Adam Mars-Jones - Pilcrow

Mount Julian

As he lifted me up and I began my descent onto the well-cushioned territory called Mount Julian, I gave thanks to Roger Stott, the guardian angel of my wayward desire. He was helping me be a bit of a devil. I could appreciate in a more general way that Marion Willis and Alan Raeburn had been very much on the ball when they had opened the school to ABs. It had partly been a tactic, to cast their net as widely as possible, and to maximise the money coming in. ABs could have managed well enough at any school, but for the proper working of Vulcan as a complex organism they were indispensable. Without them, there would have been a much higher staff-to-pupil ratio, and consequent squashing of a lot of fun and freedom. What matron, however enlightened, would ever have had the nerve to lift me onto another boy, purely to serve the sparky mood of the dorm?

The next few seconds were a feast of sensation, and I gorged myself. My previous fantasy had run aground because I had failed to factor Julian’s callipers into the equation. Now I had learned my lesson, and delayed my pounce until the callipers were off. Bravo John! Sound tactics. On the other hand, I hadn’t thought things through properly. I hadn’t fully understood what it meant that his callipers were now off. After all, they were worn for a reason.

The legs which had been so hard and unyielding in the castle classroom still had the reflected glamour of motion and masculinity, but without the hated supporting brackets they had no power. I had fantasised about interlocking my legs with man-boy or boy-man, but now that I was in the desired position Julian couldn’t play his part. For once the assignment was beyond the schoolboy agent QM. For all I know, Julian was throwing all the appropriate switches in his brain, but the wasted poliomyelised muscles in his legs couldn’t respond to the messages, though they still had a full range of movement. My case was the opposite, so that once again there was a fatal dove-tailing of disabilities. Messages from brain to legs came through loud and clear. Willing muscles pulled in the proper planes. Ankylosed joints refused to budge.

Nevertheless there was much that I could achieve in these seconds. I was lucky in having Roger Stott as a willing collaborator. My body didn’t usefully respond to my commands. Roger’s could and did. I was pulling his strings very nicely, but he was also following his own mischievous agenda, at a tangent to mine. We weren’t moving as one, which would have been boring. We were improvising some sort of unprecedented dance, full of cross-rhythms.

Throwing myself open to the spontaneity blossoming in the room, I raised my little fists and brought them down on Julian’s chest, shouting, ‘You will stop writing that letter. You will stop writing that letter! If you don’t stop writing I shall beat you up.’

‘That’s it John, you tell him!’ said Roger. ‘I’ll make it easier for you …’ He put his arms round my waist and lifted me slightly, and soon we had become marvellously syncopated. As I raised my hands a few inches, Roger lifted me a little and when I brought them winging down he gave a downward thrust at the same time to amplify the movement. I was a tender battering ram, storming the walled town that was Julian Robinson with the help of a passing volunteer army.

We soon got into the swing of it. Julian let the letter slip out of his hands and called out in a show of panic, ‘Oh no please, don’t do it! I surrender. I’ll do anything you want. Just name your price!’

By now I had captured the attention of the entire dorm. Someone said, ‘Come on John, do some of your “Darling I luff you” stuff now.’ ‘Naahhh!’ said someone else, charitably. ‘He always gets stuffed in the play. He should be underneath.’

‘Oh don’t be so old-fashioned!’ said the first voice, ‘he can do anything he wants. Just give it to him, John!’

Roger obligingly moved his arms down to my hips and started using my fused pelvis to hump Julian’s body. I took advantage of those seconds to tell him I wanted to mate with him. The word which I had heard used by an ambulance man all those years ago still had power over me. I mouthed the words as if they were part of the play, though I was perfectly sincere. I pretended to be only pretending to mean them. I also used those precious moments to explore Julian’s body with my hands.

It wasn’t easy. As I was bounced up and down I was reminded of the flicker books other boys used to play with — they resisted my fumbling — where a series of still pictures turned into a miniature film when riffled with a competent thumb, some jerky chase or other. I needed to assemble these moments into a fuller portrait. I would have liked to take my time over the exploration, but I knew I had only seconds before the mood of the room changed. Ideally I would savour each new sensation, comparing it with what I had thought it would be like. I would let each batch of information be smoothly absorbed before moving on to the next one. Pretend to be playing with his tummy, admire the firmness, comment on the muscles, let your hand go down further accidentally on purpose, see if he flinches away, if his reaction is neutral it might mean he didn’t want you to think he enjoyed it. Take your time, as much as seems decent, a whole day if you can spare it. Later in the sequence, put your hand between his legs and give a gentle nudge, in order to feel … whatever was there.

That was the problem I faced. I still didn’t have much idea about what I was going to find. For all I knew, tailies might get smaller and smaller as you grew older until they’d diminished to a residual bud. In any event, my chances to explore his body had to take place in flicker-book flashes. As Roger held my botty and plunged it down onto Julian’s body I was able to feel something . The problem was interpreting the data. It was the first time that I’d been on top of another human being since I was running around making bomfires in 1953. Now my ankylosed joints were being pumped on top of the minotaur boy. His top half was perfect. The bottom half was a mystery waiting to be solved.

My brain must have been working as fast as it had for many years — probably since I had lain in bed in Bathford listening to ‘the song where the lady wins in spite of not knowing about pies’, also known as ‘Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better’. The camera in my head was taking pictures at a huge rate. Flash-bulbs were popping. My hand was being squashed in rhythm against Julian’s body. My thumb on his firm tummy slipped into a little hollow that I knew must be the belly button. I’d located the central dent of his anatomy. Now I should try to slide my thumb southward an inch or two at a time. Blow the thumb southerly, south or south-west. My lad’s in the dorm whom I love best …

It’s not usually possible for me, with my fixed wrists, to lay my palms against the parts of the world that interest me, so I’ve learned over time to transfer tactile sensitivity to the backs of my hands. I’ve done as much mental re-wiring as I can manage, and I’ve learned to interpret the data that streams in from surfaces which nature left only meanly supplied with pleasure sensors.

Roger, bless him, was working me in a reasonably slow rhythm, though it wasn’t as slow as I would have liked. I would have liked to freeze time at the bottom of each plunge, deadly earnest at the centre of the laughing group. As things stood, each downward thrust gave me barely half a second’s time to explore. I located Julian’s legs, and wondered at the exquisite softness of them. If I could get the secret of those legs and how to copy them, Julian and I could set up in business. We’d make cushions which would sell in every country of the world. We could charge any price — but there was no sum of money that could make me want to let go of what I was touching, this glorious prototype. It was the most astounding sensation. Inwardly I wept, while busy gloating, that such tender softness must spend its days imprisoned by leather and metal. How much I would have loved to drift off to sleep resting against those legs!