If my tale was depicted in a film script or a play, there should be a note to say there should be a major sigh with that conclusion!
Sighing apart, at least, I can now say it was inevitable! At the time, I believed it was just a nightmare, a fantastic fairytale gone wrong!
Let me begin with my early life, my pathetic story!
Just wait, dear reader I know you are dreading all those details that we writers thrust upon the hapless reader when all you want to do is get to the sex scenes!
Let me assure you that there will be moments of passion, even sly romance, but we must approach things in order.
I know you don’t want to be bored with, what you consider to be, minor details but it all matters – at least I think it does – everything matters!
First, let me tell you about me!
No, don’t skip this!
This won’t be a boring monologue! Besides, there isn’t much to the Carl Dawson story so it’ll be over quickly.
Just read it, absorb the details and move on without arriving at any conclusions. The last thing I want from you is sympathy or, worse, pity!
My earliest memories are of the orphanages I bounced around. Dank, grey places with unsmiling staff in white uniforms that moved as if they were in their own personal Limbo.
One of those falsely bright psychologists that interviewed children who didn’t seem to mesh with potential foster parents, told me I had blotted out the traumatic memories of losing my parents. I didn’t buy that! I think I was just too young to understand. Jeez, I don’t even remember my parents!
Let’s move on – no point in dwelling on stuff I can’t fix!
The fact that I was fostered to a self-righteous, conservative family who saw me as a soul to “save” was bad enough.
Enforced bible readings, strict discipline and falsely formal manners all conspired to make me worse of a budding villain than I already was.
But the fact that I was officially described as a “late-bloomer” also made my life hell.
Yes, I was short compared to the hulking mammoths that haunted my everyday life in the classrooms! They could throw balls to the Moon and back while I couldn’t swing a bat or throw a ball to save my life! I hated them but, at the same time, I envied their effortless ease with mindless sport!
I was also thin and my face was described as “elfin” by some folk or “girly” by some hulk who was attempting to smash me about or push me head first into a garbage bin!
It is amazing how you accept terrible stuff as everyday life. Looking back, I can see my teenage years were an absolute nightmare until one momentous event!
I met Jackson Bronson!
Jackson was everything I wasn’t! Tall, handsome, masculine, good at all sports and very, very rich! He was a few years ahead of me and I assumed he wouldn’t even know I existed.
I wish I could say we met at some exotic place or at a civilised social function but it was far from anything like that.
One of the football primitives was attempting to de-pants me and push me into the female toilets – their idea of sparkling humour – when Jackson stepped up and calmly suggested that I be released.
‘Fuck off, Bronson,’ the hulk mumbled, ‘go get your own nerdy weed to play with!’
‘I don’t play with people, Simmonds,’ Jackson said mildly. ‘However, I will kick your arse if you so desire!’
Looking up at them, I felt Simmonds release my collar and move towards Bronson who simply smiled at him.
‘Hey, Simmonds,’ I heard someone call as a warning, ‘Jackson is a black belt! He splattered that Bournemouth bloke all over the place a few weekends ago!’
‘I don’t give a shit!’ Simmonds muttered but even I could see he did.
He blinked at Jackson who calmly smiled at him. There was something in Jackson’s eyes that should have warned me right there and then. He looked like he would enjoy destroying the guy who lumbered over him.
He had a vacant far away stare and he seemed to be calmly lost in thought. Perhaps he was thinking exactly how he would maim the hulk when the fighting began.
Straightening my clothes, I looked around for an escape avenue through the gathering crowd.
‘I’m not afraid of that Asian shit!’ Simmonds added, glancing around and I wondered if he was also looking for an escape path.
‘Good!’ Jackson smiled bleakly at him. ‘Then I’ll get the opportunity to break both your arms. You won’t be playing any more football this season and probably the next!’
He looked around.
‘Would anyone like to see me demolish his face as well?’
His seemingly polite question seemed all the more bizarre and I could see that everyone in the watching crowd were afraid of Jackson Bronson.
Someone moved forward, bustled Simmonds away and the crowd gradually dispersed.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled.
He extended his hand.
‘Carl Dawson,’ I murmured and felt his strong hand squeeze mine in its solid grip.
And that was how we met.
We became friends. To be truthful, he was my only friend and, I think, I was his only real friend. I was someone he could talk to without any ramifications.
You see, the Bronson family were powerful in many ways. It wasn’t just their money. Jackson’s father was a famous preacher who had made a fortune on American television while Jackson’s mother was a renowned political adviser to the Prime Minister.
A conservative American father, a British power broker mother and scads of money created a home that looked perfect on the outside but was a small version of hell.
If I thought my foster family was conservative, his were related to Adolph Hitler!
What was worse, they didn’t do anything unless they considered how it would look, how it would reflect on the glorious Bronson name!
Jackson had been under immense pressure since he was born. It was high pressure being the only son in that illustrious and powerful family that was famous in America and Europe!
He would talk about the plans his family had for him while I puffed on a ciggie. As an only child, he had the complete focus from both highly ambitious parents. They indoctrinated him from an early age, made him believe he was invincible and bound to be the most important person on the planet!
I felt sorry for the poor bastard in a way but if I could have had one tenth of his money, I would have been whatever his folks wanted!
He always defended them and I learned my place was just to listen and grunt in the appropriate places. Of course, he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the cretins who were trying to raise me but I couldn’t blame him for that.
At the end of the year, he was off to university and I silently wondered what I would do without him.
I think I was sixteen when the second momentous event occurred.
Jackson was invited to a costume party and, as usual wrangled an invitation for me as well.
‘I can’t afford a costume,’ I muttered when he announced we were going.
‘You’ll think of something,’ Jackson boomed. ‘It’ll be fun. I’m going as Superman which is incredibly ironic.’
‘Yeah, whatever! You’re only going because it’s expected by your parents!’
‘I have to build networks,’ Jackson recited his parent’s litany, ‘it will assist me in many ways in the future…’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I grumbled, ‘tell someone who cares!’
My foster sister was reasonable, someone I could talk to every now and again.
I had snuck out onto the roof for a cigarette when Joanne scrambled out after me.
‘Got a ciggie?’ Joanne asked and I silently gave her the packet.
She lit up and gave me the packet back.
‘How do you get cigarettes, Carl?’ Joanne asked. ‘You don’t look old enough to be able to buy them? In fact, you look about twelve.’
‘I steal them from teachers,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I’m doing them a favour, preserving their health.’
She chortled over that!
‘You going to the big costume party? The entire town is talking about it and I figure the Bronson bloke will get you in. Does he have a girlfriend? He’s so dishy!’
‘No girlfriend that I know of. I want to go to the party but I can’t afford a costume. Jackson is going as Superman! What an idiot!’
And that was all it took!
Joanne’s eyes lit up and she suggested that I go in drag!
‘Why not? I have the clothes and I’ll help. It won’t cost you anything! You could win the prize as Lois Lane! I think they’re giving cash for the best costume!’
It wasn’t a bad idea as I knew I’d probably get away with it.
We spent three hours and a flask of bourbon I swiped from the gym instructor in an effort to get me ready.
Joanne insisted on shaving everything! And then spent ages on my face.
I didn’t give a shit! I know some blokes would have been embarrassed about wearing a bra and other frilly stuff but I didn’t care! It was just clothes, for goodness sakes!
What did it matter to me? I mean, I wasn’t the most manly of men and I was still waiting for me to be interested in girls. As I said, a late bloomer!
But when I stared at myself in the mirror, I was amazed! The dress, the nylons, what Joanne had done to my long hair, the make up – everything!
‘Go get them, little sis,’ Joanne said, swigging the last of the bourbon down.
‘Jesus!’ I breathed. ‘You’ve out done yourself! And I’m not your sister…’
‘You’re close enough,’ she said, throwing the empty bottle into the wastebasket. ‘Do you have any idea what it was like being an only child to these crazees?’
Yeah, I thought silently, I did have an idea.
‘Until you came along, I was their only target. Now, you are my decoy!’
Joanne chortled at that.
‘Yeah, but we’re not really related…’
‘Look in the mirror! You look like my younger sister, you jerk!’
Surprisingly, Joanne was crying silently.
I though that was a good time to go.