It happened before I got my first p.c. and was having to use one of a bank of computers in my local library. There were partitions on the sides of each desk, shielding the screens from the eyes of other computer-user 'neighbours', if any, though not concealing the computer operator. It so happened that on this day when, having google-searched 'scouts', I had young ladies (of oriental origin) on each side of me. Then, under 'images', this pic came up and I felt, to my dismay, a warm spurting in my groin region. I hadn't even realised I'd been hard. Not wearing underpants and having to hold back any heavy, post-orgasmic breathing, I had to quickly shut down the computer and get back home before the inevitable conspicuous wet patch appeared through the front of my jeans. I didn't quite manage it but wasn't noticed, at least I don't think I was.
Anyone who's read my earlier blogs will know of my particular fetish for khaki, the seeds of which had already been sown in my very early years before my memory can recall.
I realise that 99.9% of guys do not share my fetish so I try not to keep harping on about it. There are plenty of other gay images that excite me so I tend to confine myself to those which have a wider appreciative audience.
I've surmised how my khaki fetish might have been brought about, perhaps by a young Indian servant then in his mid-teens who my family had at the time when I was a baby who, in old photos I've seen, seemed to always wear K.D. shirt and shorts - very common for men to wear in those years around Indian independence - and who may have sexually molested me in my infant years, thus starting an association of what he'd been wearing with matters sexual. If it was him did he once suck my baby willy? - or put his own cock to my mouth? Could this explain why I so much like cocksucking, both passive and actively, and greatly prefer it to bum-fucking? If I'm wrong about him I apologise profusely to his memory but it's the only thing I can think of which may have begun this. None of my other family members share the fetish. I know it with certainty because they can freely use the 'k' word without embarrassment whereas I've always turned red when I need to say it and it sticks in my throat as I stammer and stutter to get the word out - besides, the thought of what it represents gives me a boner, actually not as frequent now as in my younger days.
Anyway, getting closer to the above pic, at school, when I was around 11 or 12, it didn't help when my nickname actually became 'Khaki' following a then geographer teacher (and priest) asking the class a question and I, putting up my hand, answered correctly, and the teacher responding with "That's right, you little khaki bomb!" referring to my swarthy complexion, which these days might be considered as verging on racist. Of course the entire class erupted in hilarity and from then on, as this word was coincidentally close to the nickname I'd already acquired, it was easy for the boys to transform it into the 'k' word. (At first I was called not 'Khaki bomb' by the boys but, amusing to some, 'Khaki bum' . I'd be teased by being asked "Is that right? Have you got a khaki bum?" (This now explains to you the origin of my user name on these blog). But for the boys my nickname soon got shortened to the simpler, single 'K' from where it has remained for the rest of my life despite my having tried to shake it off when young. However, as an adult I started getting to like it and even now it gives me like an 'electric charge' whenever I'm addressed by it.
When I was twelve, about one-quarter of the pupils in the all-boys school at the time I attended joined the Boy Scouts (a much lower proportion now, of course). I stubbornly resisted time and again when others in the class suggested I should join, being the 'loner' that I was, and make some friends. Then a boy said that with a name like mine (referring to the 'K' word) I really should consider it. Then that made me think that if I did and was surrounded by all that compulsory khaki, it might 'cure' me of the fetish which I was only too aware of and which I then regarded as a nuisance. I finally decided to take the plunge, uncomfortable though it would be. I shouldn't have been surprised when I found, to my alarm, that I was getting a stiffie every time I put on my uniform. (My memory of what I had to do to make it go down is vague, though the remedy through the necessary procedure was obvious. I was, after all, with a body which was then just waking up to its physical urges.)
I persisted in the scouts in the hope that with frequency and familiarity the fetish would fizzle out and just go away, bothering me no more. Little did I know what was about to happen.
I'd only been a tenderfoot scout for about three months when the opportunity arose to go on Summer camp for a few days on the Yorkshire Moors. I went with something like two dozen other scouts, some the same age as me, most of them older by one, two or three years - all supervised over by the scoutmaster/priest who would have been about fifty then.
.
I've written in detail about what happened on the Saturday 'free-time' session, when I was surprised and accosted on the lonely, open moors by four older scouts who were determined to take down my 'holier-than-thou' Catholic devotedness, beginning by yanking down my shorts (there was a 'no underwear' rule in our troop - unusual but by no means unknown), ostensibly to stop me kicking out or running away, and pulling me down to the ground where, with my lower half now completely exposed, the main attacker (his own nickname was 'Bully'!) knelt over my chest, his knees pinning down my shoulders, then pulling my head up by the hair and forcing me to drink from a bottle of beer, then putting a cigarette between my lips, ordering me to suck in the smoke. At my age never having drunk alcohol or smoked before, it had me spluttering, coughing and choking as I tried to cope with the ciggie and gulp down the horrible liquid as ordered, until........feeling the body heat radiating out from his khaki-clad groin, I turned hard below, to the great amusement of the others. Bully shouted with glee - "Look. He must be a homo!" Then with me lying on my back, cock pointed skywards, and embarrassed as hell, Bully and another boy lay on their fronts on either side of me and started rubbing my stiff part with matchsticks, waiting for me to cum while I tried to hold back, my body arching off the ground like a hump-back bridge. Of course, despite my earnest efforts I couldn't prevent myself from shooting, to their great delight, applause and laughter. I'd never felt so humiliated in my life. I don't think I ever even knew then that all boys masturbated, but now my own most personal (and sinful!) feelings had been very publicly forcibly opened up to the world.
But that was only the beginning. They did further things to experiment on and humiliate me with. Having had my virginity taken away I had to play 'sentry' for them while they drank, smoked and played cards, making me sit stark naked in the kneeling position looking over an escarpment for any approaching scouts who might report them or anyone else at all, but with the neck of an empty beer bottle up my bum - "'Cos you're a homo you'd better get used to it!" - me sweating and afraid that the bottle might break, leaving bits of broken glass inside me.
They'd also threatened to write on the wall of a public toilet that I was a 'homo' (I have an unusual surname, as well as having three brothers!). With this threat they'd opened up a whole new world of dirty sex for me to discover when I tried to find discover what they'd written and where, intending to rub it off. I couldn't find it - but my discovery of public toilets and what goes on in them firmly put the final seal on my being irrevocably corrupted.
However, and most importantly, that fateful day at scout camp ended with my being given a vicious caning on the backside by the scoutmaster when, on our returning to camp after I'd been molested in the various ways I was, during assembled evening prayers, I was half-drunk, dying for a piss, with shirt soaked in beer and smelling of cigarettes, I hiccoughed loudly and, wriggling about trying to hold my piss, I couldn't stop from letting off an enormous fart in the middle of a 'Hail Mary'. Sniggers from the boys all around me, unable to be repressed, were loud. The priest/scoutmaster halted everything and, with face black as thunder, came right up to me, saw and smelt my dishevelled state and that I could hardly stand straight, then without further ado or demanding the details, he frogmarched me to the 'punishment tree' where I was made to bend over a low-hanging bough to receive a seemingly endless series of fierce strokes on the rear end (shorts weren't lowered, as if that helped any!), he going totally berserk, vicious thwhack after thwhack after thwhack, not letting up for one second. The rest of the scouts were arranged in a semicircle around, watching silently as they witnessed my ultimate degradation. My initial resolve not to show any signs of suffering was short-lived as I collapsed on the ground in tears, crying and yelling my head off with the excruciating, stinging agony, as well as letting my piss go like turning a tap full on. Who cared by then anyway?
A few days later I found out by official letter back at home that I'd been expelled from the Boy Scouts movement for '"gross misconduct - with no right of appeal"!
So there it was - I entered the Boy Scouts as a tenderfoot, and was kicked out a few weeks later with a tender bum!
So is it any wonder that my experience with the scouts not only did not cure my khaki fetish, but hammered it in far deeper - and covered it in concrete! Sixty years later (yes, this year makes exactly 60 years since!) that khaki fetish which has hovered over my entire life is still alive and kicking. I hope you'll now understand why that photo at top, even though it'll mean nothing to you, made my body react the way it did.
One final thing - it's not the body that's in the khaki that turns me on, it's the scout accoutrements - actually extending to the army too, or anything involving wearing the khaki, including certain police forces etc (Indian police in particular, regularly referred to as 'the men in khaki'). No, for the bodies alone, it's got to be men of age - and I do particularly like hairy men, if that helps to banish any doubt about my tastes regarding age.
Khaki is a 'sideline' for me, alebit a key and strategic one which I realise doesn't have anything like the same effect on most guys as it does to me, thanks to my own early life experiences. Still can't imagine life without it, though, as it's given me over the years countless moments of sublime pleasure and satisfaction.
And just a final shot to illustrate the kind of thing that gets my willy twitching, here's a pic of some mature South African scouts in uniforms I'd fuckin' die for:-
Khaki forever!
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