Read Online Murder Most Fab by Julian Clary - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julian Clary
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a curious
synchronicity that my mother’s nymphomania coincided with my own sexual
awakening. But while she was bright and blatant about her activities, puberty
had darkened my private thoughts. They were as salacious as any other teenage
boy’s, but I was confused: was I going through a phase or was I a homo? I
didn’t think about girls sexually. I tried to, but nothing happened as it did
when I thought of boys. Meanwhile hair sprouted in all sorts of places and my
penis grew and grew I locked myself into the toilet several times a day to
check its progress.
Growing
fast, clear-skinned and happy despite, or maybe because of, my secret gay
fantasies, I was a sporty youngster, gregarious and handsome. Inspired by the
outing with my grandmother to the Chinese State Circus and the lithe athlete
who’d caught my eye, I spent what little spare time I had at the athletics club
and found I was particularly good at the horse and the rings. I knew I enjoyed
being among those well-honed young men, and I was aware that I looked forward
to the showers — but I hadn’t yet joined the dots.
I
became best friends with a classmate called Vincent, the curly-haired,
rough-and-ready, yet roguishly good-looking son of a family from Essex. They
lived in a mock-Tudor house in a much-loathed new estate on the outskirts of
the village. His mother —Vincent referred to her as ‘my old lady’ — drove a
sports car while wearing a head scarf with dark glasses, and although he never
said as much, I guessed that his father was spending a few years in prison.
Together we talked about our absent fathers and the responsibility we felt
towards our mothers. Most of all we talked about girls and sex. Or Vincent did.
‘I
can’t wait to shag a bird.’
‘Me
too,’ I said.
‘Beverley
Dean let me feel her tits.’
‘Me
too.’
‘I’m gonna
finger her next time.
‘Me
too.’
‘Do you
want to see a dirty magazine? Look at this bitch. She loves taking it up the
arse.’
‘Me
too,’ I said, then hurriedly corrected myself. ‘I mean, er, wow!’
Vincent
gave me a suspicious look and put away the magazine.
With
his cheeky grin and laddish swagger, Vincent had a starring role in my sexual
fantasies, but although we sometimes stayed at each other’s houses, and my mind
was filled with all sorts of fruity scenarios, I didn’t dare touch him. From
his frequent comments about queers and poofs, I got the distinct impression that
my attentions would be violently rebuffed.
My
heart would sink when he suggested we hang out at the village bus shelter — a mecca
for local teenagers. Vincent would chat up one of the girls, back her against
the graffiti for a snog and a grope. I was so worried my jealousy would show
that I would slouch off home before a girl made a move on me.
By the
time I was sixteen I knew for sure where my feelings lay. I was gay and that
was all there was to it. But how on earth was I going to meet a like-minded lad
while I lived in a quiet Kentish village?
Little
did I realize that an innocent stroll down to the post office one Saturday
morning would answer that question, and awaken enough powerful emotion to last
me a lifetime.
On that sunny spring morning,
I was doing some shopping for my mother at the village post office and I took
the opportunity to buy myself an ice lolly. I lingered outside the post office,
working away at my raspberry Mivvi, idly seeing how much of it I could get into
my mouth without gagging, when my eye was caught by a printed card in the
window. There were plenty of others alongside —mostly scrawled in
near-illegible biro and advertising an old fridge, a car or a cot for sale —
but this one stood out. It was printed on thick cream card with a gold embossed
crest at the top:
Wanted: Enthusiastic youngsters required to work as weekend
gardeners. No experience necessary, training will be provided. Apply the Head
Gardener, Thornchurch House.
My interest
synchronicity that my mother’s nymphomania coincided with my own sexual
awakening. But while she was bright and blatant about her activities, puberty
had darkened my private thoughts. They were as salacious as any other teenage
boy’s, but I was confused: was I going through a phase or was I a homo? I
didn’t think about girls sexually. I tried to, but nothing happened as it did
when I thought of boys. Meanwhile hair sprouted in all sorts of places and my
penis grew and grew I locked myself into the toilet several times a day to
check its progress.
Growing
fast, clear-skinned and happy despite, or maybe because of, my secret gay
fantasies, I was a sporty youngster, gregarious and handsome. Inspired by the
outing with my grandmother to the Chinese State Circus and the lithe athlete
who’d caught my eye, I spent what little spare time I had at the athletics club
and found I was particularly good at the horse and the rings. I knew I enjoyed
being among those well-honed young men, and I was aware that I looked forward
to the showers — but I hadn’t yet joined the dots.
I
became best friends with a classmate called Vincent, the curly-haired,
rough-and-ready, yet roguishly good-looking son of a family from Essex. They
lived in a mock-Tudor house in a much-loathed new estate on the outskirts of
the village. His mother —Vincent referred to her as ‘my old lady’ — drove a
sports car while wearing a head scarf with dark glasses, and although he never
said as much, I guessed that his father was spending a few years in prison.
Together we talked about our absent fathers and the responsibility we felt
towards our mothers. Most of all we talked about girls and sex. Or Vincent did.
‘I
can’t wait to shag a bird.’
‘Me
too,’ I said.
‘Beverley
Dean let me feel her tits.’
‘Me
too.’
‘I’m gonna
finger her next time.
‘Me
too.’
‘Do you
want to see a dirty magazine? Look at this bitch. She loves taking it up the
arse.’
‘Me
too,’ I said, then hurriedly corrected myself. ‘I mean, er, wow!’
Vincent
gave me a suspicious look and put away the magazine.
With
his cheeky grin and laddish swagger, Vincent had a starring role in my sexual
fantasies, but although we sometimes stayed at each other’s houses, and my mind
was filled with all sorts of fruity scenarios, I didn’t dare touch him. From
his frequent comments about queers and poofs, I got the distinct impression that
my attentions would be violently rebuffed.
My
heart would sink when he suggested we hang out at the village bus shelter — a mecca
for local teenagers. Vincent would chat up one of the girls, back her against
the graffiti for a snog and a grope. I was so worried my jealousy would show
that I would slouch off home before a girl made a move on me.
By the
time I was sixteen I knew for sure where my feelings lay. I was gay and that
was all there was to it. But how on earth was I going to meet a like-minded lad
while I lived in a quiet Kentish village?
Little
did I realize that an innocent stroll down to the post office one Saturday
morning would answer that question, and awaken enough powerful emotion to last
me a lifetime.
On that sunny spring morning,
I was doing some shopping for my mother at the village post office and I took
the opportunity to buy myself an ice lolly. I lingered outside the post office,
working away at my raspberry Mivvi, idly seeing how much of it I could get into
my mouth without gagging, when my eye was caught by a printed card in the
window. There were plenty of others alongside —mostly scrawled in
near-illegible biro and advertising an old fridge, a car or a cot for sale —
but this one stood out. It was printed on thick cream card with a gold embossed
crest at the top:
Wanted: Enthusiastic youngsters required to work as weekend
gardeners. No experience necessary, training will be provided. Apply the Head
Gardener, Thornchurch House.
My interest
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