White Women on their Knees, PART 007
What felt like only minutes later, the two boys were still smoking leisurely, sucking deeply on their Lexington cigarettes, held between thumb and index finger, the burning nib cupped inside a rough hand, pink lungs drunk on the rush of nicotine when the ringing voice of her mother punctuated the alarm call that I have been unable to make myself.
Unspoken words of fear, a sudden relief and a welcome excuse, a saving sentence from drowning in an empty cement circle. I looked down at their feet where their worn leather belts snaked through the loops of their blue jeans, cradling white Jockey Y-front briefs forming an empty fallen nest, as they urgently scrambled to cover themselves.
I don’t remember much more about this day except for one last moment looking back, pretending to see that they were following us over the wall, in the hope of one more glance at their exposed maleness. This moment was when I realised I desired differently. It was urgent, it was sexual, and it was dangerous.
RAGEL, just like every SCOPE cover girl before and after her, physically protected me from suspicious eyes with her budding female form, shielding my scared boy-body by holding my hand, as we approached the farmhouse. END.
White Women on their Knees, PART 006
March 18, 1981
IT was a late Highveld summer afternoon; the smell of freshly cut Kikuyu grass accompanied by the low hum of a Rolux Magnum electrical lawnmower. The sweetness of cake icing still lingering in the corners of my mouth where my tongue would go and fish for one last little sensation.
THIS was the moment I became aware that I was sexually different.
Not different in a black and white way, but in a heart in my throat kind of, wrong, way.
I was scared and excited at the same time. I just turned twelve, barely a week older than Ragel whose birthday we were celebrating on the scrappy sheep farm where she and her mother roomed. The crack in the circular cement brick-built dam wall explained its emptiness, but also allowed me to see the small colourful dots of sugared-up children darting around in the distance. We were safe here, hiding behind the wall
ME, Ragel, Jan and Thys-two dorpsjapies who were a few years older than us, subverting the pecking order of school-going children. Thus, Ragel and I were not only flattered by their attention, but the two boys also wanted to smoke skelm, and that was an exciting prospect to witness, and to be included was a social triumph.
Finally, I could apply some of my SCOPE-gained knowledge. #boygeorge#diana#princessdiana
White Women on their Knees PART 005b "Everyman’s Guide to What THEY really Want, the TRUTH about Women” “Sensual Secrets of Love, How to come to Grips with the Opposite Sex” “How to Judge a Girl by her Panties”
Her image also accompanied these ‘in-depth’ surveys and self-help guides in full-colour scantily-clad, pre-plastic surgery, pre-photoshop, flesh. Her image is offered as a gift to be desired: “Feast your eyes! The New Naughtier Emmanuelle, She’ll try Anything”
Even though her eyes made direct contact with yours, and her body invited you to imagine a real life interaction, ultimately she is detached and distant.
Perched on an office chair, split-stretched on a flokati carpet circa ’83, or adorning a muscle car bonnet or with a dinosaur on her shoulder in a recurring pattern of cover pictures, she is subjugated into the service of the white male heterosexual gaze.