For various reasons (mostly for being careless enough to joke about caning on Twitter) I’m dressed in a summer version of my boy uniform today (that’s a white tee-shirt, grey school shorts, white socks and black plimsoles in case you’re keeping score).
I have mixed feelings about dressing as a boy. On the one hand, it seems in our house, boys are braver and get caned more severely. On the other hand, I feel very self-conscious in boy uniforms. I am very much not boy shaped and feel my uniform swells in areas it should be straight. Yet I also feel very boyish in said uniform, feel it’s important not to whine about punishments, to be brave about spankings and canings. This seems to make Paul want to whack me all the harder.
Anyway, today I’m dressed as a boy. As some of you know, my boy name is “George” which is the name of my great-grandfather, who immigrated from England to California in the late nineteenth century. He was the last in my family of a long line of male relatives who attended Eton College. Was nineteenth century George caned there? I don’t know — I’ve never made the appointment with their historian to see his school records. But I’d like to think so.
Picture is an older one of me as a boy with my schoolgirl girlfriend, Bailey.