PR-347 The Boys of St. Barnabas
The Boys of St. Barnabas
Pleasure Reader
PR-347
Colin Murchison
$1.95
Excerpt:
I suppose you think I’m putting you on about school tarts and such—that these things don’t really happen today in America, even in sequestered little boarding schools run by the clergy. I can assure you that they do.
And it’s not surprising, really. The masters wouldn’t be there, working hard for low pay, if they didn’t like boys more than just superficially. And boys themselves are notoriously adventuresome creatures, willing to try anything once, even twice, especially if there is some element of risk but no real danger. The element of danger is, of course, very real for us masters, and we must be very circumspect, watching our step at every turn, and, accepting frustration as the natural course of events, be eternally grateful for the little plums which fall our way. You will find several such plums in this story, and perhaps you will appreciate them the more for knowing that they really did befall me. However, if your idea of a good book is one orgy after another in which every boy is a pushover named Jock or Clint, then you might as well toss this book in the fire right now. These are facts, some bad, but most of them good; and if there is any distortion in this narrative, it stems from what is omitted: the endless evenings when each master, after grading his papers and preparing his morning classes, gets into bed, turns out the light, conjures up Reggie Roundbutt or Bobby Brownwell or whatever his current heart-throb is called, and does the only thing he can do.
Then, the very next day, like a masochist, he seeks out the very titillations which put him into such a state the night before—things like showers.
As one of the three dormitory masters, it is, of course, my job to supervise literally everything that goes on in my dorm. One of these onerous tasks is shower supervision. Never let it be said that I am derelict in my duty!
I have the middle dorm, the sixth- and seventh-graders, twenty-four boys of eleven and twelve, with a few thirteens. I teach English to all grades except the fourth, which is taught entirely by Percy Plimpton, a pimply divinity student. He is in charge of the lower dorm also, and reads bedtime stories to his little charges and kisses each one good-night. The little boys feel very comfy with Percy, and he with them.
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