Staining The Lining Of My Best Grey Tweed Cotton Shorts In Earlier Days (part 2)

This is the second part summarizing some correspondence with a guy many years ago who grew up in the Thirties.

The earlier account summarized how fascinated he was by the cotton lined grey flannel short trousers he and his fellows wore at school ,most of them until they left at 14, and even into the early days at work. He was especially fascinated by the stains he picked up on the white cotton lining which as he grew older became something of a turn-on. Although he was quite a smartly dressed lad, the same was not true of the inside lining of his grey flannels shorts. He was also a dreadful dribbler in his shorts and got something of a reputation for being a bit smelly.

My grey flannel shorts were only washed every few weeks which was the norm in those days even though few of us wore underpants. The lining of the shorts was regarded as protection enough.

One day my mother gave me an almost new pair of grey herring-bone tweed shorts. They were almost new, and although they had another boys name in them, I was almost disappointed to see that the white cotton lining was spotlessly clean. The previous evening my mother had smelt me as I walked past her, and insisted that my grey flannels were due for a wash.
The grey tweeds were different although they also had the white cotton lining. They fitted well enough, and I wore them with braces, doing them up an extra notch so that the seam at the back was drawn between my cheeks. I did not pull them up my backside too far though because that would muffle the farts I had such a reputation for doing. They felt good to wear. However on the second day, my form master told me that the school uniform consisted of plain grey flannel or grey corduroy shorts and that I should tell my mother that I must turn up tomorrow in proper uniform.

I was disappointed. After two days I had only just begun to stain the lining- some pee dribbles by the inside fly, and the brown marks at the rear seam, both from farting hard and because I never wiped my a*rse properly were only just starting to appear. I had one other secret. I found that when I was sitting in class, if I pushed my willy down the inside leg and swung my legs to and from, I could enjoy the feelings until it built up to an uncontrollable thrill and I was pumping cream onto them. I had only done this once in these new almost new greyish tweeds.

I was concerned that my mother would comply with the masters order. So, I saved up until I was dying for a wee on the way home from school- I was 13-14 at the time. Then I stood, legs apart and really pee’ed those shorts. The material at the crotch was thick and it seemed an age before the liquid began to pour out of the inside legs of my shorts, down my legs, soaking my socks and even running into my shoes. I really gave them the works so I could tell my mother I needed to wear my grey flannels next day.
She was annoyed, not because I had wee’ed them, but because she would not be able to return them from where they had come. To my surprise she said she would put them aside for my Sunday best shorts. I might add in those days that Sunday for a young boy could be the most dreary of days- everything dead, and confined to family activities.

Fortunately she had washed, dried and ironed my usual grey flannels, and they were smart and ready for school. She was never able to remove the pee stains so copious at the front of the lining which as the shorts grew older became a more and more pronounced yellow. Nor could she remove the circular rings and patches down the inside leg where I had enjoyed myself. She was more successful with the brown marks up the back. She would rinse the cotton lining in that area, pull it away from the grey flannel, and soak it for a short while in a saucer of diluted bleach. Thus the back seam was usually pristine to start taking my farts and sustaining the brown rubbings which soon started to appear there.

Normally I had three pairs of shorts; my school ones, a Sunday best pair, new, and later to be demoted for normal wear, and an old, tight pair for weekends and evenings.

Sundays as I said were dreary. But I liked the idea of wearing those grey herring-bone tweed shorts. Often we would visit boring relations, and mealtimes seemed interminable. I would sit and make sure my willy was pushed between my legs into the top of the leg of the shorts. I would swing my legs to bring myself to a point of excitement. But, under the table I had to be careful not to draw attention to what I was doing or I would be told not to fidget. I had to appear alert, ready to speak when spoken to, and not to gasp or pants.

All was well, but then I would reach a point of no return. I knew what was going to happen, but I had to given no indication of my excitement. This was even more thrilling. I would have tried not to have abused myself that night, and by the time I was 14, I would be discharging heavily into my shorts, enjoying the warm sticky comfort against my leg. The danger when I passed the point of no return was that I would lose control- maybe gasp, but also let loose a loud fart. It always sounded as if I had deliberately forced it out. Instant disgrace. I was made to leave the table and threatened with my father’s leather belt when we got home. Can you imagine having to leave the table whilst still pumping the last of my cream into my shorts.

Then there would be the sitting quietly in the sitting room with adults still yapping. When I needed a pee, I liked to release a little into the crotch of my shorts. The grey tweeds soaked up loads. I would do this at school, trying to limit the amount although once or twice I was too enthusiastic and wet the seat of my classroom chair. But in the sitting room, any excess would soak into the chintzy cushions on the settee!

But the real christening of new shorts would be reserved for when we had outings in the country. I would deliberately not have a poo that morning. Whenever we were walking in the country, the need to go would come on badly.I would make sure there were no conveniences around, and then would plead I needed to go badly. My father got irritated but told me to hurry up. Over some years it had almost become a ritual- I said the country air and exercise caused it. Sometimes it would take a while to find a suitable location, and I would be walking, stiff legged, buttocks clenched whilst the turtles head would be poking out doing battle with the white cotton lining of my shorts.

When I disappeared behind the bushes, my brother who was four years older than me would remind me to wipe myself on some leaves. My mother however would advise me to be careful not to get a rash. This I saw as tacit approval of pulling up without wiping which I intended to do in any case!

When we got home, I would always take off my Sunday best shorts and examining the lining for damage back and front. Bothe yellow and brown stains would be starting to appear and that crusty area down the inside leg. I would sniff them, pleased with the marks I had made, and then fold them carefully and neatly, and put them away for the next Sunday. Occasionally my mother would ask me if I had messed my knickers. Naturally I replied no with all the scorn that a boy of that age could muster. Although she objected to the smell of pee which built up in my knickers, she was tolerant of the browning that regularly built up on the rear seam. Presumably she had some understanding of boyish carelessness in that area. And I loved to see the staining increase with each wearing.

Eventually I left school, and was in the army for some years. Shorts were a thing of the past. Then quite a few years later, i came across a pair of grey flannels in a secondhand shop, which although washed, still had yellow staining at the front and quite heavy brown discoloration at the back. This boys mother had not learned the trick of getting rid of the stains in that area. It so brought back memories of my own dirtiness in my short trousers that I brought those shorts. They were my size too- as boys wore shorts much later in those days, they came in bigger sizes. As I put them on, I thought of their original owner enjoying them as I had done. And soon I began to treat them as I had my own as a boy too.

Gradually I acquired grey shorts from secondhand shops. And then, with great nerve, started buying them new. At first I wore them instead of pyjama trousers in bed at night. They were ideal for mopping up the nightly creamy thrills. I also soon learned that with care, if I woke up needing a pee, I would do a few spurts in them to relieve the pressure without getting up.

And, of course, rich brown rubbings built up on the rear lining. I especially enjoyed letting rip my morning farts- extra ripe, and sometimes wet.
Then when I retired, I started wearing school grey shorts under my trousers instead of underpants. They were nice and warm, and readily soaked up any bodily extrusions. They took all three bodily functions and the white cotton lining soon built up the stains. They got washed every couple of weeks, and were partly hidden at the end of the washing line.
As I remembered my only school shorts and the abuse I gave them, so these shorts began to take more and more heavy abuse. I had my own garden and also did some part-time gardening. Ideal shorts. I could release dribbles of wee in them, and frequently would take a poo in the undergrowth and pull up without wiping. Wiping my backside had never been a top priority even when I was wearing pants and I suppose I was a regular browner even in the army. But now I could let go. The a*rse piece of my shorts built up a ripe rich brown which I loved to sniff.
I farted them up as hard as I could. Without my mother at the helm. I could force them out and if a pellet of poo hit bullseye on the rear seam, too bad. I just left it there. Sometimes when I was squatting down gardening, I could smell myself warm between my legs.

Some days my toilet thought it was redundant, it got so little use. And I nearly always rubbed up in them with consequent squirts of cream either in the day or at night. I may not have been as good as my mother, but I liked to launder them as well as possible so I could start abusing the white cotton all over again.

Sadly Paddy is no longer with us. But it would be lovely to hear of any other more senior EP members who can recall similar abuse of their traditional short trousers.
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Nov 29, 2012