Both these above pics of me are very old - as you'll have gathered if you've seen my previous post. Both illustrate my slavery to a khaki fetish which I've had as long as I can remember, and which was consolidated into a concrete, all-consuming obsession by my experience at Boy Scout Summer Camp at the tender age of 12.
I'm fully aware that the majority of guys do not share it so I don't like to bang on about it all the time. I've only met a handful of others in my entire life who do have it, or something close to it. However, I do feel an overwhelming need to talk about it somewhere and this blog-site seems the ideal place to get it off my chest.
I ought to add that it's not a necessary requirement for my pleasures. Very nearly all the sex I've had does not involve my dressing up in gear like here or asking guys to wear it. If you've seen any of my comments on other blogs you'll have realised that I like man-sex in any way..
I was born in India just before independence, and because my parents were both of European stock we had a small retinue of native Indian servants, as had a lot of European families in India then. (I know, I know - disgraceful, but that was the manner of the time, which would later become totally unacceptable).
I have only ever seen one b/w photograph (long since disappeared) of these servants, when I was a teenager. There were maybe four or five (including a couple of 'ayahs'), all female - apart from one teenage boy of perhaps 14 or 15. That image of him in that photo was burned into my mind and if I had the photo available I'd post it here. But it's gone. Although it was in black and white he was standing, looking rather sheepish, wearing what was clearly khaki shirt and shorts, a common 'uniform' for men at the time, particularly for those doing lowly jobs, maybe a little less common these days. One of his duties had been to keep the toilets clean. I'd guess that he would have been what was then classed (and still is, in parts) as an 'untouchable'.
At this stage I ought to assert that as long as I can remember I've been aware that I was 'different' from other boys, only later being able to identify that quality as being gay. The presence of men has always given me that extra sexual spark of excitement, a tingling feeling 'down below'. I have little doubt that I was born this way and have long accepted it, though when I was younger I thought that it was due to being just a slow emotional developer and that it would change as I grew up and became attracted to girls - an expectation that was also fuelled by a desire to 'belong' and not be regarded as 'different' and an outsider. Of course it didn't happen and I stopped wishing I was something else several decades ago.
But if being gay arrived with (or before) my birth, where did the khaki aspect come from? It's absolutely sexual but it's inextricably linked to my attraction to men. (Seeing men in khaki excites me, seeing women in exactly the same colour does not. To me it's the most masculine of colours.) The fetish cannot also have been there at birth otherwise it would be far more common than it is - and, as I say, although I've met a very few men who have a similar stimulation in this area as I do, it's clearly a very rare occurrence indeed. So where did it come from?
I have no memory at all of living in India. My family came to England when I was just two years old. So I remember nothing of how we lived, our house, or those servants that we had.
The possibility I put forward is this. Did that boy, clad in his distinctive 'uniform', do something sexual to me when I was still a baby? Perhaps it was something only very slight, even unintentionally. Or could it have been something more overt which left a deep, indelible mark on my infant mind - and was to last me all my life? Of course I don't know, and I might be unfairly traducing his name (he could well be long gone by now, anyway), but it's just about the only plausible explanation I can find. None of my brothers share my fetish. I would certainly have noticed it growing up together with them. (I'm the only gay one.) They've always treated khaki as nonchalantly as any other colour - as I imagine just about all of my blog-readers also do - something I'm incapable of doing, at least in front of anyone else, without getting tongue-tied, stammering and blushing as it dredges up all kinds of fantasies and guilt feelings about my secret desires.
I've mentioned in previous blogs that I was persuaded to join the boy scouts when I was twelve, which turned out to have disastrous consequences. So many boys in my school class said that I should join - partly because my nickname was..............yes, 'Khaki', of all things! (Originating from a priest-geography teacher jokingly referring to me in his class as a little 'Khaki Bomb', because of my swarthy complexion, which the boys, being boys, changed to 'Khaki Bum' and eventually to just 'Khaki').
I was reluctant to join the scouts because it would involve wearing that khaki uniform which to me was like showing oneself stark naked in public, or even worse. (I hadn't realised until I did join that the feeling of unease was to be accentuated even more by the strict, but very curious, ruling that no underwear was permitted to be worn under the uniform.) Eventually I did succumb to all the pressures to join thinking that the organisation might not only help me to overcome my isolation, having no real friends, but it could reduce my attraction for khaki, which had been puzzling and frustrating me up to then. Initial experiences of wearing that uniform were really painful. For much of the time when I could I had to keep at least one hand in a side shorts pocket to hold down a conspicuous something that would have been the source of great amusement to the other boys if they noticed, but I struggled through. (Did I ever actually lose control of myself? I must have done, more than once, surely. But if so the memory has been covered over. It would have shown in my soiled shorts, which my mother washed, but I don't recall it ever being mentioned. But she would have been too embarrassed anyway, never mind me myself!) After only a few months in the scouts, having the double-trauma of getting a vicious caning at Summer camp in front of the entire troop, just after having had my virginity forcibly taken from me by some older scouts, who'd found my humiliation and embarrassment a great laugh (and so ensuring that a link between khaki and gay sex would be made cast-iron permanent in my mind, and which I've recounted in full detail in previous blogs) I was expelled from that organisation, totally unfairly, with, unsurprisingly, not only the khaki fetish considerably INcreased in intensity but also having acquired, along with mental scars, a number of additional fetishes including a taste for corporal punishment, both receiving and giving.
So, had all this started when our Indian boy servant set me on an incontrovertible khaki path? It's entirely possible that he had nothing at all to do with it. But the seed must have been implanted by someone or something when I was very young. Maybe it was someone else, another male relative perhaps - or a passing stranger? Very unlikely. But the only evidence I've ever seen of a potentially suspect source was that photo and the boy trying his best not to look directly into the camera as he stood looking half guilty, yet half cocky. I do wish that photo was still in existence. I'd have liked to have posted it here but I think it must have been thrown out when my mother died.
It's abundantly clear that something did happen in my very early formative years to make this inescapable and permanent link between my sexual desires and this colour. In addition to that I'm not sure why it should be that I've always found Indian men, particularly if they're slim and hairy, the sexiest men on earth. (Though I'm not moaning about that either!)
So it seems that the origins of my lifetime khaki fetish will be a mystery which I'll take to my grave. It would have been nice to know for certain. It's been niggling at me all my life and it's pretty well hopeless to think that I'm going to find out now, unless I undergo some kind of regressive hypnotherapy, which is a possibility. But it's not so vital to find out that it's become an all-consuming obsession. Besides, there's always the chance that discovering the origins may well kill it off completely - and that really would be a disaster.
I've never really wished I didn't own it (apart from during that disastrous boy scout phase) and when I have used it (in the literal sense) it's always enhanced the sexual pleasures I've had, even when I'm alone. I only wish that there were more guys around who shared the same heightened feelings of ecstasy which khaki has given me. It's caused me to spurt more spunk in my life than anything else, and for that I'm grateful and happy.
LONG LIVE THE KHAKI......!
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