Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax
Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax
Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax
Ebook390 pages5 hours

Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

An introduction to my work, Boy Out In Africa is the true story of a gay teenager growing up in a turbilant Cape Town during the 1970s. Bouncing from one shag to another he learns about love, life and death and, in the process, is sucked into the fight for political freedom for South Africa's black people.
In South Africa's 1970's gay underground there was no racial segregation and people of all colours danced in the illegal clubs or shabeens; where the politics were left outside, if only for a few hours all night. A young Londoner could easily find himself on the wrong side of the law in such curcumstances and I often did. Although this story has sexual content it explains how young people can easily place themselves in danagerous situations, but by doing so, gain an true understanding of political supression.
This true story is combined here with the totally fictional Lady Mandrax, the story of a woman's life in a L.A brothel during the 1960s, a dark love story and a retelling of the classic love triangle. Adult Content, with explicit drug, sex and voilence.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 8, 2014
ISBN9781311313447
Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax
Author

David William Kirby

If we create our own reality then you may find mine within the words of my writing. If art reflects life then shouldn't it contain joy and grief, gain and loss, good and evil? All those hidden depths we do not like on show, those parts of ourselves usually hidden away far from public sight. Real art is sometimes obscene, Art is sometimes confusing, obtuse and obscure but it must also be full of light and happiness, great insight or intrguing puzzles; it must show us a way to look at ourselves more fully and understand what we see with greater clarity. Over the years and years of my life I have put to paper what has moved me, what has opened my eyes, what has shocked me to the very core and what it is to be me. I was a very lost soul for much of those dark days, months and years and tried to shine a light into the darkness with artifacts of oblivion; still today my consciousness drifts between the fluid and fixed, the focused and obscure. It is open like the books I have created, Let's face it, I am no Dickens or Shakesphere,. But considering I was virtually illiterate when I left secondary education I've not done too bad. The pen kept scribbling, not making much sense at times, and over that time (with careful editing) a line was been drawn from 15 to 59. Give it a go, you may find the growth and progression stimulating; all it may cost is time.

Read more from David William Kirby

Related to Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax

Related ebooks

Gay Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Related categories

Reviews for Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Boy Out in Africa and Lady Mandrax - David William Kirby

    dwkthedogbreaths@gmail.com

    ISBN: 9781311313447

    A Boy Out in Africa

    Based on the true story of a Gay teenager

    Growing up in the seventies, presented here with

    Lady Mandrax

    Copyright: David William Kirby: 2011

    The Dogbreaths Publishing

    ©2011 all rights reserved

    tmp_1c96a9bd9750de2576f2dd8fc305d8c2_vaad4M_html_m73a2b447.jpg

    Smashwords Licensing Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    A Boy Out in Africa

    1

    I guess my first experience of seduction was initiated by (what in today’s parlance would be called) a Paedophile; but this was the early seventies when such words were not in the common language. I was pre-pubescent when it first happened and Uncle Dick was a friend of the family. He would regularly drink with my father into the early hours of the morning. Dad cared that his pal should not drive home, having drunk huge amounts of alcohol, and he was given the spare mattress in my little bed room to sleep it off.

    I wonder how they would have felt if they knew he was not only making use of the spare bed during these drunken sleepovers and regularly

    filled his stinking gob with me.

    This went on for three years.

    I would be asleep at first and the feeling of the cold sheets" parting would gently rouse me from my dream; the touch of his foot against the small of my back.

    We never had penetrative sex; I didn’t even know that this was possible and thinking about it. I guess I didn’t even consider what we did as sex. It was more about pleasuring ourselves; experiencing grown up games like adults. I was growing up and he was showing me how.

    When I read about the terms of imprisonment men get for doing this sort of thing today I wonder at it. I guess if he hurt me or fucked me every time he stayed over it would be different.

    What we were doing didn’t seem wrong; it still doesn’t; although it’s not something that I’d feel comfortable repeating and I certainly think being exposed to sexual activity at such a young age programmed my mind into connecting any affection as an invitation to have sex.

    Believe me, that’s not a good thing.

    I do not condone sex with children. I personally don’t consider children sexual beings and they do nothing for me; neither should they. Uncle Dick was different, sex with him was different; it was the seventies for god’s sake.

    I couldn’t relate to anyone in my school and spent more time walking about the streets during school hours then actually in class. When I was fourteen I was a skinny, gangling creature who looked odd in a shirt and tie. Consequently I’d leave home in the morning with a change of clothes instead of school books. I then go to a friend’s house and change out of my uniform and into some tight jeans and tee-shirt. With a touch of mascara and a floppy hat I’d be set up for the day.

    We often went to the West End of London and hang about in the music shops. It was during one of these trips that I learned of the all-nighter’s that used to happen every Friday evening at the Lyceum in the strand. We just had to go.

    No one ever questioned our age and at midnight the doors would open and in we’d go.

    Two fourteen year olds in a crowd of transvestites and drugged up hippies did not seem odd back then. Drugs were fashionable in those days and the evening would start with a handful of French blues, the 70s equivalent of ecstasy, a tab of acid and loads of joints. As the evening progressed people would give us lines of cocaine and speed making the night fade into a trippy blur by 6am when the place would close.

    I remember seeing a band called Cockney Rebel who, during a rendition of their amazing track Sebastian, were having problems with their equipment. A firm pair of hands slipped around my hips and a soft voice rang out in my ear.

    Fancy a bit of hows ya’ father? He said softly above the noise of the band.

    How’s ya’father? I stuttered slightly nervously. What’s that?

    Come here and I’ll show you.

    With that I was led to a first floor toilet and, for the first time in my life, fucked rotten

    over the smelly toilet system. I remember he’d used the margarine from the inside of a

    ham roll as a lubricant before taking a bite of the roll and flushing it down the toilet.

    Although this did the trick it left me feeling sticky and I was glad to get home. It was after this not so passionate misadventure that I discovered that after anal sex one must do a motion to clear one’s bowel. If not, as I found out much to my distress, a fart could mean the end for a new pair of trousers.

    As I waddled in through the front door in the early hours with legs akimbo and

    streaked eyeliner smeared across my face I remember my mother coming down the stairs and saying Are you up already?

    Yes Mum. I stuttered as I climbed the stairs past her towards the bathroom.

    Oh, it’s nice to see you up and about so early on a Saturday morning.

    If only she knew.

    I’ve been talking to your Father and he wants us to join him in South Africa."

    This was not what I wanted to hear. Daddy had decided that he could make more money in the Apartheid driven South Africa and had gone there to check this out a couple of weeks previously. Being under 16 years of age I didn’t have a choice and soon after hearing this earth shattering statement we were off.

    South Africa was shunned by the rest of the world during the seventies and they

    welcomed families like ours with open arms. I was too young to understand the

    politics of the time and all I knew was what the adults around me told me.

    Keep out of the black townships. They’d say menacingly. "They kill white people on

    sight."

    Being young I believed them although I didn’t understand why anyone would want to kill me. Colour didn’t seem that important to me although it was extremely important to South Africans. The black people I saw were either very sad looking, with dusty old suits and downtrodden expressions or tribal, in bright fabrics and no shoes. White people generally, and I mean adults, looked like they all drank too much, got too much sun and wore ill-fitting Safari suits.

    I soon discovered that white South African’s spent all weekends sitting at home

    having briars. This was what we’d call Barbecues. Meat was cheap and so was booze and I soon was bored eating burnt steak and watching my parents and their friends getting pissed.

    Is there anywhere I can go out to meet other young people? I asked one friend of the family on a blistering hot Saturday.

    Church. The person replied sincerely.In South Africa young people go to church at weekends. Boy, do they have fun.

    Church was not my sort of fun and I couldn’t imagine what was enjoyable about

    singing for forgiveness and praying for God’s guidance.

    I decided that I’d get dressed up and go into the centre of Cape Town and see if

    anything was going on beside begging for holy intervention. I’d already discovered that no-one had heard of the New York Dolls or Johnny Thunders so I didn’t back-comb my long black hair; deciding it might be better to dress down on this one occasion.

    Cape Town was a very pretty town although it covered a vast area and there were few busses. I stood at the side of the dusty road and stuck a thumb out. It wasn’t long before a van pulled up and two guys told me to jump in.

    Sitting in the back of the humid vehicle. With beads of sweat collecting on my forehead, my hair felt damp. I could hear the guys talking and my long hair seemed to be immensely interesting to them.

    Are you a morphy? The one who was driving asked casually looking at me intently in the rear view mirror.

    No, I answered not really understanding the question. I come from London.

    They laughed and one said That explains it. As we drove further towards the base of Table Mountain the sun began to set over the huge edifice, casting long shadows and giving it a blue hue.

    The twinkling lights in the distance became more apparent as the night began to set upon us. Cape Town glimmered in the crest of the mountain like a magical, fairy grotto and the darker it became the more magical it looked.

    I looked towards the two guys who were wearing big smiles and seemed very relaxed together, like brothers or friends that had known each other for a long time .I heard them discussing Morphys.

    I’ve seen the outside that club, Wings. The younger one said. My God, they pluck their eyebrows and shave their arms.

    How can men do that to themselves. The older one replied.

    When they dropped me off in town I stopped the first person I found and said Do you know how I can get to Wings nightclub?

    The old black man wrinkled up his nose shook his head. His shoes were worn and his suit had holes in it. I looked into his eyes and for a moment I thought he wanted to ask me something, then suddenly, the moment went, he changed his mind and walked on. He was probably thinking ‘do I look like I go nightclubbing, you moron?’.

    Cape Town wasn’t that big, just four or five main streets running alongside one

    another and a bus station, and empty flower market and a hotel. It didn’t take too long for me to see the whole of it and I couldn’t find anything that looked like a night club.

    It was dark now and a chill had replaced the heat on those wide empty streets. I

    decided to try to hitch back to Milnerton where by now my parents would have

    drunken themselves into a stupor. It was about ten p.m. and quiet, there wasn’t a lot or cars on the roads or people, it felt like I had the whole city to myself.

    Finding the main route back to Milnerton I stuck my thumb out again. Then, like an angel descending from heaven I saw a sight that would change my Southern African experience forever.

    Stumbling along the road came a vision of beauty. He was about five feet tall. dark skinned with a thick moustache underlining his button nose. Wearing only a green satin dress with high heels on the end of his hairy legs he stumbled towards me holding a half bottle of rum.

    Hello Girl. He hissed as we met. Are you going to the Shabeen? whatever that was. Of course. I stuttered not believing what fate had delivered to me.

    Well don’t just stand there, Girl, stick a leg out.

    With that he pulled up his hem and flashed a hairy leg towards the passing cars. Very soon one came to a halt a few feet away. We both run to the car and climbed in. I sat behind the driver who was a fat, balding, middle aged man who seemed to be sweating profusely.

    Where are we going to. Ladies? He hissed looking down at my new friend’s hairy legs as he slipped into the passenger seat.

    District Six please Love. The green dress replied.

    Oh, I’m not going there, I’ll be attacked.

    Don’t be silly, Green dress laughed. We’ll look after you, won’t we love. He turned and gave me a wink.

    Oh, I suppose it’ll be okay if I drop you off. he huffed mesmerised by the hairy legs as they protruded from under the green, silk hem. What are your names?

    I’m Madame Palari... The green dress giggled. "and this is my good friend

    Lucinda."

    Fatty drove slowly through the empty streets. I noticed that every now and then he’d reach out and stroke Madam’s leg; this seemed to happen whenever the green dress took a swig from the rum bottle he was jealously guarding. Each furtive grope was met with a quick slap across the wrist.

    If you want Madam Palari’s snatch it’ll cost more than a lift to District six. The green dress said abruptly before looking around and giving me a mischievous wink.

    Don’t be like that. Fatty hissed. I could be useful to a young girl like you; I could help you go far.

    This is far enough. Madam cried pulling up the hand brake. He opened up the

    passenger door and just before he fell out of the vehicle, looked back and shouted.

    Come Lucinda, we’ve arrived.

    He slammed the car door so hard that I thought the glass would break.

    Go on you fat bastard, He shouted at the driver. You can go now. If you want to be really useful get back here at 4 am and you can take us home.

    Madame took my arm to steady himself and smiled as the car drove away.

    Did you know him? I asked excitedly.

    No, He smiled. But men are just suckers for a bit of bare leg. Let’s go.

    Where are we?

    This is a black township just on the outskirts of Cape Town. My friend explained with a slurred smile. Not a lot goes on here but every Saturday they have a wicked party. It’s totally illegal but they’re always the best ones, aren’t they?

    I’ve not got any money? I said expecting my new friend to gasp in horror and drop me like a hot potato.

    Neither have I. He laughed. But we’ve got what money can’t buy.

    What’s that? I asked.

    We’ve got youth and beauty. It’s all you need in this town.

    He was right. We entered an old building that looked derelict and run down but as we climbed the stairs other people appeared and soon we were in a small queue and the sound of disco music filled the air.

    As we got to the front of the queue a huge black bouncer stood to one side and we were in. It didn’t take me long to notice that I was the only white face in the hall but I didn’t feel uncomfortable. How could I; seeing all those smiling faces and sexy women dancing like their lives depended upon it?

    Madame took me around and introduced me to everyone he knew. Each one either gave me a drink or passed me a bottle to swig from and soon I was so pissed I couldn’t stand.

    The last thing I remember was being between two beautiful black women as they rubbed themselves against me in time with the throbbing music.

    I came around in a daze the next morning in bed with a young black man I didn’t recognize..

    Do I know you? I asked softly.

    You should do darling, He smiled. I’m your husband.

    The boy got out of bed and left the room playing with his hair. I looked around the room and asked no one in particular.

    Where are we?

    As these words left my lips I saw the familiar, moustachioed face of Madam rise from under the bed sheets between my feet.

    You’ve come home with us. Madam slurred obviously still drunk from the previous evening. That’s Owen, my brother.

    It’s true... Owen smiled coming into the room with his hair up in a towel. Mother had two boys and they’re both queer. Oliver is the older of the two of us.

    Oh, that’s your name? I said realizing that I was naked and looking around for my underwear.

    I suppose you’re looking for them... Oliver said pointing to my underpants that were ironed and on top of a small pile of clean clothes.

    Mummy’s good at laundry and she’s been up all night scrubbing the skid marks out.

    Take no notice of him. Owen said. She’s never had a white person in her house before and so wanted to do something for you. As she’s only ever known service she thought doing your laundry would be the best thing.

    Just then the door opened and two old women looked in. They both had their hair hidden under black coloured hjibs, as Muslim women call the scarves around their heads, and both were dressed all in black. The two women giggled and smiled at each other, bowing their heads towards me.

    Mummy... Owen stuttered. Take Auntie into the other room. He looked towards me and laughed. They can’t believe a white boy is in my bed; we’ll have the whole street in here in a minute, you wait and see.

    Where am I?

    We’re still in District Six, it’s the closest township to Cape town and quite desirable amongst us, cape coloureds, as they say.

    It’s a cockroach infested rat trap. Oliver interjected. They say they are going to bulldoze the whole lot next year. You wouldn’t get any white people wanting to live here; no, it’s only good enough for us coloured people.

    Coloured? I said. Don’t you mean Asian?

    You’re in South Africa now you know, dear. Owen sniffed as he brushed his thick black hair. "Every one here is put into a racial box.

    Now, because we look like we’re from India we’re called coloured, it would be the same if I was the product of a white Boer farmer and his idiot black servant girl. You know half cast. We’d still be coloured, not white, not black; we’re coloured."

    It’s true. Oliver smiled dragging himself from the bed we’d all shared. If my daddy was a fat Boer and mummy a dumb Bantu servant girl I’d not be allowed to live with either of them.

    It’s true! Owen smiled sweetly. "The law says that Coloureds have to live with coloureds, Bantu with Bantu and white with white. District Six is a coloured area and so it’s slightly better than other townships that are allocated to Bantu only.

    Here we have electricity and running water. The Bantu have to collect their water

    from stand pipes and use candles."

    Wow. I said in disbelief. Why do you put up with it?

    Oh, you’re so naive. Owen smiled. "You know the police shoot you on sight out

    here if you say anything they don’t like. So my dear, we just have to put up with it."

    Not for much longer. Oliver said picking up his now crumpled green dress and

    dropping it in disgust. He put on a pair of jeans and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

    The school kids are organizing a march. You must come and show some support. It’s this Saturday.

    Just then Auntie looked into the bed room and said something in a language I didn’t understand.

    Aunties cooked us some eggs... Owen said pulling on a bright shirt.

    Would you like some?

    Yes please. I replied pulling on my underpants and getting up from the bed.

    When I was dressed I followed the boys into the kitchen and noted sadly that it was pretty dilapidated. They had cooked from a gas ring that was connected to a gas bottle but the back door was open and the strong sun light brightened the room up.

    The back yard looked like an allotment with all sorts of vegetables growing in neat rows. I sat at the table and a plate of fried eggs and tomatoes were placed in front of me.

    The boy’s mother, who was very old and frail, said something to the Auntie who then repeated it to the boys.

    Mummy wants to know how old you are? Oliver said stuffing bread into his mouth.

    I’m fourteen. I said simply. How old are you.

    Oliver spat out a mouthful of tea and screamed. Oh fuck, Jail bait.

    Mummy and Auntie then seemed to have a mad conversation and I guessed they were asking the boy’s what I’d said.

    Don’t tell them, Owen said anxiously before turning to me and saying. We’ve never had sex okay, never.

    Why did we? I replied.

    That’s right, He stuttered. Just keep that up.

    You’re very tall aren’t you? Oliver added. When are you fifteen?

    In July. I replied. Both boys looked at each other and grimaced. Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. How old are you?

    I’m sixteen, Owen replied. And she’s nineteen

    They then spoke to the old women in Afrikaans and when they were suitably reassured Own smiled.

    I’d better take you to the train station, you’re parents must be missing you?

    I don’t think so.

    But haven’t they put you in school yet?

    You’re joking. I replied. I’ve not been to school for about a year. The last time I went in they told me to leave because I had blue mascara on. I don’t think they liked the colour.

    What are you like? Owen laughed Come on, I’ll show you how to get home safely.

    As we left the house I became aware that the other people in the street were looking at me although I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

    I’d got used to this growing up in Dagenham and being the only boy in the area who’d shaved off his eyebrows.(Being a fan of David Bowie in the seventies meant doing things like that).

    You can get a train from here to Milnerton. Owen said as we stopped outside the station.

    Thanks. I said. "Will I be able to see you again?

    Yes, of course.

    Where?

    He thought about this for a while. Come to Main Street on Friday night, by the flower market. I’ll wait for you about ten o’clock. Do you think your folks will mind?

    No, I’ll see you there. I said with a smile. Owen looked about cautiously and since we were unobserved leaned forwards and kissed me on the cheek.

    Friday it is then.

    When I got home I found Mother in the garden pruning the roses. She gave me a wave as I came down the road.

    You went out early, she smiled. You father’s at work and I made you some lunch, it’s in the fridge."

    Thanks I said kissing her on the cheek.

    The next couple of days went quickly and soon Friday arrived. At around nine o’clock I was ready to go out. South Africa only had one TV channel at that time and it was on for eight hours a day. The first four hours were in English and the second four hours were a repeat of the first but with everything dubbed into Afrikaans. By then both my parents would be very drunk and it was no different this night. I came into the lounge just to see them getting ready for bed.

    Are you going to watch that shit? Dad said nodding towards the TV.

    I thought I would. I lied.

    Well make sure you take the plug out. Mother added as they went down the hall to the bed room.

    I waited a short while and let myself out the house quietly. The street outside was empty and silent although it was very hot. It seemed the whole neighbourhood went to bed at nine o’clock even at weekends; except me that is.

    I made my way to the main road and stuck out my thumb. It wasn’t long before I saw the headlights of a car in the distance coming towards me and as it approached I saw a middle aged man driving. He made eye contact and pulled over.

    Can you take me to main street? I asked.

    Sure, get in.

    We drove on for a while before the man said. You’re British aren’t you?

    Yha, I replied. My father’s out here on business and I had to come along.

    How are you finding Cape Town? He said taking his eyes off the road momentarily.

    Pretty boring. I replied. There’snot a lot going on here, is there, and the TV is crap.

    Oh, you’ll get used to that.

    I noticed he’d pulled off the main road into one of the backstreets.

    I’ve just got to get some fuel. He said noticing that I’d become aware of the

    diversion. We drove for a short while before pulling up in the drive of a small house.

    Come on in. He said. It won’t take a minute, I’ve got some gas in a can in the garage.

    I followed him into the house and we stood awkwardly in a small lounge. It was

    nicely furnished with a thick carpet on the floor.

    The man left me there for a moment and when I saw him again he had two towels. He folded one across his shoulder and laid the other out on the floor.

    Lay there. He said. I don’t know why I complied it wasn’t as if I fancied him or anything like that but I did what he said. He undid my trousers and pulled them down to my knees. My underwear went the same way and I looked up just in time to see him tugging at his belt.

    I closed my eyes and lay there waiting for him to finish what he was doing. Very soon I heard him gasp and using the towel from his shoulder he mopped up his come. He stood and said simply. Get dressed.

    Soon we were back in the car and heading back towards Main Street. Not another word passed our lips and as his car pulled up in the bus garage he opened his wallet and gave me a twenty Rand note.

    Get yourself a cab home. He whispered pushing the note into my palm. Cape Town can be dangerous for a young boy at night.

    I got out the car and walked swiftly away. The experience didn’t particularly frighten me, I’d been programmed to function like this and he recognized that in me, but it was unexpected and I tried not to think about it again. It was a relief to find Owen waiting for me by the flower market as we’d arranged.

    I thought you’d not be coming. He smiled as I walked towards him. It’s getting so late.

    I got held up. I said simply.So, what shall we do now?

    I’m going to introduce you to my friends. He said excitedly. You will love these girls; they’re simply fantastic. Then we’re going to Boudwan’s

    Is that a club? I asked.

    What are you like. He laughed. Boudwan is this very nice white man. He may be fat but he’s fantastically rich. When I told him you were fourteen he laughed and demanded that I bring you to him. You wait, you’ll love him. But first let me introduce you to the girls.

    We walked along Main Street and turned into a dark alley that ran alongside. I saw a group of women standing in a group at

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1