No hair at all, stubbled scalp, no eyebrows. Just eyelashes and big eyes staring back at me. I gazed at the broken mirror on the wall and then down at my body. No hair anywhere. Nothing on at all, except the Doc Martens with a single lock through the top two lace holes on each boot. I looked back into the main room. It wasn’t much of a room, just a squatter’s flat with a mattress on the floor. Kev was still asleep. Master Kev, that is. That’s what I have to call him now. Last night, he freed me from everything I’ve ever known. I never thought I’d find someone like him when I came to London, but now I’m as much of a skinhead as I’ll ever be.
I’ve always loved skinheads. They were the most macho, hottest guys you could think of. I don’t mean the mall rats who cut their hair short and didn’t understand that being a skin wasn’t just dress-up. No, I meant the skins in the city. On the rare occasions when I could get in town, they were there. Always in packs, tattooed and booted. I dreamed about their boots all the time. I wanted to be a skin so bad, but I wasn’t going to fool myself. I was cul-de-sac to the core Middle American. My dad was a salesman and my mom ran a daycare center. I begged them to let me cut my hair short, but they always said no. I even tried to figure out a way to shave myself, but then there was gym class and enforced showers. It didn’t mean anything anyway if you did it to yourself.
Now, you probably think I am some kind of racist or Neo-Nazi, but I’m not. Most real skinheads aren’t either. There are vicious thugs who claim to be skins. But true skinheads are really just working-class kids in England, the opposite of Teddy Boys, Rockers, and the like. They’re rough, to be sure, but mostly amongst themselves when they’re pissed on beer. They’re simple, really. Basic, down to earth. They’re true Loyalists to Mother England and you have to respect that. l’m half English and I’ve always wished that I was really English, European and all that. Being an American can be so boring.
The first time I got to touch a skinhead was in the city. I slipped away from school and got on the local train. Spending the day just walking, I didn’t even know where I was. But then, I realized that someone was following me. I walked into a mall, but there he was behind me. I couldn’t turn around, it would have been too obvious. So I went into the women’s lingerie section of the big department store; surely he wouldn’t follow me there. But he did and quickly cornered me. His head was nearly smooth, just a light sheen of stubble could be seen. He had on a denim vest and tall laced boots. I stood against the wall and he slowly walked up to me. Whispering, but threatening all the same, he spoke to me. “I saw you go to the gay bookstore. Are you a faggot? Want to suck my dick?”
I had to admit, looking at him, that I did. His arms were sunburned and the muscles in his arms tightened as he leaned toward me. He was sweating and I closed my eyes, thinking how I would lick his skin, tasting the salt and feeling the heat. ”What do you want?” I replied, too afraid to look directly into his eyes. He told me to walk in front of him out of the store. I was shaking like a leaf, but I was hard. My cock was dripping, staining my jeans. I kept imagining myself at this guy’s feet, pressing my arms around his legs, rubbing my face in his crotch. Finding out what a cock really tasted like.
We slowly moved away from the busy section of town until we found a park by the river, thick with overgrowth. He pointed to a small overhang. Once inside, he pushed me down to the ground. I didn’t resist, I was too scared. He spit in my face and I raised my hand to wipe it off. But then he grabbed my hands and held my wrists behind my back. He spit on me again. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes, but I didn’t cry. “Open your mouth.” He pushed my head back and I opened my mouth as wide I could. Then he began to spit again. Slowly, into my mouth. The saliva hit my tongue and slid into my throat. He unbuttoned his jeans, and his erect cock literally popped out. “Suck it.”
I moved forward and he forced the cock back into my mouth where his spit was. Moving my head back and forth along the shaft, I began to feel lightheaded. My own saliva was choking me. But I didn’t pull back, I just wanted his cock in my mouth. I just wanted to hold it there. Slowly, he began to let me lick it on my own. I rolled my tongue around the back of his cockhead. I sniffed it and pushed my tongue into the hole in his shaft. It was salty. I could feel my own cock pressing against my jeans. Then, as if bored by my investigation, he laced his hands behind my head and fucked my face again. He groaned as my throat tightly wrapped around his cock, then suddenly he pulled out and came on my face.
I winced as the cum hit me and just then, he pushed me face forward. I fell into the dirt. I was alone, dazed. As I pulled myself up, I looked around to see if anyone was nearby. There was no sign of him. So I sat back down and pulled my cock from my pants. Cum was dripping down my shaft. I closed my eyes and began to pump my dick. I raised my legs in the air and imagined him fucking me. It was too quick. Before I knew it, cum was dripping from my hand.
After that day, I began to skip school more often, hoping I would find him again. I would stroll through the mall, hoping he was there. And one day, I certainly found him. Dressed in a baggy suit, behind a counter in the main department store’s glassware department, he noticed me and waved. “Hey guy, that was pretty fun the other day. We should go out some time,” he yelled out. I was mortified. He wasn’t a skinhead at all. I looked at him again and watched in dismay as a big hoop earring bounced against his neck. He winked, but I just turned around and walked away. I didn’t know what to say. I was mad.
I continued to skip school, but while I grew adept at maneuvering through the city, I never connected with anyone. Least of all with any real skinheads. It was hard to even tell sometimes, punks and skins looked a lot alike. I began to realize that I wasn’t going to find any real skinheads in America. I had to go to England, somehow. The last years of high school dragged on, but I graduated and knew I was going to be free soon.
When I finally got into college, I chose one the furthest away from home that I could. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my mom and dad, they simply were too narrow-minded. They thought all skins were criminals and drug addicts. But I knew that in England, skins were all kinds of people. Guys who fought for you, guys who were brothers. Fortunately each summer, the college conducted an exchange program with a London broadcasting school. I applied and interviewed for a position. When they accepted me, I was exuberant. I was finally going to London.
In England, everything was so old, the streets running every which way. Hustling from my classes to the hotel, I hardly got to see anything at all. But here and there during my first week, I would glimpse a skinhead on the street out of the window of our transit bus. English skins, and some were obviously gay! They were tall and short, muscular and thin. Skinheads, a few in every crowd, and they were all brothers. You could see it in their nods to each other and in their uniform of Doc Martens boots, braces (meaning suspenders), and smooth heads. Some had just short hair, some were buzzed to a rough stubble. But the ones who solidly caught my eye had totally smooth heads, oiled to reflect the light. Some skins even had their eyebrows trimmed or shaved. A few didn’t even have eyelashes.
The gay skins seemed part and parcel with the other skins, though I was sure there had to be friction. Once I even saw two skins kissing in the tube. As one walked onto the train, the other docilely stuck his finger through a back belt loop. I wanted to call out, but the school group swept me away.
As my frustration mounted, so did my resolve. London was gargantuan, but it was in my grasp. Finally, one Friday night, I slipped away from the planned events. As our sponsors led us to the underground, people were streaming up and down the escalators. Our group marched toward the red line, but I turned down a different tunnel to the northern line. From magazines, I had already gathered that Camden Town was pretty hip. It was a trendy section of town. I was sure to find gay shops there, or at least a local rag that might point me somewhere. I was drumming my foot as a sign counted down the next train’s arrival. As I was waiting, a skin walked up just beside me. He wasn’t any ordinary skin, this was a man.
He had red braces and basic Doc Martens with white laces. His head was almost smooth, and you could tell that he had just gotten it buzzed. He had on a black bomber jacket and his white shirt had the collar ripped in back. Most skins look like they need a good meal, but this man was incredibly muscular. He had thick legs. His braces rode on a well-developed chest. I stared. His face had that ruddy complexion that most Brits have, and I wondered who he was. I must have been pretty obvious. We locked eyes and I couldn’t decide if he was cruising me or if a fist was going to connect with my face. He lifted his hands out of his pockets, and I cringed. He smiled and rolled his tongue, chuckling at my obvious skittishness.
l decided that he must be gay. He was wonderful, I thought. But he wasn’t saying anything to me, and I didn’t know how to connect. The wait time flashed at 20 seconds and soon the light of the next train flooded the walls of the tunnel. I opened my mouth to say something, but I froze. The train pulled to a stop. As the people boarded, he turned to me and pressed his hand against his crotch, then turned again and got on the train. A shudder went through my back and I watched him as the train pulled out of the station without me.
I could feel the sweat on my fore head. I was dazed, and I could feel my hard dick slowly soften again. I had to catch the next train, I thought. I counted down the wait time as the numbers slowly ran through the five minutes before another train came. Only five minutes, unbelievable by American standards, yet I probably would lose him in Camden Town. Then I realized that he might not even be going there. I kicked the floor and fell back against the seat as an old woman glared at me.
When I surfaced in Camden Town, the streets were terribly crowded. I knew that I had lost him. He might not even have gotten off the train here. I swallowed and looked down the narrow street. If a circus had arrived and never left, then the street could not have been more wild. Few of the stores had doors, most were entirely open to the street. Leather jackets, gloves, luggage, and hats hung everywhere. It was like a boardwalk without an ocean. The people were dressed in the latest fashions and punks mingled like strutting peacocks with their tails displayed. In the noise and activity, I felt reasonably anonymous as I began to walk along the street in search of more information. At one end of the main street, I found a gay adult shop. British porn magazines were in the window. They looked quite tame, little more than a GQ magazine. Perhaps the shop wouldn’t amount to much. Taking a deep breath, I entered.
If the displayed magazines were tame, the store itself was not. Dildos of all sizes lined a row of glass shelves. In large letters, a sign read “For novelty use only.” From the ceiling, whips and floggers hung coiled up for their first use. But it was the smell that pulled me deeper into the store. I didn’t know what it was until I looked at the salesman.
“Not like in the States, huh?” he said, meeting my eyes.
How did he know that? I hadn’t even said a word, I thought. ”Why do you think I’m American?” The words stumbled out.
He laughed and replied, “You c’n tell you’re an American from a mile away. What is it you’re looking for if l can ‘elp?”
He couldn’t have been nicer, but I simply stared instead of answering. The man was wearing leather and rubber, but best of all he had a studded collar around his neck. He stepped out from around the counter and moved close to me. I realized that the smell in the store was the thick mixture of the rubber and leather together. It grew stronger as he approached me, wearing a rubber T-shirt and chaps. His sweat mixed with the air, making the air in the shop saturated with all kinds of intoxicating smells. I took a deep breath as he stepped beside me. “Like the smell of it, ‘eh? I love it myself. Like to try something on?” I looked around and simply nodded. “First time?” he questioned me. I nodded and my eyes roamed around the shop. In a corner were boots of all sizes and shapes, some even as high as my thighs. My breathing thickened and I continued to circle the small shop. In the back was a rack of rubber clothes. I put my face in between them and inhaled. My dick was getting hard. When I inhaled again, I could feel it get caught in between the folds of my underpants.
“Let’s try something on you, then.” He pointed to a dressing room and told me to undress. Then he gave me a bottle of powder. “Shake it all over ya, it’ll make everything much easier.” Then he told me to sit down on a stool. Once I did, he began to roll the legs of a rubber suit onto my feet and up my legs. In places it would bunch up and stick to my hair. I winced as he slowly pulled it up onto my legs. This wasn’t any fun, I thought. Then he yanked the legs of the suit over my knees, and everything felt much better. The powder lubricated the rubber against my feet and I slowly grew warmer. He motioned for me to put one hand through one of the suit’s arm holes. In moments, he zipped the front up and I could feel the rubber against my skin, wrapping me up like someone holding me. I looked down at my cock which he’d pulled through a small opening. “Like it?” I nodded quickly. It felt great. Different. Sexy and alien.
”Well here then, let’s finish you up.” He turned to walk back into the store, and I noticed that he was wearing some kind of leather jockstrap that had locks around it. When he bent over, I realized that something was locked up his ass. Sides of a rubber base stuck around the edges of a leather strap which ran between his ass checks. I wanted to be dressed like that. Turning, he held up a small cock-shaped rubber sock and a hood which looked like a deflated balloon. He went be hind the counter and I could see him pour some lubricant into the rubber sock. When he handed it to me, I pulled it onto my cock and the cool wetness closed around me. My cock grew harder still.
Then he folded the hood over the top of my forehead. “Don’t worry about the breathing, it’s got a tube. Just get it in your mouth and take deep breaths.” The rubber rolled over my face and pressed against my nose. For a second, I panicked. I needed air, but then I caught the tube and took a long deep breath.
The sensations were overwhelming me. The air was flavored with the smell of rubber, and I was sweating and straining against the tight rubber covering me. I had never felt my skin feel so present and alive. Even the tightness against my feet felt good. Everything was blackness and I nearly fell over before he pressed me against the wall of the fitting room. I could feel his hand on my dick. For short moments, he would put his mouth over the mouth tube in the rubber hood, and a stream of hot air would fill my mouth. I could feel his chaps and boots against my legs. He held me against the wall, with one hand on my dick and another pressing my head back against the wall. “Like it? Makes your dick hard, doesn’t it. Come on, hold back,” he coached as I tried not to come, but all I could do was groan and feel my stomach tighten. Then with a shudder, I ejaculated, shooting into the rubber sock. My body shook and my legs felt weak. “All right, sit down again. That’s good.” He helped me back down on the stool again and rolled the hood back up over my eyes.
I looked up at him, blinking. The light felt much brighter than it had been. Then worriedly, I said, “l can’t pay for this.”
“I know that. It’s okay. ‘n fact, it was my pleasure. I don’t often git to do it.”
I stared at the leather jockstrap locked on under his chaps. “Do you want me to…?” I questioned.
“Nah, l’ll git in trouble.” Then quietly, he gently helped me out of the rubber. When I was naked again, the thick powder made my skin look a strange white as I pulled on my jeans again. Handing me the rubber sock, he said “A present.” I stuffed the sock into my left pocket and held out my hand to thank him. He laughed as we formally shook hands. Walking back out into the store, he asked me if I had been actually been looking for something particular.
“Just what’s going on,” I mumbled.
Pointing to a stack of newspapers on the floor, he replied, “See the one called BOYZ, that’ll tell you what you want.”
I thanked him again and quickly went outside. The air was much colder, but it felt quite good. The late afternoon sun was growing weaker, but it was still warm. So I walked to a patch of grass on an empty lot and sat down on the ground. Flipping through the news paper, I finally came across an ad. CLUB SKJNS, it said. Two pounds before 11:00 and three pounds after. “Condition,” it continued, “short hair and men only.” Ripping the page from the paper, I smiled. I had found my connection.
I knew that I should wait until at least 11:00. I didn’t have any wish to stand out in a club full of skinheads, gay or not. I began to walk back down the street until I found a clock tower. It was only four, so I spent the afternoon wandering London. The streets and buildings were beautiful. Here I was in London, but I couldn’t find it in me to simply sit and enjoy the activity of the street. I entered and exited the tube. Summarily walking the block around an entrance, I would race back down into the underground to check the time. The afternoon dragged on and on. I would imagine that I had killed half an hour and then I would find out that only five or six minutes had passed. Finally, against my better judgment, I gave up on moving about London and took the subway to the neighborhood where the club was.
I arrived at nine. As I came up and off the escalator, I frowned to see an entirely residential neighborhood. Nothing upscale. In fact, I wondered if it was even safe. The age of London buildings had skewed my sense of good and bad neighborhoods. Worse, there would be nothing to occupy me. The next two hours moved forward at a crawl. I circled the blocks counting the house numbers and wondering if I might cross paths with the incredible looking skinhead. But I only encountered the questioning looks of residents, leery of my presence.
In the entrance to a closed-up grocery, I finally sat down and waited. It was about a block away from the club. I felt safer here as night finally came. On the street, skinheads began to arrive from the tube and walk down the alley to the club. They eyed me suspiciously, but no one made a move toward me. They were all dressed alike, and I suddenly realized how much I would stick out. I was only wearing jeans and hiking boots; my hair was hardly short. What had I been thinking? The salesman had spotted me without me saying a word, the skins would tear me apart. Slowly, I began to lose hope. They probably wouldn’t even let me in. Utterly dejected, I decided to simply walk past the entrance and then go back to the hotel. Summoning all my courage, I turned the corner.
As I walked to the club’s front door, my jaws clenched. I could feel my legs already shaking. It was him. He was the doorman. He had different boots than before. They were older and taller. Fourteen-holers and with yellow laces. His braces fell about his thighs, and he didn’t have a shirt on. His chest was like a bodybuilder’s, only covered in tattoos. Prominently across his chest ran the words “Made In England.” I started to turn away, but then he called out to me. “Hey, fag. Come here.”
Reflexively, I walked to him. “Looking for a queer bar, are ya?” I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I was wrong about it being gay. Maybe English skins just didn’t want women where they went drinking. I was going to get the shit beaten out of me, I just knew it. But instead of lurching for me, the man’s eyes opened wide. “Well, ya found one. ‘Cept you ain’t no skin and I can’t allow you in.” His eyes bored into mine and then he smiled. Maybe I was going to be all right.
“I want to be a skin, I want to belong. I always have…” I began to blubber.
He just continued to smile, a wicked smile. “I can’t let you in, but you know I need to piss real bad.
In a trance, I moved closer to him. I felt his rough hand on the top of my head. He began to push me to the ground and suddenly, I was at his feet. I ran my hands along his legs. His legs were enormous, they pressed against the fabric and filled his boots. When I looked up, he held his hand around my jaw and then with the other hand squeezed my nose shut. I began to feel dizzy. A stream of hot piss hit my face just as l needed air. It was rank and concentrated. I couldn’t help myself Instead of pulling away, I leaned for ward and drank. His piss was bright yellow. As the salty bitter stuff was pouring out of him, time stopped.
The piss filled up my mouth. It tasted so awful that I shook, but I tried to swallow. I couldn’t take it all, so as it poured out of his cock, it spilled from my mouth onto his boots. His smile faded. His mouth tightened and then he screamed at me, “Lick it up!” as if l should have automatically known to. Stretching out on the concrete step into the club, I bent down and tasted the leather of his boots. I sucked on them for my life, and in the distance, I could hear passing skins taunting me as they came and went from the bar. It was intoxicating. I was at his feet, licking between the eyeholes and around the toe. He moved my head about with the other boot. I could feel the rough sole on my head, tearing at the hair, as he slowly pressed my face into the boot with his other foot.
He began to push against the small of my back with his booted foot. Then kicking my face away, he pulled my hands behind me and swung me up from the ground. I was shaking as he dug his hands into my pockets. He found the change in my right pocket, but didn’t steal it. Then in my left pocket, he found the rubber sock. “What is this?” He shoved me against a wall and slowly turn the sock inside out. Pressing it against my cheek, he smeared my still-wet cum across my face. “Kinky boy, eh? You follow me and don’t even think of running away.” He turned and confidently began to walk down the street. I could have easily run away, but he knew I would not. Obediently, I walked behind him.
Home was an abandoned apartment building. At the entrance, he stopped and cold me to give him my clothes. Come on,” he gestured impatiently as I slowly began to unbutton my shirt. I looked around the street, but in a second, he grabbed my left arm. “I said undress. If anyone’s around, that’s my business.” Naked, I handed him my clothes and walked behind him through the dark halls until we came to his room. Throwing my clothes onto the floor, he lit a kerosene lamp and tossed a pair of Docs at me. I eagerly put them on. Then without a word, he placed a lock in the top hole of each one. I was locked in them now. My cock pointed straight out and his hand pulled on the head of my cock until I was close to the mattress on the floor. Then he simply said, “Butt up.” I smelled the mattress and I could tell this was where he slept. He was rolling the palm of his hand around my ass. My skin began to tingle and I closed my eyes.
Then in an instant, he smacked his hand against my right check. Then again. Steady at first, each hit grew harder and faster. At first, I winced with each blow. Then the blow of his hands became relentless. Reflexively, I put my own hands in the way. Angrily, he took my balls and began to crush them until I willed my hands to bare myself. His hands came down and down and finally I began to cry. I tried not to, but it hurt so much. At first, I could take it, but soon my ass felt like the skin would break. Each blow shook my whole body. With a scrunched-up face, I screamed without thinking. I heard him sigh as l blubbered into a sour pillow.
Then he stopped. I choked for air and felt him stick his finger in my ass. I panicked, I couldn’t get fucked dry. “Could you use lube please,” I timidly asked. Then he came up close to my ear and slowly spoke. “Say Sir. Beg me.” So I begged. I begged like my life depended on it. I begged for him to fuck me. But then I didn’t stop. I begged him to make me a skinhead. I cried out until he simply clamped his hand over my mouth. Silently scrutinizing me, I gazed at his dick. A large ring skewered the head of his cock and precum dripped from the hole it made along the shaft. I was scared, but I was entirely his.
He rolled to one side of the bed and came back with lube dripping from his palm. Forcing it into my asshole, he slowly forced his fingers inside me. His cock was hard as I’d ever seen one and when he touched my asshole with it, he made one single movement straight up and into my ass. To the hilt, he bucked in and out. At first, my butt clenched up so tight that I thought I would puke. His hand came around and began to crush my balls. As if something was pulling on the muscles in my stomach, I faintly sobbed as we rocked together on the mattress. I could feel his weight press against my whole body and slowly, I pressed my ass up as he pushed into me. With his free hand, he held my face back and slobber began to run down my chin. His weight crushed me against the mattress. His boots dragged across my legs. My ass burned as his lube-covered fingers scraped at my skin. Then he closed his eyes, moaned, pulled out, and shot over my back. The cum soaked my hair. I laid in a pool of my own cum, spastically dripping from my dick.
Everything was silent. He pulled away from ass and stood up. I rolled over and he raised his arms toward the dark ceiling, stretching out his muscles. His cock was still enormous as it hung, still filled with blood. I could feel the cum underneath me grow cool and I shivered. Then, as if he had been the most gentle lover possible, he bent down and held my face in his hands. He kissed me. His tongue reached into my mouth and his arms pulled me against his body. The heat of his skin warmed the sweat rolling down his sides as he tenderly kissed my face. He thrust his tongue deep into my mouth and tightened his arms around my back, rubbing one hand across my burning ass.
Then pulling back, he touched my hair. He grabbed a fist of it in his hand and pulled me close to his face. We laid staring at each ocher, silently. Letting go, I fell back against the mattress. Again, he rolled to the side of the bed. Reaching for a pair of cordless clippers, he skillfully brought them against my legs. Swallowing hard, I stretched out on the mattress and he began to run them across my legs. Up my ass and around my crotch. He rubbed his hand where my pubic hair had been, and his cock began to arc out again, pressing against my stomach. “Head up,” he bluntly said. I could hear the clipper’s whine. In slow parallel motions, he shaved my head, working up the sides.
I watched tufts of hair fall slowly onto my wet stomach. When he was finished, I ran my hand across it, feeling the remaining stubble. Then he forcefully brushed the hair off the mattress and pushed my head against the pillow. I could feel his cock against mine and his boots slowly pushed my legs apart. Instinctively, I put my hands behind my back. Then carefully, placing the clippers against my eyebrows, he firmly said, “Beg me. And I did, because my life depended on it.•
Author: Marc Charles
Photo Credit: Ulli Richter; Illustrations: Mosirisart
