts are illegal, but I was actually not surprised, for Colin is the kind of boy one might expect to have such sinful thoughts but at the County School it seemed almost, well… normal, what with the almost feminine clothing and studies, and so I put my arms around him, told him it would all be alright and would not get in the way of our friendship, and he cried long and hard into my shoulder.
And so life continued for the next four years, the only other point of note being our uniform upgrades, which were undertaken at the start of every new school term. On each occasion, in a ceremony in the hall, we were presented by the Headmaster with a new pair of shoes and a new set of stays in a beautifully wrapped box. The shoes were the same as before save with slightly higher heels, whilst the stays allowed our waists to be compressed further, part of an ongoing process so that, by the time I proudly graduated from the Lower School aged sixteen in the summer of 2005, I tottered onto the stage in shoes with heels of four inches and boasting a waist of merely 20 inches in circumference.
After that graduation though, everything changed drastically.
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