Boys Will be Boys

Boys Will be Boys

Boys will be Boys – CrewCtGal

“Over here, quick Sal!”

Tim yelled at his sister as he scrambled over the tin fence of the yard. Sally struggled herself over the fence, her chubby knees grazed by a sharp piece of rusty tin, blood trickling then gelling as she stood behind him, breathless with excitement.

“You don’t cry do ya? Good girl.”

Praise indeed. Sally blushed with fierce pride and puffed out her flat chest.

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“Come on then kid, let’s go!” Tim admonished as they slid, close to the tin fence, down the long plot towards the secret ‘club’ that she so desperately wanted to join. As they crawled, Sally on her cut knee, down the old drainage pipe into the damp, stinking cellar, she thought her heart would burst with daring and pride. This ‘club’ was the scandal of their neighborhood, renowned for smashed windows, tied cats and other shenanigans. And for masturbation. It was said, among the Sunday flock in shocked whispers, that the boys held competitions, seeing how far – and how often -they could ejaculate, here in this stinking, damp and dark chamber at the end of the culvert pipe. Now Sally was in here – the veritable chamber of horrors.

Suddenly she shrieked as a rough hand grabbed her long braid and used it to yank her to her feet. In the gloom she saw her brother had his arms pinned behind his back, so roughly held that he was bent forward, over his knees, to lessen his pain.

“A GIRL? In here? Tim, you bastard, what are you doing?”

Tim struggled out his protest.

“That’s not a girl like that Ralph, Sal’s my big sister – she’s great!”

The rage in the gang’s voices was clear: a taboo had been violated. Someone, it was said, would pay for this transgression. But the group collapsed into its own shock and they sat around her in a silent, puzzled circle.

“Why’d ya wanna come in here then gal?”

Sally was as proud as ever in her replies, her obvious admiration, and her own reputation as a tom-boy always in trouble were sufficiently awe-inspiring to control the gang’s potential for violence. They soon tired of this novelty, turned back to their illicit cigarettes and added to the funky air in the cellar. The conversation drifted as aimlessly as the tobacco smoke. Sally quietly slid onto the floor, leaning back on the damp cellar wall and gazed at each of them in turn. Occasionally a vilely expressed threat – backed by a protesting “Hey!” from Tim – would drift her way, but she ignored them, keeping her admiration obvious and her demeanor respectful. Soon she was no longer the center of interest – one of the boys had developed a ‘boner’. Sally’s eyes grew wide. She had only once seen – and felt – her brother in this extended state, and that only in the course of a game of dress-up they had played. But this ‘boner’ was not only obvious, it was being displayed, pulled out from the boy’s pants, shining pink and plum in the weak light as he caressed its length. He turned towards her, pumping his hand, and took a step towards her. Tim leapt up and blocked him, but the other guys pushed him away and drew closer to her. Her eyes were bright, wide and aghast but defiant. She had wanted to see this, to join this club, and was not yet prepared to give an inch in her resolve.

“Kiss it!” the lad ordered, and the gang jeered and cheered, jostling him closer. He thrust his penis towards her face and Sally recoiled from the odor of cheese and musk. But then turned again, again defiant – and more than a little intrigued at the phenomenon. He bent his knees so as to nearly touch her cheeks with his member, hastening his pumping as his excitement mounted. The jeering ceased and out of the corner of her eye Sally saw two more tumescent shafts presented to the dank air. Her brother’s protest turned to cajoling, claiming this was part of their secret initiation.

“You do wanna join the club Sal don’t ya?” he wheedled.

“Kiss it Sally!”

Sally dropped her eyes. Lifting her hand she cupped the youth’s ball sac in her palm, surprised at its warm weight. She quickly brushed the smelly tool with her dry mouth and the gang cheered. Almost immediately she felt a warm splash on her bare knee and watched, shocked but fascinated, as the secretion pumped and spilt from the boy’s engorged member. Another cheer for this demonstration of virility from the gang including, Sally noted, from her brother whose own eyes were now bright as he tugged at his pants. Ralph, the largest boy pushed through towards her, his penis fully erect and engorged, considerably bigger than the others. Cheers for the ‘champ’ echoed, with a more knowledgeable swain advising him to “make her eat it”. Sally recoiled, and, half turning, struggled to her feet. Quickly, as she was half standing, Ralph threw her face down and over. Sally struggled fiercely now, as she felt many hands scrabbling at her panties, lifting her dress. A flutter of panic shook a wailing “Noooo” of protest from her as she felt the heat from the Ralph’s body on her thighs. With a loud crash the culvert pipe was torn from the ‘secret’ entrance and the first of the angry parents all but fell into the room.

The police had eventually left, failing, despite some forceful words, to elicit any charges from either parent. They said they understood – brother and sister together in ‘that place’ – but they were wrong – they could not really understand the depth of despairing shock the parents struggled with …nor the disbelief that it was their own children found in such circumstances. It had been established that it was the first time their daughter had gone there, and that she was found, and heard, struggling and protesting. But she had defiantly claimed it was just a game, that she was playing… and that she was a fully-fledged member of the ‘club’ underground. Tim had muttered that she would be too, if she kept up her silence and denials. Her mother, her red-rimmed eyes pleading, begged her to tell them what had really happened. Her father assured her that her reputation was ruined – as was their own after this scandal and was threatening new punishments every other minute. Sally sat silent, her face screwed into a hard look, and her dirty, cut knees swinging under her in the chair. More frustrating and unanswered questions. Sally watched the rage in her father mount and dimly recognized and acknowledged his sense of betrayal.

“I just wanted to me a member Dad, that’s all.”

Instead of consoling her parent as she intended, this merely allowed her father to vent his rage and deep disappointment at his ‘special girl’. He stormed and foamed for long minutes, at one stage his heat rising so much he actually threatened her with a raised hand. Her mom dashed to his side as he struggled to control himself, catching his raised arm and holding him around his shaking shoulders. He grew silent, if not calm.

“You just wanted to JOIN those scum! To be a member of a boy’s gang?”

Sally knew better than to reply.

“All right young lady. Then so you shall.” Darkly. Her Mom tugged at him and threw her hand towards the stairs and Sally, puzzled at his threat but all knowing of her mother’s rescue, dashed to her room. She sobbed there, safe and secure in her privacy, but more from the sounds of Tim’s grief and punishment rather than her own disgrace. She slipped into a tearful, fearful sleep but was woken, deep into the night, by her parents rage and grief – the arguments loud, but as lost and confusing as the rest of her day.

Tim had gone, slipping from the house early, wisely absenting himself from his parent’s view – no doubt, Sally thought, already advising the other chastised members of the ‘club’ that it was to her brave silence that they all owed their freedom. Her father had left to his shop, and her mother’s face encouraged caution and silent movements from Sally, as she bathed and dressed and slipped towards the door.

“Come here Miss. You stay put for once.”

Sally sat quietly reading in her room, her mother’s movements below in the house reassuring after the violent storms of the previous night. She heard her father’s voice and was startled – he’d come home from work. Then she heard him leave again, the door thudding his unspoken message up to her room. Several minutes of quietness lulled Sally back into her shattered security, she became immersed in her reading again, laying flat on her tummy on herbed, her crossed, uplifted legs, swinging back and forth above her.

Premonition stirred her eyes towards her open door and she jumped. Her mother stood, clutching a brown paper bag, still and staring with a sad, yet hardened expression. Without changing her hard, slit mouth, and with stilted movements, she crossed to the bed and upended the bag, spilling the contents onto the pink coverlet. Turning, she said, “Get dressed, and brush out your hair.” and closed the door behind herself with a firm click. Sally was still, puzzled. The bag had contained dun and gray clothes. Boy’s clothes. She dropped her book and rolled onto her side, picking up a button-down school shirt, gray and stiff, its white price tag fluttering as she spread it on her bed. Small. Her hand flew to a pair of dun shorts – school colors – small too. Socks, knee-high, hated, woolen – her brother and his friends complaining of their itchy scratching when worn to school. Sally sat up. Her Dad had bought these. She was to be dressed as a boy? As a punishment? She smiled, a cat’s grin – a tomboy’s dream. Sally felt the bubble of a giggle rise – then it turned into a gag of fear, sudden, chilling and plunging “…and brush out your hair.” Sally’s head shook in denial. No, they did not mean that, they wouldn’t – her father loved her long blonde hair. As she did. Sally heard more voices and movement below, not her father this time, but the muted tones of females. A rap at the door and her mother’s voice, held hard and firm, telling her to put on her things, like “the other club members”, and to do it now. Sally felt a frission of strangeness, a flush of feeling that she did not understand as she stood before the full-length mirror. Her bare knees peeped above the long gray, woolen socks. They did itch. Her flat chested figure strange in her shirt and shorts. The door opened and her mother came in holding one of Tim’s school ties. Without a word she lifted the stiff collar, threw end over end and peeled the collar back down over the now knotted tie, sliding the slip knot under Sally’s lowered chin. Still silent her mother reached up to her ears and Sally felt her pull the plastic backs off the studs in her ears. Her mother clipped the backs onto the earrings and dropped them into her skirt pocket. Taking Sally firmly by the shoulders she pushed her towards the open door. Sally kept her eyes, and blushing face, lowered – watching with an inner calm distraction her own feet, shod in brown leather brogues, as they stepped along in front of her, idly wondering whose feet she was using as they descended the stairs. She watched them cross in front of her – her mom’s firm hands still propelling and guiding – towards the kitchen. Then she stopped, her mother bumping up into her back.

The mothers sitting and staring at her, in her own kitchen, were the apotheosis of righteousness, every one a stalwart member of their church – and every one a frigid, cruel gossip. Sally froze, threw one quick and startled glance at each of the hard faces, then dropped her head, blushing crimson, heated and scared.

“My daughter would like to apologize to you, for the scandal she brings to our church and to our friends.” An approving flutter. A hard shove from her mother threw Sally closer into the circle of neighborhood judgement. She knew what was required, but fought back – briefly. Her mother moved into her peripheral vision and picked up her large, black-handled, dressmaking shears returning to stand behind Sally, picking up the still defiantly braided and un-brushed hank of blonde hair.

“I’m sorry for any scandal Ma’m I really am.” It came out in a rush, near intelligible, and fully as a reaction to her mother’s unspoken, but guessed, threat to her long hair.

“Again Sally, properly this time – and look at them.”

Sally lifted her eyes, if not her lowered head, more defiant and confident now, believing she had been shown the extent of her dictated punishment. She was glad to be dressed in boy’s clothes, glad to throw off an apology to these hard-faced crones – if that was the price for her adventure, and to keep her hair, she would be glad to pay it.

“I am very sorry that my lack of thought has led to this scandal and do hope this is the last of it. I promise not to go near that dreadful boy’s club again.” She enunciated it as though rehearsing for the school play – her audience ‘applauded’ in their own way, not smiling but at least granting condescending nods of approval. Sally felt suddenly free and was turning towards her mother, expecting to kiss and make up with her too, when the shears tore into the hair at her nape, screwing and hacking at the roots of her waist-long braid. Sally screamed as the last hairs were severed, as though the very sound – of tearing silk – were painful, and her hands grabbed at her mother’s. With disdain her mother slapped her bare arms spindling out of the boy’s shirt.

“Keep still. You wanted to be in the boy’s gang.”

Sally watched through a sheet of hot tears as her hair was tossed onto the table with a soft thump, the sound drowned by her sobs as she struggled – her mother holding both the shears and her wrists. The church ladies swept out of the kitchen with slowly nodding heads, “If she wants to be like a boy…” and other good-byes were said as Sally sank to the kitchen stool and was released to bury her head into her arms. Her wails and sobs ushered the visitors out.

She was still snuffling as they went in, but a seed of anger and hurt lent her strength, enough to meet with a small glint of defiance, the startled stares they had met in the street on the walk down. But not enough to face her father. Sally wailed a ‘Daddy’ as soon as she saw him, and half stepped with uplifted arms towards him. Then his hard set features stopped her and, resigned, she dropped both her arms and her head again, barely resisting as he, in his turn, took her shoulders and propelled her out the back of the store. Once Sally threw a glance over her shoulder to see her mother’s back, held straight, as she began the long walk home alone. She was not surprised as her father guided her into the barbershop, even remembering to politely open the door for her – nor even that the barber was so obviously waiting for her. Her surprise, and renewed weeping were as a result of an expectant audience – four of the fathers from the ‘rescue’ squad, stern and immobile. Again an apology, wrung between sobs – again as though from an recorded message, the same trite words that these adults seemed to need to hear. Her knees were shaking – even touching once with a bonk – as she stepped towards the chair. She climbed up, unaided, onto the flat board that ‘boosted’ her head to a workable height for the barber, who now wrapped a white sheet around her shoulders.

Sally looked up into the speckled mirror and a gasp sobbed up from her chest as she saw, for the first time, her ravaged hair, sawn off at her lobes, spilling from a center part. The stares of her father and other four men drove her eyes back to her lap as the barber picked up his scissors. She felt the first shearing pass at her nape, the steel cold on her flushed skin, and began to sob quietly. One of the men stood up with a muttered protest and left the shop, the door’s crash causing the barber to freeze until Sally heard her father – he too now with a catch in his voice – tell the man to get cutting. Sally felt her ears grow cool, her flushed skin now exposed by the peeling shears. She threw a cautious glance up into the mirror, as though her view might burn her eyes. She wailed a soft, quite and feminine sound among the harsh clipping. Then she grew silent, her tears dried – spent and tired, almost with disinterest, she began to watch the barber carve a boyish shape into her soft, blonde hair. When he picked the electric clipper, yet another one of the men stood up and muttering a ‘Good … good ..’ started to leave. The barber paused as the remaining men stood and made their excuses, leaving only her father, uncertain and alone. Sally met his eye firmly. He flushed, then muttered that the barber was to shave her and use hair cream, then he too left. Sally regarded the barber solemnly in the mirror as he stared at her, uncertain.

“Go on then. Clipper me.” The childish voice was steady now, as was her gaze. He began to shave her neck, spilling tufts of blonde hair onto her sheeted lap. Sally’s head was pulled back and to one side as the clipper sheared away the hair at the side above her ear. She looked into the mirror, fascinated. Behind her, as she re-focused, she saw Tim standing in the door. He sat down silently. The barber threw him a stern look and muttered, then shaved away the last of Sally’s hair from around her hairline. He picked up a straight razor, and with a puff of talcum powder, began to slowly – with a harsh rasp – shave her bared, bowed and proffered neck. Four of the other boys, – none, she noted happily, the Ralph who had tumbled her to her knees – came silently into the shop and sat alongside her brother. As the barber pummeled some highly perfumed cream into her hair Sally smiled into the mirror. As the barber created a razor-sharp, white part and slicked down her cropped hair into the required ‘short back and sides’ style, Sally’s grin encompassed the boys waiting on the bench. Slowly, shyly, the grin was returned. As the barber brushed her shorn locks off her shoulders, spilling their gold onto his floor, Sally jumped down from his chair. Her neck was clipper shaved, pink and raw, to the height of the curve in hr skull. Her ears protruded starkly, surrounded by bare, shaved skin. Her neat head glistening in the sun, she skittered away with the rest of the boys.

“Hey Sal – you can get in the Y looking like that!” Tim was excited.

“Yeah! We got a REAL secret place – they will never find us this time.” He blushed as she looked at him – no doubt recalling her dry, timid kiss in the cellar.

Sally paused, her fingers ruefully exploring the harshly punished hair on her head. She straightened her tie.

“OK. But this time…” she said with her old defiance and taking the boy’s hand with an inner, secret, glee, “… you get to kiss mine.”


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