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BLACK PRINCE
A Romance from another time
by
Jim Stewart
Once upon a time, before
Gortex had been invented, protective motorcycle weather gear was a different
story. I'm talking about a time even before my favourite waxed cotton had
been introduced.
In post-war Britain (1947) a new kind of very smooth and shiny, tough black
waterproof two-piece motorcycle suit appeared. From the first moment I saw
one I wanted to touch it, feel it, rub myself against it. Most of all I wanted
to zip, snap, strap and buckle myself into one and stomp around in it. As
at that time I was fifteen years old, this was pure fantasy. I soon discovered
it was called a 'Black Prince' suit, which seemed appropriate because to me
at that age, anybody wearing one looked like a modern knight in shining armour.
That was a lot of years ago and, even then, my attraction towards tough waterproof
fabric wasn't a new thing. Since before I could remember I'd been somehow
excited by images of masculine men wearing thick and restrictive gear. When
I was only seven my uncle Ted who was "away at the war" had stored
his massive heavy, shiny, long black motorcycling coat in the big walk-in
wardrobe on our landing. Don't ask me why; I guess his wife's cupboards weren't
big enough. I only know I was drawn to it, and used to sneak into the dark
interior, shut the door and wrap myself in this slippery, rubbery Greatcoat,
as it was called. It was so heavy the loop to hang it up by was made of chain
(another thing which)attracted me to it). There in the breathless blackness
I would feel it and smell it long before I knew what being sexually turned-on
was.
By the age of ten, American Fliers stationed near our provincial town who
wore brown leather bomber jackets somehow attracted me, but not as much as
my mother's youngest brother, a cherubic looking young airman with a tangle
of curly gold hair. When he came home on leave he wore a sheepskin flying
jacket with brown leather outside, heavy white oiled wool high neck sweater,
and wellies turned down at the tops with white sea-boot socks showing. I think
it was the gear, or was it the man, because at that age I thought in terms
of Heroes. Certainly, I was also attracted to pictures of knights totally
encased in metal armour.
When the first 'Black Prince' two piece suits came onto the market for motorcyclists
they made even Uncle Ted's blanket-lined full skirted shiny black 'Storm Coat'
look very old fashioned. The Pride & Clarke's mail order biker catalogue
I'd so guiltily sent away for and drooled over, informed me that the Black
Prince was, according to the adverts; 'The ultimate in weather protection,
comfort and style'. Pictures in motorcycle catalogues from that era still
turn me on, though at that time they really made my palms sweat.
By the age of seventeen I was working temporarily in Barrow in Furness (the
wilds of the Industrial North) for a pittance. My landlady's husband worked
in the ship yards; he was ex-navy, rode a motorbike, went fishing on his own
and spent a lot of time on his bleak 'allotment' on the outskirts of Town
where he grew vegetables. I fancied him rotten in an unfocussed way. At that
time, though, I just wanted to be like him; masculine, confident and unselfconscious.
He wore clapped out navy oilskins to and from work more often than not, and
a sensational Government surplus heavy twill Tank Suit for when off on his
bike in cold weather. I also fantasised about wearing that suit and being
wrestled into submission in it by him while he was wearing his black ex-navy
oilskins. My instinctive preferences were, at that time, still trying to find
a focus.
When a spanking new Black Prince suit arrived for him by mail order (from
Pride & Clarke) I was in serious mental turmoil, and he got the rough
edge of his wife's tongue for this piece of financial self-indulgence. But
as he climbed into the glistening suit for the first time, and zippered and
strapped and belted it, and all its tough snap fasteners and collar flaps
and ankle flaps were snapped into place, I was filled with secret lust for
the suit and seeing him in it. Here was the ultimate 'Black Prince' for me.
I wasn't clear what I wanted him to do to me or with me, but I was in danger
of making a fool of myself because he was less than impressed by me. He was
also not too happy about having me lodging in his house, but his practical
wife insisted that they needed the extra cash (Three pounds a week for full
board!).
I was born in The Midlands and anybody from south of The Pennines was already
suspect in the eyes of this slightly dour epitome of northern working class
maleness. Because I was in Barrow for six months as a trainee on the local
newspaper, I was judged to be a pen-pusher rather than a real Working Man.
My landlady, on the other hand, hoped that having somebody she considered
to be a little more cultured in her home, some might rub off on her rough
diamond of a husband. Considering that he was eight years my senior, the likelihood
of me being a civilising influence was doomed from the start. On the other
hand, I was ripe for initiation into the traditional chauvinism of the Industrial
North. 'Banny', as he was known, was just the bloke to rise to the challenge
of counteracting my 'ponsified southern ways' as he called them, and show
me how a real man should behave. Little did he suspect that my natural instincts
were already prodding me in forbidden directions. Although he frequently referred
to my 'poofy' hair and 'ponsy' ways, if he'd seriously thought I might be
even latently queer he could never have dealt with it.
Generally referred to as Banny because they were Lil and Reg Bannerman, in
their homely street they were regulars in several of the local pubs and Working
Men's clubs. I was welcomed into that circle for their sakes, Lil introducing
me as something of a cultural feather in her cap. She was no snob, and one
of the most wonderfully genuine people it has ever been my luck to know. However,
she was secretly concerned that after 'a good war' her husband was perhaps
slipping backwards socially and becoming dangerously like his father, one
of the grimmest of grimly resentful unskilled labourers who had struggled
through The Depression. 'Our Lil', on the other hand, not being from industrial
Barrow was a feisty Lancashire lass; daughter of a farmer and raised on the
storm-swept north coast of Morecambe Bay. She was determined to make life
better for herself and her man, having escaped her primitive farm to do war
work in the shipyards. Her Mam and Dad and three weather-beaten brothers really
didn't actually think much of Banny, particularly because after four years
of being wed to their Lil he still hadn't produced a 'nipper'. They also suspected
him of being 'deep' and, even worse in their exuberant close-knit family circle,
of being a loner.
When I first arrived, his brooding presence in the small backstreet house
carried a touch of menace, but Lil would wink and tell me he'd 'Get used to
it!'. They were both enthusiastic supporters of their local soccer team, so
the fact I knew enough about Midland teams to name names (I'd covered matches
for the Leicester Mercury), Banny and I found our first point of contact (or
conflict). His notorious dark moods and need for solitude intrigued me. He'd
been at sea from an early age, thrown together with dozens of men, escaping
from a large family living in a very small house on a very low income ruled
by a tyrannical father. Now he worked unsociable hours, drank rather too much
and spent a lot of time off on his own, either out on his bike or up on his
allotment.
Lil's determination for me to 'pal up' with her husband embarrassed me, particularly
because I was quite fearful of unintentionally revealing my guilty secret.
Homosexuality was still a criminal offence so, although I'd done nothing about
my natural instincts so far, I was less than comfortable around Banny. I found
his northern blokeishness slightly menacing because I wasn't yet able to deal
with my own potential gayness (a term not yet in general use). I envied Lil
her husband and felt slightly sorry for her. She was a lusty lass and although
I knew she was sexually regularly 'attended to', I guessed there was little
imagination behind her morose husband's efforts at love making.
Because Lil really loved her Banny and was afraid his deepness (as she called
it) meant she was "too ordinary for him". She actually told me she
thought I could stimulate him in a way she couldn't, poor innocent lass! She
kept hinting that he should take me on his bike, fishing or at least show
me more of the local countryside which she loved. She occasionally rode pillion
with Banny (as even she called him), mainly to visit her family's remote farm
on the Coast Road. Eventually he sighed, as was his habit with Lil, and did
as she suggested.
He tentatively offered to show me a bit of the Lake District one Sunday, and
I prayed it would threaten rain just enough for me to legitimately wear his
cast-off oilskins. The idea of being head-to-borrowed-boots in industrial
waterproofs behind him on the bike with him wearing his shiny and tightly
belted Black Prince two piece with sexy collar flap and ankle straps shut
tight against the weather, was a dream ready to come true. The day turned
out to be unusually sunny, but he wore his new bike jacket anyway - and -
I got to hug him round the waist and press my nose against his back as the
pungent fabric warmed and softened as we rode out to look at hills he wasn't
much impressed by, but was willing to introduce me to because he knew it would
please Lil.
Around the house he gradually began to tolerate me more like a younger brother
rather than a 'mucker' as they say in Barrow, and at that time our relationship
was a tightrope for me. Navy or no Navy, there was no way Banny could be even
experimentally gay and continue with the life he'd been brought up to. Although
regarded locally as something of a Dark Horse, he was essentially what they
used to call a man's man. At that time in the north, Working Men's clubs,
Lodge Nights, lad's nights out, exclusively men only pub rooms were all part
of the cultural heritage. But this story is about a 'Black Prince' rather
than the complications of growing up gay in the Industrial North.
I did get to wear Banny's fantastic new suit, but only when he and his wife
were out of the house together for the day or even over night. One night I
even slept in it and was then worried that it wouldn't have cooled down again
before he came home, or he might smell me on the oddly flannelette-like lining.
I hung it inside out in the bike-shed where he kept it, until the time they
were due home. Another of the problems was that in those days nobody locked
their front doors and any of Lil's family would regularly walk into the house
without knocking, any time they were in Barrow. To ferret around Banny's motorcycle
and fishing suits and boots was a constant temptation when nobody was home;
so there was a delicious danger about masturbating over it all. I started
to fantasize about two of Lil's horny handed brothers dropping in unexpectedly
and finding me tying myself up in his gear and carrying me away to their barns
and windswept farm cottages (specially the two who weren't yet married and
lived together in muddy isolation). But, like sex itself, it was all fiction
in my mind; not that any male-male fiction of that type was being published
anywhere in the world at that period, at least not as far as I knew.
Eventually, I did get to wear a set of Banny's ex-Navy oilskins semi-legitimately.
It turned out there was a second set he kept in his shed up on the allotment
which supplemented their limited post-war food supply. This deliciously stiff
and pungent foul weather suit, he admitted, he'd 'borrowed' from the Navy
at the end of his service. The heavy hooded anorak and pants were brand new
and had lain folded away for several years. The reason he'd never worn them
was because he regularly wore his old set of 'skins' to and from the allotment
when he was 'in his muck' as he called it.
My job with the Barrow Herald included a lot of evening reporting assignments
so there were afternoons when I was officially off duty and at a loose end.
Banny frequently worked nights by choice, so after a sleep and mid-day drink
he spent many solitary afternoons tending his vegetables on the remote plot
of land. My offer to help with some digging was met with a sardonic smile.
But, perhaps because he thought it might toughen me up a bit (a phrase he
often used), he agreed.
On the Barrow peninsular where wind and rain is part of the landscape, it
was common practice just to ignore the drizzle and work outdoors. So before
long it was logical for me to climb into his spare oilskin smock and trousers
to work alongside him on my occasional visits. Most of the individual plots
out on that bleak hillside had their own rudimentary wooden shack where tools
and seeds could be stored. Banny's hut also had a Primus stove for brewing
tea, and a rough cot on which I suspect he'd slept off many a boozy lunch
time. It was something of a den for him; a hideaway for a curiously solitary
man. At first I thought he might resent my determination not only to get to
know him better, but 'muck in' alongside him. He never mentioned the fact
that I always seemed to have free time on days which threatened rain, but
he would occasionally stop and watch me happily digging or hoeing, sweating
away in his spare foul weather suit and say with a smile "We'll make
you one of us yet." If only!
As Lil predicted, he 'got used to it', and I became his 'mucker'. And nobody
looked twice as we worked in the rain and sat around in the hut in wellies
and oilskins on long autumn afternoons and occasional Sundays. Banny being
ex-navy, it was inevitable that when we were alone I'd work the conversation
around to my favourite topics; knot-tying and man-to-man roughhouse games.
My most potent fantasies had always been based on competitive masculine horseplay
especially when it involved tying-up. So, as a budding reporter I played the
'Learning about life I'd never experienced' card and asked about pranks which
matelots played on one another. With quiet humour Banny would recount stories
about the physicality of randy blokes at sea and ashore and apprentices in
the shipyard when he was younger, usually implying that he'd watched from
the sidelines rather than taken part in such mucking-around as he called it.
The gradual relaxing of his guarded nature was encouraging. It was not a seduction
because (a) it would be dangerous and (b) I liked him as he was. The first
invitation to go fishing with him was quite a concession according to Lil
who had long ago accepted that he was a man who needed solitary time, or at
least time apart from her.
On our first experimental fishing trip together it was logical for me to take
along the now familiar oilskins from the allotment. Banny had still been taking
his old 'skins' and waders along on his regular solitary fishing jaunts even
after the advent of the Black Prince suit which he now wore regularly on his
bike in rain or shine. I might have risked asking to borrow the padded Tank
Suit if we'd been going far, but the spot chosen for this tentative trip was
very close to home. However, the weather was dull enough to warrant me wearing
my 'skins' (as they'd become) clinging close to the Black Prince on the back
of his bike for the first time.
He seemed to enjoy schooling me in the gentle art of lake fishing, so the
trips became a regular feature in our lives. Quite often he took along a small
tent in case the weather got really shitty when we were a long ride from home.
He admitted that he used to enjoy an occasional overnight stay so he could
do very early morning fishing, but Lil had never enjoyed the tent. An offer
seemed to be on the table. So I suddenly became especially interested in learning
more about dawn or even night fishing. The idea of a night in a small tent
in the pissing rain with two sets of oilskins and his Black Prince suit hot
off the bike was very attractive; the gear would give the small space a special
smell and atmosphere. At least I could fantasise and get off on the possibilities.
It was a seriously dangerous progression, and the first time we 'slept over'
I was naturally extra cautious. So, I sensed, was he. His status in the local
community as a touchy and unpredictable hard man was quite scary. There were
stories of sudden social violence in his past. Any suggestion of anything
questionable about our relationship could have ended in disaster. However,
as the degree of his comfortableness with me grew, my occasional cautious
returns to the topic of challenging roughhouse games between men were carefully
connected to my journalistic development. He still thought of me as having
had a pampered upbringing, so he was forthcoming about the benefits of manly
physical competitiveness and body contact sports. This theme I developed in
casual conversation, eventually reintroducing a topic I'd studiously resisted
returning to too often.
#BPrope
I told him I intended
to do an article on Harry Houdini's tours of northern England and the challenges
people brought to him.On several previous occasions I'd asked Banny about
rope and cable tying in the Navy. Hammock stowing and lashing and general
horseplay with guys getting lashed up in their hammocks or to deck-rails at
night were, I already knew, old Navy practices. So, tying up techniques suddenly
became a legitimate topic because of my speculation on what sort of challenges
might be brought to Houdini by the public today.
We were sleeping overnight on a fishing trip up the Cumberland coast the first
time I got him to tie me up. The weather was foul so not only were we in the
tent early, but he was wearing his Black Prince suit and I the foul weather
suit and boots because it was intensely cold and damp. Inside the tent from
early dusk we talked about possible Houdini challenges. He had previously
mentioned that on board one ship there had been a "regular Houdini-freak".
Later that evening, after a wet ride out for a couple of beers and fish and
chips, back in the tent I steered the conversation back to how Houdini might
have been foiled. It wasn't easy to convince Banny that he might know a useful
trick or two, but he did say he'd watched as others challenged the guy aboard
ship. When I asked how and if the guy got out, he laughed and said there were
several simple ways to rope somebody inescapably. That was all the encouragement
I needed. In the cause of research he had to show me.
He had fishing line, a few odd straps (for strapping things to his bike) and
some rope. Also, I'd thoughtfully packed some extra rope just in case, as
the saying goes. It seemed acceptable to him to while away a couple of otherwise
dreary hours. Secretly, I was determined to spend all night trussed up next
to this dark and sexy man dressed in boots and a Black Prince suit worn over
corduroys and seaman's sweater.
Still head-to-foot in oilskins, I suggested wearing gloves so my hands wouldn't
get cold if the escape took 'too long'. He refused to allow gloves because
he instinctively knew this would make escape easier. Being a practical man
he approached the challenge seriously. After tying my hands efficiently but
not dangerously tightly behind my back (in a small tent, this meant me lying
face down with him kneeling astride me) he then used a small canvas pouch
he kept fishing weights in to cover both my hands, cinching the strap tight
enough to stop me working it off. He said it was to keep my hands warm but
it also prevented me using my fingers through the thick canvas. Needless to
say the ropes were inescapable. He offered to let me free almost immediately
and it wasn't easy to invent excuses to persuade him to leave me trussed all
night.
Eventually I just said, "Fuck it Banny, it feels great! I think I must
be kinky. I like the feeling of being bundled up and tied up with no possibility
of escape."
Well, I guess that's when I learned that honesty pays. It made him smile his
quizzical dark-eyed smile, but from then on he would tie me up whenever a
suitable opportunity arose. When Lil went to visit her mother or when we were
off fishing he'd good naturedly indulge my 'kink' for a good healthy struggle
and sweat, and challenge me to get out or deal with it. The allotment hut
became a treasure house of stuff he specially introduced to vary his strapping
and wrapping. He seemed to look on it as a toughening up process, leaving
me trussed for unspecified periods. Sometimes this was even over night but
only, according to him, because he knew I liked it. Did he get anything out
of it? If so, he never admitted it. But, significantly, our activities were
never mentioned when Lil was around. And I'm sure he never told her in private.
His willingness to invent quite elaborate challenges coupled with his never
admitting any erotic involvement drove me crazy with frustration. But I convinced
myself that one false move on my part could spook him and, should our activities
become openly sexual, our relationship would either explode or freeze.
This may have been a cop-out on my part. Perhaps I was over cautious. Perhaps
he was not as naive as he appeared. After all he had spent several years in
the navy. But he did continued to truss and rope and wrap, 'doing me a favour'
as he put it. And gradually, he intensified the game, bringing from the ship
yard industrial tape and metal crate strapping bands. The periods of restraint
became longer and more physically uncomfortable with me never knowing how
long before he'd come back. He would return and taunt me for enjoying being
trussed, while telling me it was good for me; to toughen me up. Sometimes,
coming back after leaving me in a seriously uncomfortable situation, he'd
then leave again before finally returning to release me. But, never once did
he make any overt sexual overture or remark or leave me any opening to suggest
eroticism or even genital teasing. In fact, he noticeably no longer ever accused
me of being poofy or poncy, but insisted such situations were to encourage
endurance and strength to struggle out of his challenges or learn to survive
them.
Such deliberate avoidance of possible homo-eroticism may sound unbelievable
today, but in those sexually inhibited times blokes didn't even talk about
that sort of stuff in Barrow in Furness, even as a joke. There were "poofs
and pansies" in the town and Banny and all his drinking cronies knew
who they were. There was no harassment of them, in fact most people deliberately
steered very clear of any social contact. In my work I met them when covering
amateur drama, at the local theatre and Arts events. Today this may sound
disgracefully stereotypic. There were even rumours of Rough Trade in the town;
men who fucked men they despised for money. I made a couple of cautious attempts
to discuss such situations with Banny, but as far as both he and Lil were
concerned "That sort of thing!" was totally beneath contempt - full
stop - end of discussion. So, I had to chose between outwardly agreeing with
them or sowing seeds of doubt about my stance on issues the social climate
of Barrow in Furness in the late Forties was not yet ready to admit.
Banny was certainly not sexless. He screwed Lil resolutely in the hope of
cementing their marriage. In a small terraced house it wasn't easy to ignore
their regular efforts to procreate. Occasionally Banny even mentioned to me
that he wished she could 'catch'. I wondered if he was afraid he might be
infertile. Uncertainty about his manhood may have been another reason he so
studiously kept our little games on a non-sexual level.
Our life as 'muckers' developed to bizarre levels with visits to the Dog Track,
the Speedway Track and local football matches. Best of all were the hillside
bike scrambles, togged up in the muckiest of waterproofs and wellies, standing
around with dozens of other masochists shivering and squelching around as
the off-road bikers sprayed all and sundry with muddy slime. Helpfully diving
forward to drag some beleaguered bike out of a ditch only to be sprayed with
mud for your trouble as it roared away or was overtaken by other riders, was
considered to be good manly fun. Lil even sometimes came along, which involved
a second bike. On such occasions I automatically rode with Banny, with Lil
behind one of her farmer brothers because they remained suspicious of me -
quite rightly because I fancied two of them rotten.
Those winter afternoons had all the potential for a muddy orgy, especially
when it was only Banny and his 'young mucker', as I was known. We sluiced
one another down with gallons of water from brook or seashore before riding
home; sometimes we peeled off and dried out in the meagre Lancashire sun before
returning to the mundane life in a Barrow back street. One night Banny even
got drunk at a pub rather than going home at the expected hour. Lil was livid
and Banny got blamed for getting me into bad habits. If only she'd known!
I'd seriously considered getting him drunker and chancing something developing.
But once again I chickened out or was sensible - whichever!
Memories of Banny in his glistening Black Prince suit leaning over me and
wrapping and tying, breathing into my ear and holding me down because I started
resisting while he was tying (but never enough to discourage him) are still
vivid. Was I a fool not to push our activities into overt sexuality? Did he
regret that I didn't push him, or did he want it and thought I didn't? Even
when I met him later in life when Lil was dying of cancer (the dormant cancer
which had prevented her bearing a child) it was too late to be honest with
one another. Probably my fault because I didn't fully come out even to myself
for another fifteen years. He could have helped me. He never even let me tie
him down - even to prove that I'd learned from his teachings. He never left
himself open to a legitimate approach from me.
I still believe that all the shutters would have rolled down and I would no
longer have been welcome in his house. He could not have faced his drinking
mates with me at his side. At least, that's what I hope it was; because if
I got it wrong and he was waiting for me, this is a modern tragedy I'm writing.
Or might it have been a brief 'encounter' which wrecked an amiable marriage.
Or could passionate sexuality between us have been just a happy chapter in
both our lives with no long term effects?
The image of this dark and sexually powerful Black Prince, booted and goggled
(no statutory helmets in those days) is still vivid in my sensual memory.
Banny was the first man I saw and felt while wearing that tantalising fabric.
Sometime before my stay ended he was talking about buying a Waxed Cotton version,
the latest thing. One of Lil's brothers had bought one and Banny had tried
the jacket on as I stood and lusted. After one particularly rugged Trial Bike
meeting in the mud, big Dan (the brother) decided his suit needed re-waxing.
Lil had offered that Banny would lend a hand, and of course I was game to
assist. In the little brick back yard in Barrow-in-Furness on a sunny Sunday,
her tough farmer brother stood there suited-up while Lil took part in the
process. I just stood by and watched as she and her sexy husband laughed and
wiped the sticky wax all over the brother's body. Lusty squeals from her as
she massaged his crotch and down his legs and under his armpits. Oh, how we
all laughed as she daubed Banny's nose with wax and he grabbed her and threatened
to do the same to her. He even called on me to help hold her still while he
threatened her with dire consequences. She invited me to attack him and protect
her - but I didn't. As J B Priestly said, our lives are full of dangerous
corners when we make a snap decision and take one road rather than another,
and it perhaps changes our future.
It's not a case of luck or fate. Perhaps we make our own luck and chose our
own fate. Who knows? I just know that Black Prince suits still hold the appeal
for me that they held when I was seventeen, and now I'm sixty-five. I can
now play comfortably in them and with people who get-off on wearing them,
whenever I like now and have been in that position for forty years. Because
all those years ago (on the day I left Barrow in Furness) I vowed I'd never
again hang back when something tempting was within reach. Since then I've
taken chances, made opportunities and been honest with myself and other people
about what I like. I told Banny I like to get tied up but never told him I
wanted him to fuck me or do whatever he wanted to do with me while I was in
no position to resist. I never told him I sort-of loved him, but didn't want
him to change his life for me or become something other than what he already
was. But then again, perhaps he knew I wanted him to fuck me rigid and perhaps
he knew that I 'sort of loved him' - and that was his problem.
I hope he had a happy and fulfilled life. I have.
END
Jim Stewart. Revised Jan
2012
Words 5260
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Feedback is always welcomed by Jim Stewart via jimstewuk2@hotmail.com