The Fig-leaf in the Dream

Another indelicate frivolity
By Mihangel

This little fable follows on from The King's Codpiece, in which all of the characters were introduced. It will make much more sense if you have read Codpiecefirst.

My thanks, as so often, to Hilary, Anthony and Jonathan.

17 April 2010

"Rob, how do you keep a fig-leaf on?"

It seemed a simple enough question. Little did I know that finding the answer would become an obsession.

"I don't," said Rob. "I haven't got one."

"But how would you, if you had?"

"Hmmm." Rob pondered. He liked practical problems. "It isn't obvious, is it?"

*

Nor will it be obvious to the reader why I asked my question, so I must explain.

After my exhausting production of Edward IIlast spring, I expected the new school year to be theatrically easy. For a start, one major hassle was out of the way. Edward, our prime pest, had now left, to a sigh of relief from everyone except, no doubt, Hugo. Even more important, the same boy never produced a play for two years running, and this time Old Persimmon had given the job to Bill Richardson, who was a great bloke and would do it well. OK, Bill might ask me to take some part, but that would be peanuts compared to organising the whole show.

And Bill did ask me.

"I'm plumping for Midsummer Night's Dream, Sam," he said. "A bit of comedy after your darkness last time."

Yes, a light and frothy dessert to follow that distinctly chewy meat. Despite all the acres of twaddle spewed out by the turgid and tedious critics, there isn't much depth in the Dream. It's a sweet and happy thing. If it's about anything, it's about love and how fragile it can be. In case you don't know it, I'd better summarise.

There are three plots which interlock. Theseus, Duke of Athens, is about to marry Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. At his court are two young couples, Hermia who loves Lysander, and Helena who loves Demetrius. But it's not working out because Hermia's dad wants her to marry Demetrius, and Helena and Demetrius have quarrelled. Hermia and Lysander elope, with Demetrius and Helena in pursuit.

Meanwhile, in the forest, Oberon the fairy king and Titania his missis are finding their relationship is going through a rough patch. To punish her, Oberon gets a mischievous sprite called Puck (aka Robin Goodfellow) to drop love-potion into her sleeping eyes, so that when she wakes up she will fall for the first living creature she sees. And, coming across the Athenian lovers asleep nearby, Oberon tells Puck to drop some into Demetrius' eyes as well, so that he will love Helena again. Puck, however, being incompetent, puts it into Lysander's eyes instead.

Meanwhile again, the rude mechanicals - a gang of uncouth labourers with the splendid names of Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout and Starveling - are rehearsing their own crummy play to perform at Theseus' wedding. Bottom bumps into Puck, who transforms his head into a donkey's, and of course Titania wakes up to fall in love with Bottom, and the lovers wake up to fall in love with the wrong ones. But eventually it's all sorted out, and the thing ends with a triple wedding at which the mechanicals perform their play. Not, as I said, exactly profound.

"So," Billasked me, "will you do Oberon?"

"Sure." It was an important part, and generous of him to offer it. "But what about all the women? Hippolyta, the Athenians, Titania, the fairies? Mother Ethelbugger hasn't relented, has she?"

"Never in a month of Sundays! But we'll manage. You know that boys' prep school at Binstock? Old Persimmon's persuaded them to lend us a handful of squeaky eleven-year-olds as the fairies. Then Alex Stevenson who did the young prince in your show, his voice stillhasn't broken, and I've got him as Hermia. For Helena there's a new boy called Matt Brown who's quite promising. And best of all, I've roped in the Lovibond twins. Do you know them?

"Buggy Lovibond's daughters?" He was a biology master. "Only by sight."

"Very sparky. They've just finished school and are at a loose end. So you'll have Liz as Titania and I'll have Maggie as Hippolyta."

So Bill was doing Theseus. It was unusual for the producer to take an acting role as well, but there was nothing against it. With a man like Bill it would work fine, and Theseus isn't a big part. That left only one really crucial character. "And who for Puck?"

Bill grinned. "Hugo Spencer. He was brilliant in your Marlowe, and he's incredibly sexy. Have you noticed how producers these days often give Puck to middle-aged geezers with receding hair, designer stubble and shaggy chests? Way off beam. I see Puck as young and sexy and flighty."

I had my doubts. I admit I didn't like Hugomuch. He was one of our Edward's clique, he was now Edward's boyfriend, and he shared a lot of Edward's stand-offishness. But that wasn't all.

"You think he's flighty enough?" I ventured cautiously. "Impish enough?"

"He can be. He used to be. It doesn't show much now, but I hope it's still there."

Fair enough. Bill knew him far better than I did - they were in the same house, of which Bill was now captain. And Hugo qualified in every other way. He wasyoung, and he wasincredibly sexy with his pretty-boy face and shapely figure. Not that I'd seen that figure in anything less than doublet and hose, but it set my imagination going.

"What sort of costumes are you thinking of?"

"Oh, a mixture. Bumpkins in jerkins or smocks - drab and shapeless, could be any period. Athenians in pseudo-Greek gear - short tunics and cloaks for the blokes, long light dresses for the girls, colour-coded so it's easy to see who really belongs to who. Me and Hippolyta in red, Hermia and Lysander in green, Helena and Demetrius in yellow. Fairies in white, and not much of that - Titania in bra and bikini, you bare-chested and bare-legged with knee-breeches, both of you with flimsy capes. All the fairies crowned with leaves. And Puck in nothing."

"What?Totally starkers?"

"Oh, he'll have to have a fig-leaf. Even Hambledon demands that. Even after Edward's display. But nothing else. Except his garland, and pointed ears."

"Good God!" I mulled it over. If Hugo was up to playing Puck, then almost-nakedness would suit him well. Exceedingly well. "Is he happy about it?"

"Haven't asked him yet. Not even if he'll take the part, let alone strip off."

When I told Robabout it all, he cackled. "Recognition at last! Sam, the king of the fairies!"

A week later Bill had another wordwith me. Hugo, he reported, had jumped at the part, but dug his heels in at doing it virtually nude. He insisted on being fully clothed.

"It's sad, that," Bill said. "I suppose he'll have to be in white, skin-tight, but not nearly so sexy. And it's strange, too. He used to be proud of his body. Time was when he almost showed it off in the showers. His motto seemed to be 'if you've got it, flaunt it.' But these last six months he hasn't been in the showers at all. I think he has baths by himself."

"He's still thick with Edward, is he?"

"Oh yes. Now that Edward's at university, Hugo gets a letter from Oxford almost every other day. Addressed in what I assume is Edward's writing. He doesn't talk much about it, but from what he's let slip I reckon they spent most of the last two holidays in bed together."

For the last six months Rob and I had spent every night at school in bed together - and,whatever people might suspect, nobody had said anything - and again I passed the news on to him.

"Sounds to me," he remarked thoughtfully, "as if Hugo's an exhibitionist at heart. And sounds as if our Edward's jealous. Typical. I doubt he's ever loved him properly. He's just loved what he's got between his legs. 'Hugo's all mine,' he'd say. 'His lovely body's mine. Can't have other people admiring it.' Puts his foot down. And Hugo, besotted sod, obeys. Whereas youdon't mind people admiring mylovely body, do you?"

"Idiot!" was all I said. We weren't as rude to each other now as once we'd been, or as often. Something to do with love, perhaps. But he was right. Rob's body was indeed almost as lovely as Hugo's, and no, I didn't mind.

"Hugo," Rob summed it up, "needs a good talking to."

So I looked for an opportunity. A week later we had the first read-through with everybody present. We were a mixed bunch. Fifteen Hambledon boys, a fair proportion of whom had been in Edward II. You knew where you stood with them. Two lively Lovibond lasses, an unknown quantity. But however much Hambledonians might lust after Ethelbuggers, masters' offspring enjoyed, by some weird unwritten rule, a sort of diplomatic immunity, and nobody would dream of seducing them. And four tiddlers who seemed alert enough but were unknown quantities too. No chaperoning for them as the Ethelbuggers had once been chaperoned. The Binstock teacher who had driven them over had dumped them and immediately buzzed off with Old Persimmon to the pub.

"Only fourfairies?" I asked Bill as people settled down.

"That's all we need. Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed. I'll give the First Fairy to whichever is best. Their parts are very small anyway, so they'll only come over occasionally."

Billgathered everyone's attention. "First," he said, "let's get one thing out of the way. As most of you know, some of us are gay." All the Hambledonians would be aware that that meant him and Hugo and me. The Lovibond lasses raised their eyebrows and smiled gently. The tiddlers tittered, as tiddlers do at anything they see as risqué. "And of course the Dream's about fairies." Everyone laughed out loud. "But let's forget that joke before it grows whiskers. Because while Edward IIwas a tragedy about being gay, the Dream's a comedy - and in places a very funny one - which isn't about gays at all. Even so, it's easy for gays to see a homoerotic side to it." Hugo unexpectedly blushed crimson. The tiddlers, who doubtless didn't know what homoerotic meant, looked puzzled. "But the point is that anyone can read whatever they like into it. There's a very clear message in Edward II, which Sam got across marvellously. But the< /font> Dream... well, that's exactly what it is. It's a dream, no more than that. There's no real message in it. Our job is simply to get the audience to suspend their disbelief and let their imaginations roam. We are such stuff as dreams are made on."

Then we got down to it. That first reading was good, as Bill enthusiastically told us. Rough at the edges, inevitably, but a great start. Unlike last time, when we were shadowed by Edward's selfish moodiness, we were all on the same wavelength. The regulars were steady as ever. The Lovibonds were well on board. The tiddlers were not unpromising. But the biggest star, and to me the biggest surprise, was Hugo. He got Puck's character absolutely right - a mischief-maker who revelled in his pranks, a bit ham-fisted, a bit inconsiderate, but lovable and hilariously funny. He had everyone in stitches.

I waited until he left, and went out with him. "That was brilliant, Hugo," I said. "Anyone would think you'd been playing Puck for years. Have you?"

"Oh no. That was the first time." He seemed far away, and on a high. The real actor knows when he's done well.

"Well, you've got more mischief in you than I'd have guessed ... I hope," I added daringly, "that Edward appreciates it."

"Mischief?" he asked vaguely. "Oh, Edward's only interested in my body."

That gave me a handy opening. "And a very good body it is. I hear you used to like it. That you were proud of it. Aren't you any more?"

"Yes. Oh yes, I am."

"Then why don't you like other people admiring it? Is it because Edward tells you not to?"

"That's right." He was still far away.

"For God's sake! Edward wasn't shy about his own body. He was always parading it shamelessly in the showers, wantingto be admired. Even after he teamed up with you. Right up until he left."

"Was he really?"

"He was. So why shouldn't you parade yours, if you want to? Wouldn't you liketo appear on stage half-naked?"

"Well, yes, I would."

"Then bugger Edward!"

To my astonishment he took that quite literally. "I wish I could. But he always buggers me."

I was so gobsmacked I had no words.

"Which is the bottom boy, Sam?" he asked dreamily. "You or Rob?"

That made me find my voice. "Neither. Both. We're equals. We don't dictate to each other. If one of us tried, the other would slap him down. We're in love, we're together, but we're our own masters. And so you should be too. Look, Hugo. You've got everything going for you. With your acting talent, you're going to be a hit as Puck. With your physique, you should be a double hit. Tell Edward that, and if he still says no, tell him to stuff it."

For the first time he seemed to take it in properly, and lookedat me with mouth open and head on one side. "Thanks, Sam. Right, I'll try."

"Good luck, then." I still didn't like him much, but Lord knows I pitied him.Rob's diagnosis had been spot-on. And at least he didn't call me Samuel, as Edward had done.

Rehearsals continued, and everything else was going well. Bill roped in Rob, with his expertise in all things practical, to build the scenery and create garlands of leaves for the fairies. And as we started in on our positioning and moves, Hugo became more and more active. Partly at Bill's suggestion but more on his own initiative, he was never still, capering here, bouncing there, climbing trees and jumping down (which gave Rob many headaches in making them strong enough), even turning cartwheels. He clearly had another hidden talent, an athletic one, that was bursting to come out. Which made it even more of a shame that he couldn't take proper advantage of the beauty of his body. It would be artistically right.

At decent intervals I asked if he was making any progresswith Edward, but each time the answer was no. The bastard (my word, not his) was still not budging. Just before we broke up for Christmas I asked again.

"No. He says he doesn't want me prostituting my body."

I gaped in disbelief. "Prostituting? Bloody hell, you're not putting it up for sale! And who's he to lay down the law? He isn't your master. You aren't his slave. If Rob wanted to do it, I wouldn't object. I respect him and trust him. But Edward doesn't seem to respect or trust you."

Hugo looked at me thoughtfully. "Well, I'll keep trying. I'm spending the holidays with him."

I wasn't hopeful. Butin January, just before term started, I was astonished to get an email from him, and even more astonished at what it briefly said. Hugo had told Edward where to get off, and was now happy to appear virtually naked. I immediately phoned Bill to pass on the good news.

"Oh, brilliant, Sam! Well done! I know you've been badgering him but didn't dare hope it would work. But look. There's a practical problem now. On the off-chance, I asked our costumiers if they could do a fig-leaf. And they can't - they've never been asked for one before. So we'll have to improvise. And knowing your skill at - how do I put it delicately? - adapting nether garments, could I ask you and Rob to kit Hugo out?"

I said yes, of course. It was only when I gave it some serious thought that I began to wonder how a fig-leaf stayed put. What did you attach it to? Rob would know, though, and term started next day. I got to Hambledon early. So did Rob, and after a happy reunion I filled him in on Hugo's U-turn. And that was when and why I found myself asking, "Rob, how do you keep a fig-leaf on?"

*

As he observed, it was not obvious. His next point was, "Well, what does a fig-leaf actually look like?"

I could help with this. As I was leaving home I'd remembered a family memento and had grabbed it. I now dug it out of my luggage and put it on the desk. It was a foot-high statuette in cast bronze of a youth, gazing downwards, starkers except for boots and a silly little skin over his shoulder.

"Who is it?" Rob asked.

"It's a copy of a Greek statue dug up at Pompeii. My great-grandpa bought it in Naples, must be a century ago. It's Narcissus."

"Remind me who he was."

I had long ago read about him in Ovid, and some of it had stuck. "Oh, he was an incredibly beautiful youth who saw his reflection in a pool and fell in love with it. Trouble was, it couldn't love him back."

"Oh, I see. Hence narcissism. What happened to him?"

"The gods put him out of his misery by turning him into a flower. The narcissus."

"What a salutary end. And yes, there's his fig-leaf."

"Pull it off."

"Eh?"

"It comes off."

Rob fiddled, and it came off, a little pouch made of thin sheet bronze. Soldered to the inside was a bit of wire which plugged into a hole just below Narcissus' cock.

Rob chortled. "What a dinky little willy! It's microscopic!"

"The Greeks preferred them small."

"Huh! How old was Narcissus supposed to be?"

I dredged my memories of Ovid. "Sixteen, I think."

"Same as Hugo, then. I hope he's better endowed than this."

"Oh, he is."

"How do you know? Have you seen him starkers?"

"No. But don't you remember him as Young Spencer? He had a pretty good package in his codpiece."

"There's always padding," said Rob sombrely. He looked back at the ill-endowed statuette. "Why on earth make a separate fig-leaf? Much easier to make it part of the casting."

I laughed. "I can answer that one. It's in the family folk-lore. At the shop where great-grandpa bought this, if you were Italian or French they gave you one without a fig-leaf. If you were German or British you got one with."

Rob laughed too. "But it doesn't really help us. We can hardly drill a hole in Hugo's balls. Much though we might like to."

"True. But at least it shows that a fig-leaf has to be shaped into a sort of cup. Or pouch, like a jockstrap. To cover all of your equipment. If it was flat, if you looked from the side or below, you'd see behind it. You'd see almost everything."

"OK, good point. It has to be sort of moulded to shape ... But look, Sam, I've simply got to finish an essay I should've finished last term. Why don't you see what else you can dig out on the web?"

So I attacked Google, and made notes, and saved pictures. Coming up for air after an hour and a half, I saw that Rob had finished his essay and was wearing his problem-solving expression.

"Any joy?" he asked.

"Yes and no. Plenty of history. And art history. Bugger all about how fig-leaves are meant to work."

"Tell me."

I started with the Victoria and Albert Museum. In 1857 the Grand Duke of Tuscany presented Queen Victoria with a full-size plaster cast of Michelangelo's David. When she set eyes on its willy she was categorically not amused, and promptly redirected it to the museum. And there they made a plaster fig-leaf which was installed whenever she - or any other lady of standing - came visiting. It hasn't been used for donkey's years, but it's famous now. It has toured the world. It lives in its own case behind the statue. It even has its own web page. I showed Rob a photo.

" It's twenty inches high," I said.

"Jesus!Is he that well-hung!"

"No. The statue's seventeen feet tall."

"Oh ... Yes, I suppose that's proportionately OK. How was it attached?"

"Two small hooks, strategically placed."

"Pity we can't stick hooks into Hugo," he said. "Oh, that's a thought! Has he got any piercings down there?"

"How should I know? But I doubt it. He isn't that sort."

"Pity, again. We need an anchorage."

"And as for David's equipment, it's hardly better than Narcissus's."

I brought up a photo of David as nature - or Michelangelo - intended, five centuries ago. Rob chortled again. "Hee! Tiny too! At least he's got some pubes. Narcissus is definitely prepubertal. But look at that! David's uncut. Yet he was a Jew."

"Michelangelo" - I was lecturing now - "was following the classical ideal of the male body. So he gave David a small willy, and uncircumcised. And the Greeks never put fig-leaves on their sculpture because they weren't prudish. But Christianity was. Still is, mostly. Medieval art hardly ever shows cocks, except on sinners roasting in hell. Usually they're hidden by convenient branches. Or by fig-leaves."

"Why fig-leavesin particular?"

"Garden of Eden, remember? When Adam and Eve realised they were naked 'they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves aprons'."

"Oh yes. Of course."

"So Michelangelo," my lecture continued, "was being quite revolutionary with David, and plenty of Florentines were shocked by it. Soon after he died they gave it a fig-leaf, a metal one. And the church clamped down too. They stuck new fig-leaves on classical statues left right and centre, and doctored Michelangelo's paintings in the Sistine Chapel. OK, most of them have been whipped off now. But in some places un-fig-leafed Davids are still being censored, even today. The States. Israel. Even Oz - the vice squad there confiscated posters of him from an art shop."

"So what it boils down to is that these things are figments of the imagination ..."

I groaned.

"What?"

"Figments."

"Oops!" He was unabashed. "Pun not intended ... But the point is, nobody has ever actually worna fig-leaf."

"Well, actually they have." I told Rob about a certain Eugen Sandow, a world-famous Prussian bodybuilder, a proto-Tarzan, a sort of Schwarzenegger of his day, who emigrated to Notting Hill (why Notting Hill?) in the 1880s and was fond of posing for the camera in nothing but a fig-leaf. I brought up a series of photos from the web. We enlarged them till the pixels squeaked, but for the life of us we couldn't see how the damned leaves were attached.

"Well, with some of them you can't tell," said Rob. "But this one definitely isn't stuck on a thong. Nor's this. You'd see it, or see the indentations in his skin. All you cansee is the fold of his groin. Anyway, we don't want a thong, do we? We're after total nudity. Except for the leaf, of course."

"That's right. It would be so obvious why the thong was there. We want something that smacks of magic. Fairy magic. That gets people wondering how the hell the leaf stays put."

We returned to Herr Sandow. "His leaves are flat," Rob pointed out. "You're right. If you looked from below you'd see behind them. I think they're genuine leaves. And I think they're glued to his cock."

"Spirit gum, probably. That's what one of these sites suggests. And that's what we use on the stage for false beards. But it can smart a bit. Might hurt down there. Still, they say that's how you stick merkins on. Which comes to much the same thing."

"What the heck are merkins?"

I couldn't twit him for his ignorance because, innocent that I had also been, I'd only learned about merkins half an hour ago.

"Pubic wigs," I explained.

"Pubic wigs! For God's sake! Why?"

"Used by tarts in the old days. Maybe still. Shave off your real pubes, which are probably full of lice, and cover your syphilitic pustules with a little wig, stuck on with spirit gum. And if you know your next customer likes redheads, say, put on a ginger merkin to please him."

"How revolting." Rob could be quite a puritan, occasionally.

"Or you can hold it on with toupée tape. Double-sided sticky tape for keeping an ordinary wig in place - we've got some in the theatre - or for holding your strapless dress up over your boobs. They say it lasts for a month."

"So Hugo shaves his pubes and wanders round in a fig-leaf for a month? He willbe pleased. Better use Velcro, so he can take it off."

"Well, he needn't shave his pubes, need he? Why not simply hold the leaf by sticky tape strapped round his cock?"

"What happens when he gets a hard-on? It'd be strangulated."

"He'd hardly get a hard-on on stage."

"Wouldn't he just? What happened last time?"

True. Very true. There was a pause.

"What about this?" demanded Rob. "What d'you call those hairpin things with a crinkly edge? Bobby pins?"

"Kirby grips, you mean? I think bobby pins are what Americans call them."

"Yes, kirby grips. Attach one to the back of the fig-leaf and clip it into his pubes. That's how Jews keep their yarmulka on. Not on their pubes, you clot. On their heads."

"Doesn't sound very firm," I said. "Remember he's capering all over the stage. And how do you attach it to the leaf?"

"Sew it on."

"Sew it? To a real leaf?"

"It couldn't be a real leaf."

"Why not? Twankey's got a fig-tree in his garden."

"Yes," said Rob patiently. "But it's mid-winter, have you noticed? And fig-trees are deciduous. We'll have to make one. Cut it out of green plastic, flexible, not too thick and not too thin. Paint the veins on. Sew it to wires behind. Then bend the wires to get the cup shape we need. That part's fairly plain sailing. The problem's still how to attach it. What to attach it to."

"Well, we'll just have to experiment. Like we did with the codpiece."

"Yes. Experiment on you, like we did then."

"Why me?" I probably sounded plaintive.

"Because (a) this is your problem, not mine. And (b) you're better-hung than me. More like Hugo, if we've got that right. So it's your fate to be the guinea pig. Steal some spirit gum and tape from the theatre, and we'll start with them. See if they take the skin off your cock."

"Thanks very much." I resigned myself. "But you realise that sooner or later we'll have to see how big Hugo really is, and probably tinker with his tool?"

"Might be interesting."

"For him or for us? But seriously, Rob. We can laugh about it, but once we've sussed out the best way of doing it, he'll have to have a trial run. Maybe several. I mean, it's pretty personal, isn't it, tinkering with someone's tool? We've got to tread carefully. Explain exactly what the problems are and how we're trying to get it right. Take a clinical approach, almost. You know what I mean."

Rob could be serious when he wanted. "Oh yes. Agreed. It's important for him to get it right. And it's important for you too. Because you'retaking this very seriously, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. I do want to get it right. Not just for Hugo's sake, or for Bill's. It's art for art's sake."

At that point someone knocked on our door and we had to adjourn. But it had been a useful bout of brainstorming, if only a preliminary one.And tomorrow I would have to talk to Hugo and tell him we needed to investigate his anatomy.

*

Hugo, when I found him, was pretty upbeat about his rebellion. "Edward still insisted, so I insisted too. I told him what you said, Sam. That he wasn't my master and I wasn't his slave. He got so cross he threw me out of the house. Looking back, it was really very funny."

"Have you broken up for good?"

"I think so."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Relieved, to be honest. Liberated. I'm my own man again. I can do Puck as Bill wants me to. Which is how I want to do it too. By the way, Bill says he's got you and Rob to make a fig-leaf for me. How's it going to be held on?"

"That's the question. We're hoping to find a way that doesn't show at all. Total invisibility."

"Yes. That's how I'd like it too."

"Well, we haven't found it yet. We had a session yesterday, cudgelling our brains. We've got some ideas, and we're going to try some experiments ..."

"Experiments? On you?"

"Yes. Most of them probably won't work, but it'll narrow down the possibilities. And when we find a promising line ..."

It isn't the easiest thing in the world to suggest to somebody you don't know at all well that he drop his trousers and let you inspect and even handle his equipment. I could've done it to Rob, even before we teamed up, because for years we'd been as close as thieves and we were both pretty uninhibited. But Hugo didn't fall into that category. Definitely not, as far as I knew.

"... then I'm afraid we may have to ask you to show us, um, what we're dealing with. And when we've come up with something, see how it fits you. Would you mind?"

Hugo looked at me consideringly. Then he smiled. "OK. In for a penny. But promise me one thing, Sam. That you won't doctor my fig-leaf like you did Edward's codpiece."

I was quite shocked. Such a thing had never crossed my mind. Honestly it hadn't. I said so. "Anyway," I added, "we've no reason to doctor your fig-leaf. We had every reason to doctor Edward's codpiece. He was an arrogant twat and needed bringing down a notch." I could safely say that to Hugo, now. "But that doesn't apply to you."

"Well, thanks. OK, I trust you." He positively laughed; the first time, I think, I'd actually seen him laugh, and he did look very beautiful. "You know, I'm looking forward to this."

That was a good start, so I ventured a few questions. "Hugo, am I right in thinking you're pretty well-hung?"

He blushed. "Well, I'm not ashamed of it." And I had the feeling that, if we hadn't been in the middle of the quad, he might have dropped his trousers there and then.

"As big as Edward?"

"Not that big. But not far short."

"Right. And our main problem is how to anchor the leaf. You don't have any piercings down there, do you?"

"Christ, no! Not my style."

"Thought not. Right, thanks, Hugo. We're keep you up to speed with how we get on."

"And thank you, Sam. If it hadn't been for you I'd still be a slave."

Now that wasencouraging. Edward had never been known to thank anyone for anything. I began actually to like young Hugo.

*

I raided the make-up store at the theatre and stole a bottle of gum, a bottle of solvent, and a roll of toupée tape. Well, it wasn't exactly stealing, because it was for an entirely legitimate purpose. And that night we began our experiments. We had three lines of attack: gum, tape and kirby grip. Rob cut a crude fig-leaf out of cardboard to a size that looked about right.

"I know it's flat," he said. "But at this stage that hardly matters. It's how we attach it. It would be easiest to start with a kirby grip, but we haven't got one. Have to buy a pack tomorrow."

"Hang on. I think I may have one." I rummaged in my desk drawer, and there at the back, among the debris of paper clips and pencil stubs and euro coins and empty ballpoint caps and fragments of erasers which lurk at the back of all desk drawers, was a kirby grip. I held it out in triumph. "Must've been Dawn's." She was my ex-girlfriend. "God knows how it got in there."

"I can guess," said Rob. "It's a fetish," at which I glowered. "Right, hold it open, back against the card, while I sellotape it on." He applied sellotape. "Not very strong, but good enough for starters. Trousers and pants off. Shirt off too - it'll get in the way."

I stood naked before him and he fingered my pubes. "Good and thick. Hope Hugo's got as much. We want this nice and tight." He held the grip part-open between finger and thumb and with much fumbling and swearing slid it into the hair. "That's the best I can do."

I looked in the mirror. It was hanging far off the vertical because my cock was in the way, and it was rakishly obscene.

"Hmmm." Rob was looking too. "What happens when you caper like Hugo does?"

I imitated Hugo's capers. The cardboard flapped wildly and, soon, painfully. "It's coming loose," I complained, "and pulling hairs out." In demonstration, the cardboard fell to the floor, with several pubes caught in the grip.

"We want the grip in the thickest hair," said Rob. "Close to the skin. But the cardboard's too stiff. My fingers were in the way and I couldn't get it deep in. We need something more flexible. Find me a sock."

I found him a grey synthetic sock, which he folded in half. He fed one side of the grip through the fabric and then slid the other into the hair. "Good. Much deeper in now. Caper again."

This time it hurt less, but the sock still flapped wildly.

"Damn. Your pubes are too high. The grip's acting like a hinge at the top. I don't think this is going to work."

"Good." I disliked the idea of things stuck in my pubes. I slid the grip out, taking more hairs with it. "So there's no point, is there," I asked hopefully, "in shaving my pubes and gumming the thing on like a merkin?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly. "I'm afraid not."

That was a relief. I really didn't want to shave my pubes. "Why not try toupée tape round my cock? At least that's lower down."

"Let's have a lookat it. Not your cock, you twit. The tape ... yes, it issticky, isn't it? I think the sock might stick to it direct." He tried. "Yes, not bad. Come here."

He wound tape round the base of my cock, one circuit and a bit, and cut it - the tape, not my cock. Then he did the same not far from the tip, and pressed the sock into place on the upper side. "How does that feel?"

"Weird. Alien." I found I didn't like things stuck to my cock any more than to my pubes.

"Well, try it."

I capered again. Ouch! I stopped at once.

"What's up now?"

"The bloody tape's stuck to the hair on my balls. Probably pulled some out."

"Let's see ... Yes it has, you shaggy goat. Stand still and I'll snip the hairs that are still stuck ... OK ... No, wait." He cut a square of paper and stuck it to the tape on the underside of my cock. "That'll isolate the tape from your balls. Try again."

This time it didn't hurt, but the sock still flapped in every direction as I jumped and gyrated.

"Now it's your cock bouncing up and down. Everything's still hinged at the top. No, not hinged. It's a universal joint. Comes of being too big. If you had a neat little pinkie like Narcissus or David it wouldn't be so bad. And if we gummed the thing onto your cock it would behave just the same. And your balls were bouncing merrily too. You know, this isn't going to work either."

That was another relief. "I'll take this off, then."

"No, leave it on. I need to think."

We glared at the offending sock, me in the mirror, Rob direct.

"We can't help the hinge at the top," he said at last. "What we've got to do is anchor the thing at the bottom so it can't flap or bounce. We need to tape it there."

"But what to?"

"Ummm. Bend over."

I obediently touched my toes while he knelt behind me, looking and poking.

"To your crotch," he said, his finger on the stretch between my balls and arse. "Your perineum."

"But there's hair there!"

"Yes, there is. A bloody Amazonian forest."

"You're not sticking tape on that! It'll be murder taking it off!"

"Yes, but we can do some illegal logging, can't we? Fell the forest. How about it?"

I hesitated. But nobody would notice. It was a sight better than shaving my pubes and being laughed at in the showers. And it wasfor the sake of art. "All right then."

Rob shaved wet, with an old-fashioned razor. I shaved dry, with an electric one. He used mine, having first clipped the worst of the forest with his scissors. It was an odd feeling. When the deed was done, he stuck tape to the lower end of the sock and pulled it back, so that my equipment was pouched quite tightly and the sock protected my balls from the tape. He stuck the other end to the newly-cleared woodland. It felt as if I had a jockstrap on, though it was a bit strange between the legs.

Rob smacked me on the bum. "Right, another test run!"

So I capered again, for several minutes, with all of Hugo's energy if little of his elegance. It felt good until ... something began to slip, slipped more, broke free. The sock bounced madly again.

"Oh shit!" said Rob. "Bend over, lemme see." He ran his finger along my perineum. "Ackkk! There are two problems. The skin here isn't smooth enough. It's all ridges and corrugations, so the tape didn't grip properly. And you're sweating here already."

"Hugo capers ten times as much. He must sweat too. And presumably he's corrugated too."

"You know, I've never explored this part of you before," said Rob thoughtfully. He was still feeling my perineum. "I must get better acquainted with it."

"Rob! You're giving me a hard-on! Get those tapes off my cock!"

He did, as fast as he could, but my cock, by the time he finished, was beginning to hurt.

"Close shave," he said. "But I've gone off this idea. If we'd been slower in getting the tape off, you could've done yourself a real nasty. We can't risk that on Hugo."

I wholeheartedly agreed. And at this stage we reckoned we had done enough, so we called it a day, tumbled (sweaty though I was) into bed, and took my hard-on to its logical conclusion.

*

Next morning I spent the first lesson, where I had to be present physically but not mentally, thinking back. The initial experiments had not gone well. But at least we'd eliminated some lines of pursuit. Or almost eliminated - everyone differs marginally in the details of their anatomy, and possibly Hugo had something that I didn't. It was becoming more urgent to inspect him and even experiment on him. It would be tricky, though. Rob had been quite rough with me. Between us, no problem. But we couldn't treat Hugo like that. Or could we?

And what had emerged very clearly was that we needed a pouch of some sort to contain his equipment. The fig-leaf could quite easily be fixed to the pouch. The burning question was still how to hold the pouch in place. And out of the blue I heard a hint. The lesson was on musical appreciation - a broadening subject, no essays or exams involved - and the master was gabbing about Wagner. I never have appreciated Wagner, and never will. In fact I loathe him, which was one of many reasons for switching off. But suddenly two words came through: 'The Ring.'

I've never been into sex jewellery or sex toys. Life's plenty good enough without them, and I knew damn all about the topic. But there was one sort I hadheard of, though no more than that. I broached it with Rob before lunch.

"Rob, d'you know anything about cock-rings?"

"Nothing. Heard of them, but never seen one. Why? You thinking of getting one?"

"Not for me. For Hugo. I think they're made either for a cock by itself, or for cock and balls together. That's the sort. Sew a pouch onto it, sew the leaf to the pouch. And it'll stay in place without any tape or gum."

"See what you mean. Good thinking. This needs more research."

I had no time free until the evening. But Rob reported that he'd trawled the web, and once our school work was out of the way he passed on the results.

"They sound a bit dodgy, Sam. You're right, there isa sort to go round both cock and scrotum. You usually wear it to maintain a hard-on. Put it on once you're hard, and it's tight enough to stop the blood flowing out again. Trouble is that even the adverts insist you mustn't wear it for more than twenty or thirty minutes. Otherwise you risk necrosis."

" What's that?"

"Gangrene."

"Eeew!"

"Well, if it's tight when you're hard, it's obviously loose when you're soft, and it's liable to slip off. I did find this one, though." He brought up a photo. "The prong with the knob goes up your arse. It's an anchor, sure. But it's solid metal. How the hell would we get one that's exactly the right diameter for Hugo when he's soft? I don't think it's on.

"But I also found this one, just a strap with snap studs. Nice and adjustable, and easy to lash one up ourselves. A much better bet. Want another experiment? Then let's measure you."

While I undressed, he found a tape measure in his sewing box. He measured round the top of my cock and scrotum together, tightening the tape until it was firm. "Six and a half inches," he read off. He cut a narrow strip of plastic, fixed a press-stud near one end, and measured carefully. He fixed the other half of the stud, and it was done. "Looks about right," he said when he'd snapped it in place. "Is that too tight or too loose?"

I walked around. It felt a bit constricting, but not enough to stop the blood flow. "Seems OK."

"But it's got no weight on it. In practice it's got to carry the weight of the pouch and the leaf. Where did that sock go?"

Robtook the strap off me, stapled it inside the sock top, and put it back on. The sock dangled, long, grey and forlorn.

"Just like a donkey dong," he observed.

I walked again, and then capered. That revealed the design flaw. The dong slid down. A cock is more or less the same diameter all the way, but a scrotum, as you go south from its root, narrows off until you get to the balls, where it massively widens out again. And my balls hang low. So the whole thing crept down the best part of two inches until it was stopped by the top of my balls. Equally bad, the dong was flapping everywhere.

"Shit, no." Rob was downcast. "It's the same story - bouncing cock, bouncing balls, hinge at the top, no anchor at the bottom. Sorry, Sam. Nice idea, but no joy here either."

"We're being pushed towards a thong, aren't we?" I said. "Last resort, but better than nothing. And I think it's time to bring Hugo in on the act. Show him how far we've got, and see if he's got any ideas. And have a good look at him. Right?"

"Right."

*

Next day was Sunday, and as we emerged from chapel I bumped into Hugo. On Sunday afternoons we could do what we liked, we'd have hours to ourselves, and yes, he'd be happy to come to our room. I told him, by way of advance warning, that the experiments had been disappointing and that we were having to think of a thong, second-best though that would be.

"But I've got a thong!" he said.

Good grief. He was the last person I'd expect to own such a thing.

"Edward gave it me," he explained, blushing. "And sometimes he expected me wear it."

Hmmm. No comment. "Have you got it here?"

"God yes! If I left it in my undies drawer at home, my mother would be bound to find it. She'd throw a wobbly."

"Then bring it with you."

He duly turned up after lunch, and we took him to our room and locked the door so that casual callers would think we were out. Hambledon might be a wonderfully liberal place, but you were never sure quite how far you could stretch your luck. We carefully took Hugo through our researches so far. He giggled at Narcissus and David and their minimalist endowment. And he goggled at Herr Sandow.

"No," he said. "That's not good enough. You can see his pubic hair. And you're right, you could see past his leaf, from the right angle. I want to be as naked as possible, but I do draw the line. Cock and balls and pubes are out. How did he keep his leaf on? I can't see a string."

"Gummed to his cock," I said. "We suspect. But he was posing stationary. If he capered around like you, it'd be a different ball-game."

"Sam!" Rob groaned.

We filled Hugo in with our experiments with the kirby grip, with the tape, and with the ring, and how all these approaches were bugged, at least in my case, by bouncing cock and balls, by inconvenient hair, by the perils of a hard-on, by low-hanging balls, or by corrugated perineum. He followed intelligently, nodding, until that last one.

"Corrugated? How do you mean?"

"Well," I said. "Sort of wrinkled. Umm, would you like to see?" I was still playing cautiously.

"Careful, Hugo," Rob warned. "The sight is truly gruesome. If you do look, you'll probably pass out. But I've got some smelling-salts handy."

Hugo was not yet tuned in to our habits, and it took him a moment to cotton on that Rob wasn't in earnest. Then he smiled. "OK, I'll risk that." So I dropped my trousers and lay on my back, legs up, to give him a good view. He looked closely. "You mean you shaved that? For my sake? That wasgenerous of you."

Yes, this lad was all right.

Rob explained the terrain and why the sticky tape wouldn't stick there. "When you're Puck and you caper," he asked, "do you sweat a lot?"

"Buckets."

"Pity. And are you like Sam down there?"

"Well, there's hair there. But I don't know if I'm corrugated. Want to look?"

This was great, him offering without being asked. "Please."

So he too stripped off and stood his magnificent figure in front of us, slim but shapely, well-defined but not muscle-bound. Narcissus would have fallen head over heels. Michelangelo would have hired him as a model, and fallen head over heels too. He was mostly quite smooth, even on his lower legs, but the whole area north and south from his groin was unexpectedly shaggy. Strange how hair patterns vary so much between individuals.

"That's a relief," I said. "You haven't got any tan lines. We could rectify that with make-up, but it saves trouble."

"I just don't tan," Hugo explained. "Anyway, I don't go in for sunbathing."

We knelt down to concentrate on his private parts. He was indeed well-hung and his balls, like mine, swung low.

"That'll probably rule out the cock-ring," said Rob, pointing. "But it might be worth trying. Game for an experiment?" He handed over the home-made strap with the dong still attached. "We call this the donkey dong. But you'd better put it on yourself. Strap it round the base of your cock and scrotum. Though it may be the wrong size."

Hugo fumbled but managed to snap it shut. "It's pretty tight."

"It won't be on for long. Just do your capers."

And as with me, so with Hugo. It rode down, and his dong danced.

"No, no good," Rob decreed. "Whip it off." But before he did, Hugo gazed at himself in the mirror and sniggered.

I took a closer look at his pubes. "I reckon the kirby grip's out too," I said, moving my hand towards him and hurriedly pulling it back.

"Go on, feel it if you like."

I did. Although the hair continued up to his navel in a goodly treasure trail, the pubes themselves were relatively short. "Not enough there for the grip to grip," I pointed out.

"That was Edward, damn him. He shaved it, and it hasn't grown back properly yet."

What could one say to that? Except, "And there isn't time for it to grow long enough again. What about your perineum?"

He lay down on my bed, legs upraised. A lot of hair ran in a continuum from his balls to his arse, and spread down his thighs. Rob held out a finger, raised an eyebrow for permission, and on getting a nod he explored the perineum.

After a minute Hugo blushed again. "No more, please, or I'll go stiff."

"Sorry," said Rob. "But there's a great ridge down the middle, and plenty of wrinkles either side. Worse than Sam's. So there's no future in tape either. But we've got to have a pouch, and ..."

"Hold on!" Hugo exclaimed. "A jockstrap's got a pouch. Isn't that any good?"

Rob was dubious. "Well, we'll have a dekko. I'll get mine. If you touch Sam's it'll give you gonorrhoea."

A hint of alarm crossed Hugo's face.

"If you touch Rob's it'll give you syphilis," I countered. "I'll get mine."

Hugo grinned. He was beginning to get the measure of our banter.

I found my jockstrap, but it was not, I had to admit, in a very salubrious state. "Perhaps I'd better wear it myself."

"Don't put it on," said Hugo. "Just hold the pouch in place. Forget about the front anchorage - we can chew that over later. I just want to play with the pouch."

I held the pouch in place, and Hugo knelt down to pull the back of it backwards.

"It's like the donkey dong," he pointed out, "but neater. And since tape's no good on the perineum, how about a string going back past your arse and taped on here?" He poked me at the very base of the spine. "It's smooth enough here."

"Mmm, yes." I said. This boy had an inventive mind as well as a lovely body. "That might work. And we should able to hide the tape with make-up. But there's still the front anchorage. You'd have to shave your pubes and stick it there with gum or tape. There's no alternative."

Hugo shuddered. "Sorry, no. I don't want that again. There arelimits."

"It's a good idea, though," Rob said encouragingly, "to take a string back. But I suppose it comes to the same thing as a thong. Sam said you were bringing one."

Hugo blushed once more - a singularly blushful boy, this - found his jacket, and felt in the pocket. "Here you go." He held it out hung from one finger, microscopic, bright scarlet, more string than cloth. "Actually it's a G-string. Edward said the difference is that a thong has a triangle of cloth at the back and a G-string doesn't. Shall I put it on?"

With some difficulty he found his way into it. The pouch was just what was needed, but the strings, thin though they were, spoilt the effect. It was sexy, but a stringless pouch would be sexier still, and much more magical.

"I suppose we might find one with transparent strings," I mused, "or flesh-coloured ones. But they'd still dig into your skin a bit, and show. They're digging in now. If they were looser, would the pouch be too loose?"

In reply, Hugo loosened the bow on the waist string. The pouch was still all right, but when he gyrated and flexed his belly muscles, the string visibly dug in again. He loosened it more, and the pouch began to droop.

"No," said Rob. "We need the pouch tight."

We pondered, gloomily.

"Oh!" cried Hugo suddenly. "I've got an idea! Ever heard of a C-string?"

"Yes," said Rob, puzzled. "It's a sort of sequence in computing."

"Or on a guitar," I added. "Or a violin."

"No. It's a modern version of the G-string, but without any strings at all. Edward mentioned it. He was hankering for one, but apparently they're only made for women."

"How do they work?"

"No idea."

"Well," said Rob. "Let's ask Google." We crowded round the computer, and Google obliged with a very large choice. With mounting enthusiasm we wandered from site to site.

"Hugo!" Rob crowed. "I reckon you've hit the nail on the head!"

And Hugo blushed again.

The C-string, it transpired, was a C-shaped strip of springy plastic which simply clipped into place between the legs, from the pubes to just above the base of the spine. "Rather like," Rob pointed out, "those springy head-bands that Bella used to wear." All you saw was a stump at the back where it rose up from the bum-crack, and a minimal patch of nylon at the front for so-called modesty. The nylon was stretched over a little frame, roughly triangular, which formed the front end of the strip. All of the plastic was bound in the same nylon, which was available in a large variety of colours and patterns.

Most of the many reviewers liked them, but a few found them uncomfortable or complained that they fell off if you bent down. And ostensibly the worst drawback was that, as Edward had said, they were only made for women. We were briefly excited by a photo of Michael Phelps wearing one, but it was blatantly photoshopped. We found a German site purporting to sell C-strings for men, but it was a scam - close inspection showed that they were standard female ones. As one site delicately put it, 'Due to the size and shape of the male anatomy, there is currently no C-string that will provide a good fit.' And it was easy to see why. Where girls curve smoothly down and back, we blokes have a rather large excrescence. Think that excrescence away, and our profile would be much the same.

The solution hit all three of us at the same moment. Why not cut the nylon out of the triangle? The frame looked large enough for even Hugo's excrescence to pass through it and hang wholly outside. And instead of the flat nylon, why not sew on a pouch tailored to fit?

"That'd be even better than the female version," Rob observed with glee. "You can see why this thing falls off a girl - she's got nothing at the front to help keep it up. But a cock sticks out at the base, even when it's soft. Which will make a sort of ledge for the top of the triangle to sit on." He demonstrated on me with his fingers. "That'll give a much more positive anchor. And even if the triangle isn't the right shape, I could change it within reason. The design centre's got a gizmo for heating plastic so it's soft enough to be moulded. Right! We've got to get hold of a C-string. How do we do it, Sam? Through Bill?"

"Oh, that'll take time. Buy it now," Hugo insisted. "Online. I'll pay."

Hugo, I remembered, came from a family as old as the hills, with an ancestral home in Warwickshire, and was probably rolling in money. So I did not demur. He fished out a credit card from his wallet.

"Right," he said. "This looks an efficient site. £14.99 each, post-free."

"And it says," Rob read, "'No strings attached.' Ho ho ho!" We all groaned.

And £14.99, it seemed to poor impoverished me, was quite steep for a little bit of plastic and some flimsy nylon. But it was Hugo's call.

"What size, then?" he asked. "Oh damn, there's only small and medium."

We checked, but no site offered anything bigger.

"Understandable, I suppose," he said. "The mind boggles at the thought of large or extra large ladies in C-strings. Well, we'll have to go for medium and hope it's big enough."

"I might," Rob offered, "be able to ease it in the plastic heater."

"OK. Colour? Flesh-coloured?"

In the interests of invisibility, it was the obvious choice. Hugo filled in the order form, the product to be delivered to him in a plain package, and sent it off. He was more vivacious by now than I'd ever seen him. But it was time for him to go, and he took off his G-string. As he put it in his jacket pocket he picked a pube off the pouch. "Don't say it!" he commanded.

"Say what?" we were genuinely puzzled.

"Hair on a G-string!"

We spluttered.

"Thanks a lot, guys," he went on as he dressed. "This is going to be good. But when I've got it on, there's one thing I must remember not to do."

"What's that?"

"Fart. It might melt the plastic."

*

Meanwhile rehearsals had started up again, and everything continued well. Peaseblossom had been cured of a regrettable habit of picking his nose on-stage. Lysander had been cured of a hilariously tendency to call Hermia Hernia. We were to be accompanied by Mendelssohn's overture and incidental music to A Midsummer Night's Dreamplayed by the school orchestra, and we began to practice the songs and dances. After the rehearsal on Wednesday evening, Hugo buttonholed us.

"It's arrived! Can I come round for a fitting?"

In our room, we inspected it. It looked very small and tight, and the spring in it was considerable. "We've got to be careful," Rob warned, "not to overstretch it. I'd better deal with the triangle before Hugo tries it on." He got busy with his sewing scissors and soon the triangle was empty. He twisted the binding so that the seam faced forward, not inward, and handed it to Hugo. "Moment of truth!"

Hugo stripped, stood with legs apart, and positioned the thing so that the tail end was over the base of his spine. But the front end was still alarmingly far back. "If I pull it forward," he said, "you feed my balls through the triangle." I did so, and they slipped easily through the wide part. He pulled it forward more. "Now my cock." And he was in. As predicted, the top of the triangle was sitting nicely above the root of his cock, compressing his pubes. "Not very comfortable," was his verdict, "but it works!" He posed triumphantly in front of the mirror and we stood either side, admiring a very fine sight.

"How well does it fit underneath?" Rob asked. "Let me look. Open your legs wide."

Heknelt low and looked up and poked. "Nice and snug. All the way. How does it feel when you caper?"

Hugo capered, energetically. "Not bad," he reported. "And it's stayed put!"

"One thing's still wrong," I pointed out. "When you bend, the tail sticks out. Bend over again." He did, looking sideways at the mirror. When his spine moved forward, the tail stump did not, and it stood well clear of his back.

"Does look rather obvious," Hugo agreed, "and rather silly."

"There's an easy answer to that," said Rob. "We call it a tail. Why not make it into a proper tail? Sprites areallowed to have tails, aren't they? Sew something onto it. Like this." And over the stump he hooked the donkey-dong sock, which still hadn't been put away. It also looked silly. "No. Something thinner." He held a school tie in place. "That's better, but still not quite right. What about this?" He got his dressing gown, pulled the blue cord out of the loops, and held it so that a foot of it, complete with tassel, curved down from the stump. "Wrong colour, of course. But how's that?"

I liked it. Whimsical, and fun. Hugo agreed. "Can you fix it on temporarily?"

Rob sellotaped it in place and followed with the rest of the cord as Hugo scampered like a dog with its lead fixed to the wrong end. And Hugo found that, by waggling his shapely behind, he could make the tassel flick. "Brilliant! Yes! White, don't you think? That's the fairies' colour."

"Hmmm," said Rob. "Fiddly things to make, tassels. Easier to buy one, if you're game. Though I doubt we'd find a white dressing gown cord in Hambledon. But that furnishing shop in the High Street'll probably have white curtain tie-backs. Right, Hugo, you say it isn't very comfortable. The triangle, you mean?"

"Yes. It's too tight here," he pointed halfway down the triangle. "Squeezes the back of my balls. It could do with being wider. And," he felt, "with being rounder on top. More like a semicircle."

"No problem. The height'll stay about the same. We'll gain a bit by rounding the top, but lose it by widening the sides. How much wider?"

"Not much." Hugo was back at the mirror, feelingagain. "Quarter of an inch each side, I'd say."

"OK. Next question is how to shape the pouch."

" Nick one off a jockstrap," Hugo suggested. He seemed to have jockstraps on the brain.

"Yeees," said Rob dubiously. "But I think we need something more rigid over it, to act as a cup. I hadthought of wires on the back of the leaf. But they might impale you where it hurts most."

As I watched Hugo's reflection, I had a brainwave. "The shape of that triangle," I cried, "especially if it's rounder - it's exactly the same as a cricket box."

"That's it!" Rob was exultant. "You've got it! Use it as a cup. Stick the fig-leaf straight onto it. And sew the box to the triangle. Save fiddling with wires and pricking Hugo's prick. Can we look at yours? Not your prick, you nincompoop. Your box."

Though I hadn't used it since last summer, I found it without too much searching. Rob held it against the triangle, and Hugo's equipment disappeared from view. "Yes. If the triangle's a bit rounder, it'll fit perfectly, and Rob's your uncle. Well done, Sam! You're more than just an ugly face after all."

I glowed with pride.

"Right, Hugo. I think we're done for the moment. Whip it off."

Hugo whipped it off, rubbing the back of his balls where the triangle had left impressions. "Brilliant! Thanks again, guys! And this thing's brilliant too. I'd never have thought it could stay on so well." He stretched the C-string between his forefingers, and there was a loud crack.

"Shit!" It was now in two halves, hinged at mid-crotch by the nylon binding. "Oh bloody shit! Never mind, we'll get another."

"Wouldn't it be sensible to get two? So as to have a spare in case another one breaks. And to get two boxes from the school shop. They're only a couple of quid apiece."

"Makes sense. Will ten quid cover the tassels too?" He handed over a tenner, and ordered two more C-strings on his credit card.

"Oh shit, again! Look at the time! I'm going to be late back, and Bill will ground me!"

So while he dressed I scribbled a note to Bill saying that Hugo had been detained on play business and deserved mercy. Hugo, full of thanks, ran off with it, and Rob and I looked at each otherand grinned.

"Educational!" I observed.

"That's what school's for, isn't it? Education."

*

I saw Bill next morning. "I wasmerciful," he said. "Hugo tells me that things are going well. Dare I ask for details?"

"Not yet. We're nearly home and dry, but not quite. A few days and he should be ready for display. And I reckon it'll hit you between the eyes."

Rob occupied himself during the enforced wait by buying two cricket boxes from the school shop and a double-tasselled white curtain tie-back from the furnishing shop, and by cutting out two fig-leaves from a green plastic bag. These he glued to the boxes, bending in the leaf-lobes to fit them to the curves, and he delicately painted on the veins. "Not bad," he admitted, "though I say so myself. Look - to disguise the edge of the box, I've made the leaf overlap it. But it's so soft it won't grate on Hugo's skin." His pride was justified. It was indeed a lovely job.

The replacements arrived on Saturday, and Hugo handed them over at once. Rob cut the nylon out, skipped a rugger match, and spent the afternoon in the design centre instead.

"Reshaping the triangles," he reported, "was quite easy. I was afraid I might have to take the binding off, but I managed without." He sewed the leather edge of a box onto one triangle, sewed a tail neatly and firmly to the stump, and everything was ready for another fitting.

This was booked for Sunday afternoon. Once again we locked ourselves in our room and Hugo stripped off. This time Rob got him to feed his equipment through the triangle first, and only then to snap the tail up over his spine.

"More comfortable now?"

"Yes. It feels fine, thanks."

Hugo posed andcapered, flicking his little tail, while we admired. He was indeed a sight for sore eyes. But there was still one thing that offended me. Hugo's head hair was a quite light blond, but his body hair was dark. The treasure trail that climbed up to his navel was too prominent. So too, when you saw him from below - as you did when he was swinging or capering - was the hair inside his thighs and in his bum-crack, where its darkness was emphasised by the flesh-coloured band of the C-string. The solution was obvious, but better to let him suggest it himself. I got him to stand, back to the mirror and touching his toes, and to look between his legs at his reflection. He took the point at once.

"Not very attractive," he said. "All of that's got to come off."

"And this?" I asked, pointing to his treasure trail. "And this?" pointing to his armpits.

"Yes. Take them off. In for a penny, again."

"More illegal logging!" said Rob, rubbing his hands. So Hugo removed the C-string, tail first, and we laid him out and plied my razor, sparing only his pubes and balls. On went the C-string again, and he was done, all except his garland and pointed ears which we weren't bothered about right now. Hugo went back to the mirror to gaze at himself lengthily and narcissistically.

We'd felt confident enough to ask Bill to come round at the end of the afternoon to inspect the result, and he duly turned up. Hugo was waiting crouched, legs apart, on the desk, and as Bill goggled he leapt to the floor, arms in the air, and gyrated. His tail flicked.

"Brilliant!" cried Bill. "Out of this world! Technically decent, but almost more suggestive than totally naked!" He continued to gaze. "You know, they used to say of a good strip-show that you couldn't hear the music for the din of fly-buttons hitting the ceiling. Dunno what the modern equivalent is, now that fly-buttons are no more. But whatever it is, this'll have the same effect. At least with everyone who's that way inclined. And are you happy with it, Hugo?"

Hugo grinned widely. "Pleased as Puck!"

*

Rob, having completed the spare C-string, turned his attention to the fairies' garlands of leaves. Not so easy to find in winter, but he raided Twankey's garden for variegated ivy and tied the leaves to wire circles, to be held in the hair like yarmulkas with - you've guessed it - kirby grips. And he finalised the forest scenery. For the necessary stability he supported the trees with massive struts screwed to the floor and disguised them behind a steep bank of artificial grass. With that, everything was ready.

And so the show took place. Acting (as opposed to producing, when you need to be more detached) absorbs you, transports you, grips your guts, and I will report only a few highlights that penetrated my awareness at the time.

The overture. Four long magical chords, then the diddle-diddle-diddle-diddleof fairies dancing. I've heard snobs sniffily decrying it as popular music. Of course it's popular, and in the best sense. It's only right and proper that such music shouldbe popular. And this was composed, good grief, by a boy. Mendelssohn wrote it at seventeen, the same age as me.

The overture drew to a close with those four chords again, and the curtain went up.

Act I Scene 1. Theseus' palace in Athens. Much argy-bargy over which lover should marry who. Lines here and there jumped out at me in my heightened mood:

"Ay me! For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."

And

"Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind."

Act I Scene 2. The backdrop went up, turning the palace into Quince's house where the mechanicals were allocating parts for their own play. The reluctant Flute's protest when he's given a female role - "Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming" -and his attempt to speak falsetto raised a huge laugh.

Intermezzo. Act II Scene 1. The second backdrop went up, revealing the forest by moonlight. Puck, perched in the fork of a tree and flaunting his almost-nakedness, drew a gasp from the audience. His pointed latex ear-tips, spirit-gummed on and with the joins disguised by make-up, made him look even more wondrously puckish. Down below, a fairy tiddler, dressed in nothing but briefs-cum-skirt, piped up:

"Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere . .."

Puck, grabbing an overhead branch, swung Tarzan-like off his bough and dropped to the ground, legs provocatively apart. He explained himself:

"I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon and make him smile ..."

He described his tricks and mimed them. Squatting on his hunkers, for instance, he declaimed

"The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,"

at which he collapsed backwards, legs in air, as if a stool had slipped from beneath him.

Then, to a march, Titania and I entered from opposite sides and bad-temperedly met up:

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."

"What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence:
I have forsworn his bed and company ..."

She sloped off in a huff. I told Puck to search out the flower - love-in-idleness - whose juice induces love. He replied,

"I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes,"

and literally cartwheeled off-stage. At this point, in the dress rehearsal, I'd had a nagging fears: that his C-string would fall off, and that he'd crash into a flat. But it didn't, and his aim was impeccable.

Act II Scene 2. I dropped juice into Titania's eyes, and told Puck to find Demetrius and do the same to him. But, clot that he was, he dropped it into the wrong lover's eyes, giggling

"So awake when I am gone;
For I must now to Oberon,"

and, high-stepping like a fancy horse, off he pranced.

Intermezzo. Act III Scene 1, still in the forest. The mechanicals arrived to rehearse their play, but scattered in terror when Bottom appeared in his ass's head. But Puck bounced in delight:

"I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn."

Titania, on waking up, fell in love with Bottom, who was puzzled. "To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days."How true. How very true.

Then the interval. I was chatting to Bill over a mug of coffee when Hugo sidled up.

"I've been peeking past the curtain, and guess what! Edward's here! In the front row."

No surprise we hadn't noticed him. An actor when acting may look at the audience generally. But if he looks at them or thinks about them individually, he risks losing his concentration.

"Don't let it faze you, Hugo," Bill said. "Just forget he's here."

"Actually," Hugo replied with a calculating expression, "it may be a good thing he ishere."

Act III Scene 2, still in the forest. I discovered Puck's mistake with the juice and upbraided him, at which he sulked. I ordered him to scoot off and find Helena. His reply,

"I go, I go; look how I go,
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow,"

is normally spoken with enthusiasm, and normally he dashes off at high speed. But Hugo drawled the lines pettishly and trudged reluctantly away. He paused, stuck his pert bottom out, waggled it so that his tail flicked, and finally went. As I raised my eyes to heaven in mock exasperation, it was all I could do not to join in the gale of laughter from the audience.

Hewas soon back. His report that he had found the muddled-up lovers ended with,

"Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

He said that with a load of meaning, and as he said it he was looking straight at Edward.

Intermezzo. Act IV, wherein all the muddles were set right.

Intermezzo, in the shape of the famous wedding march, rum tum ti tum ti tum ti tum tiddle um tiddle um tum. The final act, in Theseus' palace, all the lovers united. The mechanicals hammed their crummy play ("Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, he bravely broached his boiling bloody breast") which drew much applause. Stage-hands having whisked away the props, the court and the mechanicals together danced the bergomask with its glorious braying theme, tiddle um tiddle um, ti dar, ti dar. That over, they all, to a reprise of the wedding march, retired to bed.

We fairies arrived to give our blessing to the mortals, and we too exited. For the last time the backdrop went up. Puck was there alone, perched on his bough. Dawn was about to break. He stretched his arms as if in weariness, grinned at the audience, and leapt down to deliver his epilogue.

But, as he leapt, the tassel of his tail caught fast in the fork of the tree. There was a loud crack, and when he landed he was as naked - except for his garland and pointed ears - as the day that he was born. The curtain-call was imminent and the whole cast was watching from the wings. The tiddlers giggled in awed astonishment at the sight. The Lovibonds' hands flew to their mouths. Bill wore an enigmatic smile.

In Edward III had admired Hugo's composure in the face of the unexpected. Now I admired it even more. He was alone on a bare stage with nothing to hide behind. But, as he had confessed a couple of acts before,

"Those things do best please me
That befall preposterously."

He now lived up to that. As he waited for the laughter to subside, Hugo shrugged ruefully as if to say 'accidents will happen.' Then he folded his hands in front of his nakedness and, over a single note from the orchestra, sustained but very quiet, he launched into the epilogue.

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear."

On 'visions' he half-opened his hands to give the briefest of glimpses of what lay behind.

"And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend;
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I'm an honest Puck ..."

Here began the same four long magical chords with which the overture had opened.

"... If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call.
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends ..."

And here he lifted his hands above his head and pretended to clap.

"... And Robin shallrestore amends."

On that superlative sight the curtain fell, to tumultuous applause. Hugo reached up to unhook the broken C-string and fled into the wings where Rob, as ever on the ball, held out the spare. Hugo modestly turned his back on the Lovibonds while he insinuated himself into it. The curtain rose again and the minor Athenians ran on to take their bow. Then Bill and Maggie. Then the mechanicals. Then the tiddlers. Then Liz and me. And finally Hugo, by himself. He had stolen the show, and the din proved it. He was still holding the broken C-string which he flung unerringly, over the heads of the orchestra, into Edward's lap. Edward stood up, his face a thundercloud, and stormed out. The conductor was beckoned up on stage. Bill was dragged forward to receive his wholly deserved acclaim as producer. And the show was over.

*

And so too is this tale. Rob began to mutter, semi-seriously, about patenting the C-string for men which, he said, could be a real money-spinner. I persuaded Bill, who persuaded Old Persimmon, to repay Hugo what he had spent on one curtain tie-back, two cricket boxes and three C-strings, though I never did discover under what guise they featured in the accounts of Hambledon School. And we found ourselves spending more time with Hugo. He had taken quite a shine to us, and we had to him. With Edward even more safely out of the way, he was great fun. It occurred to me, too, that Old Persimmon might well entrust him with the next production.

When I mentioned this, Hugo protested. "Hey," he said. "Don't jump the gun!"

"But if he does, any idea what you might do?"

He did give it thought. "All's Well That End's Well is a good title, but it's not the best of plays. As You Like It would be better, because I'm through with Edward, and that's how I like it. Though he's written to say he still pines for me, and from time to time I feel sorry for him."

"Don't besorry. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. He never loved you. Only what you had under your fig-leaf."

"And I've only been dreaming a silly dream."

"Haven't we all? A dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was."

A week laterOld Persimmon did give Hugo the job. But that is another story.


The Dreammay be watched on http://www.bbc.co.uk/composers/mendelssohn/dream.shtml. This is a free BBC Radio 3 video of a production in 2009 - the Mendelssohn bicentenary year - complete with the overture and incidental music. It was staged in the great Tudor hall of the Middle Temple in London where, more than four centuries ago, Shakespeare himself performed. Unorthodox it may be, but it is excellent; although one might consider Puck to be over-dressed.

Talk about this story on our forum

Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.

[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]

* Some browsers may require a right click instead