We lived in a working class neighbourhood in London, and the housing was the last hope for poor downwardly-mobile whites, and the first stop for blacks, Asians, and Eastern Europeans on the way up. More and more foreign people started moving into our street. It was not the man’s fault – the company was downsizing as it transferred manufacturing to cheaper plants overseas. The first was when his father lost his job. Then three things happened that shaped him forever. He didn’t need comforting as much, and by the age of eleven he never cried any more. But as Terry grew from a young child, he toughened up. When I first met Terry, he was as gentle and vulnerable as any normal seven year old. I grinned widely at his joke, proud at my horniness. “Four now! Fucking hell, you dirty little cunt. “I’m not still a boy like you,” he said patronising but playful, “I can’t just wank myself off two times a day and call it done.” He slapped it from side to side against his thigh, and it looked like a white eel with a long ant-eater foreskin snout. I’d seen it plenty of times before but it still impressed me. “Why don’t you just have a wank?” I offered. He was almost nineteen, and hardly two days passed without him getting his end away with some local piece of tail. I grinned at him amused at his predicament. If I don’t get laid soon, my bollocks are gonna burst.” I noticed that he kept tugging at the side of his cock through track suit trousers. He stopped raving about foreigners and fell quiet for a few minutes. I might murmur or nod, just so he wasn’t talking to himself, but mostly, as now, if I didn’t fuel the fire, his racist rants dried up pretty quickly. Just as he felt at complete ease around me, I didn’t really feel the need to pretend around him. But in private, when it was just me and Terry, I never spoke like that. I was comfortable with the deception because I knew that wasn’t really who I was – I was just playing a role to fit in, and it wasn’t like I was inciting them to ever actually do anything – I was going with the flow of the conversation.
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I talked about “fucking coons” and “pakis taking our jobs” (even though I was too young to actually HAVE a job) but it was never really me. When me and Terry were around the others, I played the role of racist bigot as much as I had to not embarrass Terry in front of his friends. By the time I was fifteen, I had figured that that was not because I was a genius, but because he was dumb as a stump.
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On a couple of occasions, I even held him in my child-like way as he cried.īy the time I reached my teens, I realised that I was MUCH smarter than Terry. In those days, Terry was still willing to show his vulnerable side, and I often commiserated with him about his injuries. But he still needed someone he could confide in, and that someone was me. He had a catalogue of excuses for the injuries he sported. Terry always made excuses to the grown ups – he’d tripped, or fallen off a swing. From time to time, we’d hear the man shouting inside his house, and then a day or two later, Terry or one of his four siblings would appear with fresh bruises, or worse still, they wouldn’t be seen at all for days on end.
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His father was a bully who was only too willing to use his fists on his own kids. We moved in next door, and he immediately took me under his protective wing. I’d known Terry since I was five years old, and he was seven. He was being drawn ever deeper into the darkness of white nationalist activism, and the further he went, the greater the intellectual distance between us.
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Over the past couple of years, his hatred of foreigners had grown. “Uh huh,” I murmured, giving him the minimum acknowledgement necessary without in the least way encouraging him. He might not be smart or creative, but he was nothing if not persistent. “We should put all those cunts on a boat and send them back here they came from,” Terry said, repeating a line that he had said a thousand times before. Me and Terry were alone in an abandoned factory. If you like my work and want access to PDFs of most of my stories, 4K versions of many images, and content that I chose not to publish publicly, please consider donating to my Patreon in order to receive access. A boy remembers the troubled skinhead friend who took his cherry.