When Coakes first arrived at college, a self-aggrandized Ivy league affair, he’d marched straight up to it’s largest and finest fraternity. The brotherhood was based in a large red brick building and had its own private gardens and Methodist Church. Some prick had installed two huge Ionic pillars outside the front and had the frat’s Greek letters engraved and gilded on them. Outside, at the foot of the lawn Coakes had met two older boys, both in tweed jackets, khaki slacks and Dubarry gore-tex shoes, a costume identical to his own.
“How do you do?” smiled Coakes, nervously wiping his palms on his trousers, above the pockets. The boys looked, inspected him, a chunky ethnic kid, blonde hair striking and slick with sweat against that wide, flat forehead.
“Can we help you?” asked the taller one, who looked like, and probably was, a football captain.
“Ha, yes, indeed I hope so,” said Coakes, still smiling. God how he hated to schmooze, but these men were of obviously superior quality and he couldn’t help but love and hate them in equal measure. He pulled a letter, slightly crumpled, from his jackets inner pocket. The smaller man took it and, putting on a pair of tortoise shell glasses, read it.
He looked Coakes up and down again, and frowned at his shoes, although they looked indistinguishable from his own. “Iago Coakes?” What the hell kind of a name is that?
“Ah ha, I believe it comes from Shakespeare…”
“I’m familiar with Othello you pretentious fool. I mean where is Coakes from? You a wop? A mick?”
“I..I’m an American. Although I believe my family hails from Britain, originally.” Coakes was lying, his ethnicity was a varied as his odour. But surely, he thought, in these tall white mayflower boys, some vestige of respect still remained for the empire. The rictus smile had begun to ache his jaw.
“Well, whatever Coakes. We can’t take charity in, so I’m afraid his house is not for you.”
Coakes stared at the young man in horror, how could he be rejected so summarily?
“Read the letter again… I’m not charity case… I’m a scholar.. Read the letter, there are references.”
The boys looked at him, as at piece of lint stark black upon the collar of a beautiful white blazer. Despite the numerous thick, pus yellow rubber-bands by means of which Coakes had secured his penis to his thigh, he could feel a terror hard begin to swell and seep. The shorter, fatter boy read the letter again. Then he passed it to the captain. He read it too, and gave Coakes a cool calculating look, then shrugged and passed the letter back.
“You understand this is provisional?”
Coakes let out an involuntary whoop, and the boys shook their heads, momentarily appalled.
“Allow me to introduce myself brother,” said the shorter one, holding out his hand. ‘Brother’, the word sounded foreign to Coakes, wild and exhilarating. He wiped off on his pants again, the palms were almost weeping now, and took the boys hand, grasped it in his own.
“I’m president of Peisistratus house, and my brother,” he gestured to tall boy, “is president of the Greetings Committee. Our names are not for you to know as yet. To you, we are merely tall master, and fat master.”
“A pleasure,” breathed Coakes ecstatically, waves of satisfaction, thoughts of some slight tolerance, dare he even feel – acceptance, wracked him.
“You will come inside now,” said the larger boy. “And meet the Chaps.”
“Yes tall master,” replied Coakes, trotting along behind the him, up the neatly trimmed lawn and in through the high wooden doors, to a large audience chamber.
A sweeping staircase dominated the centre of the room. Coakes took in elegant potted palms, chamber music from the houses own string quartet, black and white checked marble flooring and huge Persian rugs, portraits of prominent alumni in gilded frames, trophies and withered old pigskins sharing cabinets with hockey sticks and aging muddy helmets. Uniformed old men carried enormous trays of white wine spritzers, and seared meaty nibblets, old imported cigars and pipe tobacco; the waiters ram rod straight yet craven men pressed from the same mould, all dressed in fine tuxedos, each bearing the society crest – a naked goose lounging on a field of skinned onion – with oil slicked hair and thin grey lips. Here and there amongst the servants was a darkie, bold as brass and black as the ace of spades, but never any other ethnicity.
The fraternity men were even less diverse, each wore the the same khaki slacks and sport jackets as tall master and fat master, and from each arm hung an infinitely bored and lithe homecoming queen. The girls, the terror of rape and independence inculcated by Institut Villa Pierrefeu, leaking from them in equal measure, muted by Mil-town and gin; fresh faced proof of fathers money and mothers beauty. Coakes was introduced to them all, in a flurry of ‘Hello old man’s and ‘Good to have you on board’s, and thinly veiled contempt. His dick ached against its rubber prison, the bands bunched in the centre and Coakes felt in real danger of permanent damage. Without excusing himself to use the restroom, without forefinger and thumb to rid himself of the tight wound bands, Coakes could only smile and shake hands, laughing nervously, pretending to ignore their obvious dislike. A massive cabbage fart was brewing mercilessly in his bowels putting undue pressure on his prostate.
After it seemed as if he had met everyone in the place, Tall Master casually approached with another man of middle height and slight build. He had a shock of blond hair and was a few years older than the other students.
“This is the new man I was telling you about”, Tall Master said, motioning toward Coakes. “Iago meet Paul Oakley, the 17th Earl of Pembrokeshire”.
Coakes held out his hand and muttered some pleasantries, hardly paying attention. Oakley kept hold of his hand and began to walk, dragging Coakes alongside him. “Iago, they tell me you’re a man of letters”.
“Sorry? Oh, yes, well maybe one day. I am only starting my education”.
“Tish, modesty will do you little good in this life, I suggest you abandon it. You are a scholar, aren’t you? Show me the letter.”
Coakes handed over his papers and stared straight ahead as the other man read it silently, still walking. They came to a soft pink silk sofa and Oakley lounged across it. A servant brought them coffee and pastries, unbidden. Oakley read the document twice, carefully. He took a small bite of a pecan danish, and apologised, “I’m sorry I missed breakfast”.
“I never miss breakfast”, blurted Coakes, “nor the opportunity for another one.”
Oakley smiled at his attempt at wit, “You have a full scholarship to doctorate level. Impressive. What did you do?”
“I wrote a few pieces for a local newspaper. They must have liked something I scribbled…” he said weakly, knowing it sounded like the lie it was.
“Indeed, Mr Coakes?, you must be an excellent writer if that is the case”.
“What can I say…” Coakes was grasping around, he certainly couldn’t admit the real gravy train he had hijacked to university. He stared at Oakley, anger and confusion rising heaving his chest.
“What can you say? The truth. The truth will set you free”.
“You’re speaking in clichés, now”, Coakes was furious, why had the interview taken such an unpleasant turn?
“You are bold indeed to say so, old boy”, the Earl irritably flicked pastry crumbs from his lapel and flashed Coakes a dangerous look.
Coakes was flustered and nearly released an arse quake, “Your earlness, I assure you I didn’t mean to offend…”
Oakley rescued him from his trailing sentence, “Please Iago, call me Paul, or Oakley if you must, but never Earl bladdie-blah. I find titles so depersonalising. Still you have a secret, and I will know it. Sit down man, I did not mean to offend, or threaten you. I was merely boasting – everyone tells me their secrets eventually. We will be fast friends, I know it.”
Coakes sat, again, confused and belched a little. He stood again immediately.
“So whats the form now?” he asked, bewildered.
“Ah, don’t you know?” It seemed to Coakes that for a moment lightning flashed across the thin boys eyes. “Well, tonight there will be the Testing. Then tomorrow, a little celebratory breakfast on the lawn.”
“A test? And what about lodgings?”
“The test is secret and individual. If you pass, you will lodge in the freshman’s wing.” Coakes wanted to ask more, but at that moment a group of frat men appeared through an arched doorway, dusty bottles of champagne in their hands. They bowled over to Oakley and Coakes, boasting of their raid on a rival house. They carried Oakley off with them. Coakes was left alone, and asked directions from an attendant to the restroom. There, he cut the bands off his bloody and now crooked cock. A kink had formed to the right, about half way along. Hoping and praying it would not be permanent, Coakes sat on the bowl, and loosed himself long and hard into it, browning the sides, almost fainting with relief.
Later, in the basement, hours after the testing had begun, Coakes lay blindfolded, stripped and slapped with what he hoped were dried fish. He’d been thrown down a slide, dusty and hard, scraping his sensitive skin. Left there a while, hearing in the distance the men cheering, he shook to a piercing scream. Then they came for him again, and rough hands tied him by his ankles, and Coakes was hoisted to the ceiling. He felt a spray that might have been warm water. Then someone tried to push what was clearly a penis into his bawling mouth, and Coakes had to clench his teeth and bare their laughter.
Now near dawn. Coakes was half heartedly roughed up, a few weak punches, and thrown into a small cramped room, probably a broom cupboard. The ordeal seemed to be over, and he relaxed a moment against the cool wood of the closet. His blindfold had been torn off, and he was locked in. It was too dark to see, but Coakes suddenly sensed he was not alone.
The rape was quick, painful and good natured. He shit himself afterwards, the first time since late childhood. Finally he felt himself faint, his mind draining away. As he fell back, Coakes heard Oakley whisper.
“See, I told you we’d be friends.”