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 |  Memoir. A quiet teenage boy struggles to cope when school bullying takes a sadistic turn. |
| It was early August 1978 and the long summer break was drawing to a close – it would soon be time for school to start again. In preparation for this, our mother dragged my younger sister and me round the department stores to get new uniforms. As I'd had a growth spurt that year, it meant new trousers, some new shirts, a new pair of shoes, a new pullover and a new blazer – the only survivor from the previous year's uniform would be the tie. Being kitted out for school while mum grumbled about the cost was a lousy way to spend a Saturday, and it was a relief to finally get home. And soon enough it was the first day of the new school year. I had a shower, got dressed in my new uniform and headed downstairs for breakfast. Most kids hated the restart of school after six weeks of freedom – my sister met the day with a particularly sour face – but I was happy as a clam at the prospect. Being picked on again by the usual bullying knuckle-draggers would always be a bit of a downer, but once in the classroom I would be in my element. I’d dropped all the subjects I hated as I started on the two years of study that would lead up to the Scottish O Grades. English, a compulsory course, would be in the lap of the gods, but I intended to get straight As in everything else. I guess that was part of the reason the bullies gave me a hard time, but my attitude was “screw them” – in a few years I'd be off to university and they'd never bother me again. So everything was just fine in my little world as I left the house that morning to get the school bus in the company of my sulky sibling. When it dropped us off at our destination, my sister headed off to meet up with her usual gang. I was glad to see the back of her as she'd been a pain in the backside for several days now. My good mood at her departure was short-lived – as I started heading towards the school, I saw my tormentors from a distance. There were four of them, so I knew exactly who they were before I'd got anywhere near close enough to see faces. This lot were generally the worst of the cretins I had to put up with, and it was obvious from all the nudging and the faces turning my way that they'd been waiting for me. I hadn’t even got within the school grounds on the first day before we were back in the old routine. As I approached they started to grin at me, a sure sign that I was about to get the shit end of the stick. “Hey fatso – nice uniform. New, is it?” This was Graham, the second-banana in this mob. If his IQ had been any lower you’d have needed to plant him in a pot and water him daily. Pete – the alpha in this group of sorry betas – said nothing, but simply looked at me with a knowing smirk on his face. They clearly had something planned, and I started to get nervous. I nodded at the question and tried to move past, but he wasn’t having any of it. “Hang on – we have something we want to talk to you about.” He indicated a side street, and my nervousness started to edge in the direction of panic. If they needed peace and quiet for what they had in mind, it was going to be bad. I tried to walk past again, but they grabbed me by both arms, dragged me down the street, round the corner and into a quiet cul-de-sac. This was where the shops in the main street had their waste bins – the few windows overlooking us were generally frosted glass or on store rooms full of junk. No people, no curious eyes to see what was happening. I was alone with these four clowns and we had privacy. Pete finally decided to get involved. “It is a nice uniform, but you’re missing something.” I stared blankly at him, not having the slightest idea what he was on about. “I said you’re missing something from your uniform.” He sounded it out as if he were talking to a half-wit, eliciting some sniggering from the others. Pete looked towards one of them, who stepped forward. This was Ian – a bit of a creep who always left me feeling uncomfortable, as he always gave the impression of not being quite right upstairs. (The fourth member of the group, another Ian but spelled with an extra i – Iain – hung around on the periphery. Iain-with-an-i never seemed to fit in with this lot. God only knew why he tagged along with them or, for that matter, why they tolerated him. I guess he wanted the street-cred of being with a gang, but he was out of place and knew it.) Meanwhile Ian (without an i) had produced a bag from behind his back and held it out for me. It was a common-or-garden carrier bag from the same department store in which I'd spent a dreary Saturday, and contained a single item – a long, narrow box of some sort. As they all crowded in on me to see my reaction, I took the bag with shaking hands, opened it, pulled out the box...and felt sick when I realised what was coming my way. My heart started racing and I began breathing heavily, panic threatening to overwhelm me. The picture on the front of the box was that of a young female in her underwear. Above the picture, at a jaunty angle, was the word “Berlei” and beside it, in ominous red capitals, was “Instant Slimmer”. The bra she was wearing wasn’t important, it was what else she had on that made me feel sick. He'd handed me a box containing a long-leg panty girdle. The words of one of their standard taunts – “Hey fatso, get a girdle!” – came to mind. Obviously I'd no intention of doing any such thing and so, somehow, they’d got one for me. I dropped both box and bag and started to back off – not the smartest move, as the only escape route was behind them. “No way, No fucking way.” My voice started to break and I began to sound whiny. The tears hadn’t come yet, but they were on their way. “No way am I wearing that thing.” “Now that’s not very nice. You’re supposed to say ‘thank you’.” Pete was in his element. “Put your new girdle on.” I shook my head, my vision starting to blur with tears as he continued. “You’re going to look so much better without that pot belly or wobbly arse. Put it on.” The smile disappeared from his face. “Put your fucking girdle on – now – or we’ll make you put it on.” The delay that followed seemed to last for ages, though it could only have been a few seconds. Pete sighed and nodded. Iain-with-an-i was still posted missing in action, but the other two were ready to roll. They grabbed an arm each and Pete stepped forward and started to try to unfasten the belt of my trousers. The ridiculous struggle that followed saw me lose my footing and fall to one knee. Within seconds, three of us were wrestling around on the ground. Iain had finally stepped forwards to hold my legs and Pete, still upright and bending over me, had now got my trousers down to mid-thigh. It may seem ludicrous, but at this point the thought that came to my mind was that my new uniform might get torn and I’d get hell when I got home. “Stop! Stop! I’ll do it.” I could hardly believe I’d said that, as the struggle stopped and they got back to their feet. I knew I was a pitiful sight as, snivelling and with the tears starting to roll down my cheeks, I got to my feet. Pete handed me the box. “Put it on.” I stepped back, bumping into the wall behind me. I was crying now, not just sobbing but bawling my eyes out, as I tried to take off my trousers. I had to stop to take my shoes off first, but I eventually managed to strip down to my underpants. Then I opened the box and took out the girdle. Girdles were one of these objects of fascination for a young boy. Back in the seventies, the TV regularly carried adverts for them. They were on open display in clothing shop windows. Mail order catalogues had entire sections devoted to corsetry. It was a teenage boy’s dream to get his hands on the catalogue when his parents were not around and ogle these pictures, being careful not to leave finger prints or, God forbid, actually tear a page. They were these strange feminine things... ...and there I was, a teenage schoolboy, trousers off, about to put one on. I remember moaning with horror as I held it by the waist band and let it unfold. High waisted, long legged, with a formidable front panel. I looked over at them and started to plead. “Please no...” “Put the fucker on, for Christ’s sake. We’re going to be late for school.” Looking back, the only thing in this incident I am ashamed of on that first day is begging them to let me go. It only heightened their pleasure. From that day on, I would never give them that satisfaction again. My body wracked with great whooping sobs, I bent over and stepped into it, getting a cheer from the crowd. They were relishing every moment, eager to see me struggle to tug it on, see the look on my face, the look in my eyes, revel in my torment. As I started to pull it up, it began to feel tight on me long before I had it fully on. Jesus! Did they get one the wrong size? “Suck that belly in, fatso.” This triggered a chant from the others. “Suck it in! Suck it in! Suck it in!” I pulled my belly in, and a few brisk tugs later I was wearing my new girdle. I was conscious of nothing else at that moment but the feel of it on me. I'd relaxed my stomach muscles and my belly was now being well supported by the front panel, the cheeks of my backside were being squeezed together...and the grip around my thighs! I would grow to hate that thigh control more than anything else over the coming weeks. I stood in a stunned silence. My mouth was hanging open in shock and my eyes must have been popping out of my skull judging by the laughter it triggered. As I’d been pulling it on, there had been giggling, wolf-whistles, slogans from TV ads – “Is your girdle killing you?”, “Can you believe it’s a girdle?” and so on – but now Graham and Ian had been reduced to hysterics. But not Pete or Iain. On seeing the look on my face, Iain had turned away – perhaps embarrassed for me, possibly ashamed of himself. Pete was drinking in the moment, loving my pain. He picked up the box and read the blurb to me as I stood there horrified, hands on my hips, fingers splayed across the front panel, completely unable to believe this was happening. “'You'll look good and you'll feel feminine' it says...well, Davina, do you feel feminine?” A sudden flash brought me back out of my stupor. Iain had at last decided to get involved and had produced a camera – the Polaroid type that produced actual pictures within seconds. They crowded round to see the blank white square slowly reveal me in all my glory – face a picture of gawping idiocy as I stood there in my new school shirt, new school pullover, new school blazer... and new school panty girdle. Not that I realised it at that point. An optimistic (or should that be delusional) little voice inside me was desperately trying to convince me that, once they'd had their fun, I’d be able to get out of this bloody thing and escape to school and back to normality. Further flashes made me fear the worst. The sick terror had returned. There was only one possibility – they were going to show these pictures around the school and destroy me. I was crying again as this realisation sunk in. “People are going to love these.” Pete again – it was always Pete in the driving seat. To my shame, I went back to begging, My pleading became almost incoherent as I lost it. Pete placed his hand on my shoulder. “It’s a pity to have got you that nice new girdle for you to wear it for only a few minutes. Maybe if you make it part of your uniform then no-one needs to see the pictures.” I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. “You want me to...” His grin broadened as he nodded with exaggerated slowness. “Every school day, from start to finish. Five days a week. No time off. If we even once catch you without it on, we show the pictures around.” He brandished a few of the photos at me. “This one will go to your parents. And this will look good on the main school noticeboard.” “No. Fuck no. Please...” “Well, you’ve got today to think about it.” Graham handed me my trousers and shoes. “Get dressed then for fuck’s sake. We’re going to be late.” My hands went for the girdle waistband but they were slapped away. “Don’t be so fucking stupid.” I realised with horror that I was going to have to wear this awful bloody thing to school today. Sobbing again, this time with fear at the thought of being caught wearing women's underwear, I put my trousers back on, tucked in my shirt, zipped my fly, fastened the button, fastened my belt. “You see! You do look better in it! We always told you that you needed a good girdle!” Bending over to put on my shoes was an experience. I gasped out loud as I bent down far enough to fasten them, overcoming the resistance of my new underwear – Ian and Graham were screaming with laughter. As we walked back up to the main street, Pete was a few steps behind me. “Jesus Christ! What’s with the Frankenstein walk? It says it's supposed to make you feel feminine - women don’t walk like that.” The Frankenstein jibe hit Graham’s funny bone. “Yeah, Frank. Walk like a real woman.” We walked in silence for most of the way. I was lost in my own world as I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief and tried to pull myself together before we reached the school gates. Our path took us past the department store where they’d somehow acquired this thing. Seeing the window displays was like a punch in the gut – all I could think of as I stared in horror at a smiling shop dummy was that I was now wearing that exact girdle! Even in my state of anguish, I recall wondering how they'd got it. Had they stolen it? They surely hadn't paid for it. But they'd handed it to me in a store bag, so they must have bought it. And, unfortunately for me, it was a good tight fit, so they must have made an effort to get the right size. They couldn't have done it themselves – teenage boys couldn't have gone into the corsetry department and bought a bloody girdle! These questions diverted me from the awful tight sensation around my abdomen and thighs, but only for a moment. It was impossible to forget what I had on, what they insisted I was going to have to wear every day from now on. My stomach lurched at the thought and I thought I was going to throw up. By the time we approached the school I had started to walk a bit more naturally. A few more giggles greeted my awkward efforts to climb the front steps and then we were inside. The first school day of my new life had begun. |
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