A follow-up from Janus 3.02 to Seven Lessons for Knicker-watchers.
Six schoolgirls jump out of their dormitory beds and pull their gym knickers up under their nighties. They wriggle into their vests. White blouses go on next, and ties, then the uniform school gym tunic, very short, and zipped up at the side. They face us in a line and salute, all pleased grins and legs and sauce.
This was the beginning of a sketch in Oh! Calcutta! It appears in the published American text of the show, but was considered too daring (I suppose) for public performance. It was to have been introduced by a female voice on the loudspeaker quoting the French humourist Pierre Daninos: ‘In the depth of every Englishman’s subconscious, there is a cat-of-nine-tails and a schoolgirl in black stockings.’
The forbidden sketch was funny to read, because the schoolgirls talk in the outmoded lingo of the posh boarding academy: ‘Stop frivolling, or I’ll spiflicate you.’ The period was 1917, which was why they were supposed to wear garters. It also packed a titillating erotic punch. The kids turned cartwheels, danced around in their undies. One, chosen by the audience, had her bottom spanked, knickers down, for being naughty. I saw it staged, by amateurs, one weekend at a Brighton house-party. It was a sensation, and would certainly have won the approval of Clement Gardner, author of the brilliant Seven Lessons for Knicker-watchers (Janus, Vol. 2 No. 3).
Or would it? His article traced the knicker-watcher’s fetishism back to the boy’s pre-pubertal fascination with the undergarments of the girls in his young life. A lad’s basic training comes from looking up the skirts of every indiscreet, sporty or simply rude schoolkid or sister, and from his slowly acquired knowledge that the naughty knickers are supposed to be hidden, and are there to hide the top secret of all, the never-to-be-mentioned little cleft that is special to girls.
But his account shows that Gardner belongs to the Classic School of knicker connoisseurs. We Moderns acknowledge the importance of his pioneer researches, but as juveniles we were trained differently, for in our day schoolgirls dressed differently — to us, just as excitingly. If not more so.
Lesson 1. The Brighton Belles
We’d invited the girls to bring their outgrown schoolwear down to Brighton, or uniforms borrowed from kid sisters. They’d agreed to put on St Dominic’s, 1917 for the rest of us. They turned up in great excitement and spent an age rehearsing. They’d had a few drinks, but the show was a success from the moment they began pulling on their thick school knickers. A few had brought woollen stockings and suspenders, or garters (specified in the script), but two just wore socks. Giggling and wriggling, they clipped on their straining suspenders and squeezed into gymslips far too short for them. Following their line-up in the opening, the ‘monitor’ ordered them: ‘Hands on hips! On your toes — knees bend…!’ and they treated us to the rare sight of eight pairs of juvenile school gym knickers in the legs-open position. Finally, backs to us, they touched their toes, to show eight bulging posteriors straining their knickers to bursting point. In the school gym, the sight would have been ordinary and innocent. In front of a gang of prurient males it was unthinkably indecent, grown-up girls who knew we were ogling them and blushing to think how rude and naughty they were being.
But this was the point. It was not the girls who wore stockings who were the most provocative, despite that sexy gap of bare flesh between stocking-top and knicker. More and more, the eye was drawn to the girls in white knee socks. The whole stretch of their long pink thighs was exposed. You could see right up under the brief skirt to the disturbing gluteal fold, that transverse line separating bottom from thighs. Stockings hid so much of all that bare flesh. The girls in socks were nothing but legs, swelling up and disappearing into hot woolly knickers.
WATCH WORD ONE: Dress the Part.
Lesson 2. The Netball Team
Like Gardner, I too regret the disappearance of schoolgirls’ stockings in favour of those ubiquitous, horrible tights. But we Moderns attach less importance to the can-can ‘gap’. It was this that in early days first drew his attention to the intimate little bloomers that excited whenever a schoolgirl sprawled carelessly and opened her legs. I concede all this. I am old enough to remember that gap. But I have more intense memories. As when, waiting for the girls after netball practice, I hid in the rhododendrons and watched them sauntering by. They wore no stockings, but thick knee-high socks. Their skirts were brief, their legs plump and red from the exercise. Their thighs shirred together and yet rolled, being attached to the wider female pelvic bone so as to leave a wee hole you could see daylight through — thighs that rose if you were lucky, up to the crease beneath the swelling twin balloons of the bottom, peeping out from the arched wings of the navy-blue gym bloomers.
I was a schoolboy and oh, it was their legs I loved. So smooth and shiny-naked. So long, shameless and exposed, from the top of their socks right up to the hem of that ridiculously short gymslip (special for sport), as they came crowding and chattering along, hopping and shoving one another, leggy female and sweet — tumbling down, and giving me an eyeful, scrambling up on all fours and giving me another.
(We have seen enough now to pause and consider wherein we Moderns differ from the Classic School of knicker-watchers. First, we are leg men. We hold that before adulthood, girls fascinate boys because of physical differences, the most obvious then being their long smooth bare legs which their clothes are designed to display. These fascinate, and the fascination is climaxed by the way legs swell to a succulent richness and then disappear into those mysterious knickers, just as a smooth shiny two-barrelled gun terminates in the complex breech mechanism. The first Modern tenet is this: No-one loves knickers who does not love legs. However well a girl fills her pantyhose, she looks more luscious in white socks and a micro-skirt (or shorts short enough for her knicks to be glimpsed). Her breasts still undeveloped, an adolescent girl’s legs are her quintessential femininity. No man’s are so sleek, so plumply unmuscular, so lo-o-ng. Stockings and tights spoil the fleshliness and the sheen.
Secondly, Moderns have brought out into the open the dressing-up sessions in bedrooms Gardner describes so well, when your girlfriend poses in a gymslip for a schoolgirl spanking. We too enjoy these sessions, but we particularly advocate Public Simulation. One enthusiast was able to induce a strip-club to stage a schoolgirl item with a lesbian theme. In the first scene a master taught two girls in class about the Amazons and their love-life. In the second scene, in their bedroom, the girls got undressed to make love, slowly removing correct regulation gym tunic, blouse and tie, vest and finally blue gym bloomers. With careful timing it was possible to arrive four or five times a week for this scene. Other clubs have featured naughty-schoolgirl-being-spanked items, though they are rare.
Clement Gardner also neglects the stage for the cinema and TV, and we think this regrettable. Once again, we like actual (not photographed, or covered) flesh. But incidentally, his article should have mentioned the Launder-Gilliat St Trinian’s films, still going the rounds, for they feature some just-about-adult girls in the tightest school uniform, with the camera panning slowly up their glistening legs in stockings stretched so thin our Classic friends should be drooling.
Lastly, we Moderns hold that a knicker-watcher’s basic training must take place during adolescence. It is only when the sexual juices start flowing fast that the young lad’s eye roves and is caught by girlie-legs spread wide open. Earlier, his curiosity has been only marginally sexual. But the awakened youth who works hard to investigate his contemporaries — lucky the chap at a mixed school — will lay the firm foundations of knicker-love for life. For this reason, we concentrate upon the all-important formative years. If you pip your K-levels at school, you will never catch up. My own, somewhat fortunate experiences, illustrate the opportunities a boy should seek.
WATCH WORD TWO: Grab the Chance.
Lesson 3. The Honey Bun
Among the netball players, my favourite was a sly puss called Elsie. Remember, I knew nothing, lying there in the rhododendrons, least of all why I was there. This kid stood quite near me and bent over to yank up her socks. That first flash of her knickers! They were grey, pulled up into her bottom-crease. I had no idea girls wore them so short and so tight. She stood a moment with her back to me, and I saw where her bottom-fat extruded from each elasticated bloomer-leg. Overwhelmed, I stroked my trousers. That night I could think of nothing else. I did countless little drawings as I lay in bed, and stumbled on the secret of how to masturbate.
Next morning, to my dismay, Elsie slid over to me in the school playground. Girls rarely recognised the existence of another sex. ‘I seen you watching,’ she said, shaking her fair plaits. ‘You’re always lying there, peeping. What’s the game?’ Her tone was friendly. She must have been thirteen. She sounded genuinely curious.
I was nonplussed, but I’d been to movies. ‘Hi, Blue-eyes,’ I said lightly, producing the gum I kept for crises. She took some, and stared speculatively into my jaunty grin, then raised her right leg so as to pull up the white sock. I glimpsed her gym knickers (navy blue), and again as she attended to the other sock. She saw my glance, and her eyes fluttered. ‘See you after school, okay?’ She shrugged, uncaring. ‘Maybe,’ she said, and disappeared. A honeybun. I felt like when I’d scored a goal.
We both kept the rendezvous. Nothing happened to upset a juvenile court, though the vicar would have been displeased. Back in the rhododendrons I was staring at Elsie’s knickers as she lay back, knees up, legs wide open, happy to show me all she’d got. My hot cheeks were against her cool thigh as I studied the diamond-shaped gusset of navy blue between her legs.
As she lay on her tummy, I gently stroked the fabric over her backside, smoothing it along. She stood up, legs apart, holding her skirt above her waist, and kneeling I slid my fingers inside her knickers to push them even further up her thighs, revealing the red line made by the elastic. At the back, I dragged them up so high into her furrow half her bottom was exposed and she said they hurt. They looked nice like that. But when I tweaked the little legs back as she’d had them, so they ‘walked’ when she did, I thought that was the most vulgar of all.
WATCH WORD THREE. Handle the Goods.
Lesson 4. The Exhibitionists
Elsie loved being played with. Overgrown and oversexed, she was soon dating me regularly and would do as I asked. So I told her to round up kids in her class to do handstands in the morning break. Dad had given me a stopwatch, and the idea was to see who could stay up the longest. The other fellows stood jeering at our first session then wandered off, bored. But it was a knicker-watcher’s paradise.
That was summer term. The girls all wore the same green uniform — school blazer, little pleated skirt, striped blouse and white socks. Our star performer was a dreamy tall girl called Sally, huge innocent brown eyes under a black fringe. Solemnly she eyed me, watch in hand, before removing her blazer, loosening her tie and measuring her distance from the wall. I almost gasped as she flung down on her hands and her long legs soared up, hovered momentarily and slowly bent to touch the wall. I clicked the watch as her skirt crumpled inside out to disclose her salmon pink knickers up to the waist elastic, a narrow scalloped edging of white round the legs where her great thighs thrust forth, two thwacking living pistons of flesh. She stayed up 14 seconds, to teach me how round and full a schoolgirl’s legs can be, and a bottom as full and juicy as a bisected peach.
‘But you’d see my bloomers!’ objected one entrant, coyly rolling her eyes. She was plump as a pigeon, and couldn’t get up. Elsie, my calm confederate, seized her ankles and soon had her upturned — until she collapsed into a leggy heap. The bloomers she was so shy of were navy blue, and could scarcely contain the chubbiest little posterior in the school. ‘I call ‘em bloomers ‘cos they’re blue,’ she gasped, tugging at them. ‘Am I bruised?’ I bared her fat little bottom to make sure. She was all right.
Some kids started tucking their skirts up the legs of their knickers before they tried. This was not allowed. I explained it would ‘stop free movement.’ ‘But you can tuck it into the waistband of your knickers if you like,’ I’d tell them, enjoying the word. Those who did looked very nice. Or they’d get wicked instructions from Elsie, who knew my game. ‘Pull your knickers well up,’ she’d advise, and if they tried to adjust them through the skirt she’d do the job properly at any cost to their modesty. They all wanted to be timed, and to beat the others they would stay up too long. After upturning themselves they would act as if drunk, turning red and seeming giddy. I’d tell them to lie down a minute and draw their legs up and open their knees, and I’d stroke around and feel them, ‘to get back the circulation.’
Some of them were shameless. They could not show enough. But Elsie took the biscuit. One day this leggy young exhibitionist asked me, as our class was breaking up, if I would measure her for a new pair of knickers she wanted to order. When the teacher had gone, she produced a tape-measure from her satchel, then stood on the seat of her desk and lifted the skirt of her gymslip and bunched it round her chest. Elsie looked down and watched me, red in the face but loving it, as I twanged her waist elastic and asked if it was too tight, and twitched down the knicker-legs, and poked the cotton into her groin, before carefully running the tape from her waist down under her crotch and up to the back, and then round her hips, and then slowly (stroking her surreptitiously in her secret place) measuring round the circumference of each thigh along the cuffs of her knickers and between her legs.
WATCH WORD FOUR. Exploit the Vanities.
Lesson 5. The Sisters
My older sister Jean was always leaving her knickers lying about. She’d fold them, and forget to put them away. The younger, Peggy, wet hers sometimes, so she had an extra supply. There was always a pair or two dancing on the washing-line, or hooked on a chair, and if you wanted a duster to clean the bike it would often be these old schoolgirl bloomers. When I had a bath, I’d rummage through the dirty linen basket for treasure. They had a faint, heady odour if you pressed them to your nose, a fragrant reek of urine and girlie-come. I’d try them on in front of the mirror, bowing my legs, drawing them lasciviously up my thighs and stroking myself to ecstasy through them. Once Mum found a smelly pair of Peggy’s in my bed and there was hell to pay. After that, I collared a pair occasionally, old ones they might not notice and which anyway I preferred. Eventually I had a hoard. They were holey, with the elastic coming out at the waist, the cuffs frayed, the seat shiny from wear. Sometimes, under my trousers, I’d wear a pair all day, whispering to myself, ‘I’ve got my schoolgirl knickers on.’ I liked Peggy’s best: they were too small for me, and I enjoyed the constriction. A dedicated knicker-watcher needs first-hand experience.
In this way I learned a lot about the pleasures of soiled underwear. Blue knickers got rather greasy. Beige ones were woolly and cosy but made a girl look fat. White ones were super, but I liked cotton ones to be sparkling clean, and thicker ones to be absolutely filthy. I learned to keep a special look-out for kids with dirty shoes and spotty gymslips they’d grown out of. Often this meant their knickers would be white, but torn and grubby, stained with ink (quite common — they wipe their pens on them) with the crotch-piece stretched into a narrow strip, and the ribbing so worn the knicker-legs were loose round the girl’s thighs. Pale blue ones got into the same disgusting state, and were well worth looking out for. The best I ever bagged were when a schoolgirl fell to the ground after trying to board a moving bus. She was not hurt, she just lay there laughing and would not let her friends help her up. Her pale blue knickers were literally on their last legs, insofar as they were on at all. Oh for a camera!
My sisters also taught me about spanking. I’m not mad for it, but I found spanking had its uses. ‘Many,’ says Gardner, ‘have been able to witness the unceremonious hoisting of a gymslip by an irate mistress, and the subsequent slapping of a schoolgirl’s bottom.’ How many, today? It is a sight I would relish, but only for the revelation when the gymslip was hoisted. Chasing Jean and Peggy, when they’d been extra cheeky, it was permissible (just about) to turn them over an armchair, or hold them to the floor, and make a pretence of spanking provided it didn’t hurt. I would even drag up their skirts, provided they were in a sportive mood, and gently pat them on their tight little knickers, or clutch a handful of the material if they were wearing them baggily. But they were both on to me (‘Mum says you only do it to see my knickers.’) Once or twice we had a scrap, and they’d kneel over me and, briefly, enjoy being immodest. Spanking in fantasy is common, of course, and often simulated in prostitutes’ rooms as well as at home, but for the knicker-watcher it is only a means to an end.
WATCH WORD FIVE. Do Your Homework.