Barber’s Pole

What a stupid question! No, of course not! No, I never regretted moving to the coast. Why would I? A tidy little inheritance and my early retirement had enabled it. My house was one of a detached pair in typical 1950s style. With extensive sea views and long gardens, I counted my good fortune every single day. The coastal climate was fantastic and I felt ten years younger at least. In fact, the only annoyance at my new home was the seagulls. Of course, you get them almost everywhere inland these days, but I did tire of their constant noise and of them shitting all over the place. My neighbour was Mr Shepard. He was 70, if he was a day. He was a retired barber from the West End of London. He used to regale me with tales of his famous and infamous customers, though rarely of the more humdrum ones. Evidently, his salon had been a fairly lucrative business. He was a stocky man, completely bald on top but with a neatly trimmed white moustache. He always wore dark, neatly pressed trousers and had a taste for striped shirts. His shoes shone immaculately, isvecbahis whether brown or black, and he always wore a matching thick leather belt. It soon became clear to me that this handsome old devil was gay, whereas my own sexuality had always been a little, how shall we say, ambiguous? Despite myself, I fancied him something rotten. I was amazed to find he’d refitted one of the downstairs rooms of his home as a bijou barber’s salon. There was just one leather padded adjustable barber’s chair, but the illusion was completed by all the usual trappings – a huge mirror lit from above, clippers, razors, combs, towels, tubs of dressings, styptic pencils and even a display of what appeared to be fine old Fetherlite and Gossamer condom advertisements. On hooks to the side of the chair hung a back mirror, a razor strop and somewhat incongruously, a school cane. I asked him about that cane. “Oho, that! Gets a lot of comment, that! I call it my barber’s pole! I used to use the strop and cane on uncooperative customers, back in the day.” isveçbahis giriş I assumed he meant young customers but I couldn’t be sure! I wanted to talk about it a bit more, but didn’t know how to tune the conversation in on the subject. In truth, I’d been caned at school rather a lot and began to enjoy the invigorating sting of the rattan. I was waiting for him to offer me a short back and sides, or a short, sharp shock, but sadly neither was mentioned. It was a few days later when we were sat in his garden enjoying the summer sunshine and the cool ocean breeze. I gazed lovingly into his sea-blue eyes. I sipped at my vodka and Coke and cursed as a seagull crapped on the cast iron table we were sat at. “Those fuckin’ seagulls! Always shitting everywhere!” “Tut, tut, Jason! What awful language! I ought to tan your hide with my strop and pole for that. Wherever did you pick up such foul language?” My first thought was that I’d picked it up at school, like you do, decades before! I blushed a little. It was as if he could read my every isveçbahis yeni giriş thought. “You’re right of course! You should tan me,” I laughed nervously as the words tripped out. “Inside then!” he ordered. Oh my God! He wasn’t joking. I soon found myself bent over the magazine table in his salon room. A pile of football and girlie mags fell to the floor. I felt his hot breath behind me as his hands made for my belt buckle. He must have done this before as he released the belt like an expert, undid the button and zip and yanked my trousers right down. “Actually, you’re far too low there. Let’s have you over the arm of the barber’s chair instead.” I waddled over with my trousers around my ankles. But the barber’s chair was too high! He pumped the chair down a little. I stared into the big mirror to my right. I was horrified to see him approach and then pull down my boxers. My naked arse was on display to Mr Shepard and the mirror. He pushed me down so that I was bent over the arm with my hands resting on the chair seat. “Now that’s what I call an arse!” he laughed, landing a hearty slap right on my naked bum. I reflected that he was the one using less than refined language now, but I wasn’t going to argue as I spied him reaching for his leather strop.