An African Comedy. Part Four.

Fortunately, I needn't have worried, for the priest gave me an injection that made the subsequent loss of my testicles a relatively painless affair. The only discomfort really came from the blood rushing to my head, as they swung me over the apparatus. I was able to perceive out of one of the knicker legs the application of the flask to my globes, followed by a quick movement as the priest severed those items at the roots. When he held the flask up above me and swilled its gory contents triumphantly, I realised I was watching my manhood flashing before my eyes.

At that moment the priest held a brief muffled consultation with the Queen. The only words I heard distinctly were “Give him a pussy.” If I did not grasp at first the import of this terminology, believing I was going to be presented with a cat to keep me company, I was soon left in no doubt when a wire was wrapped tightly round the root of my jasper, then tightened in much the same way as a cheese wire, with similar results. Not that if you ask for a pound of cheese at the grocer’s you come home with a small piece of meat, but the reader knows what I mean.

After the operation I was carried away to the Eunuch's quarters to begin my recovery and education. The first thing I noticed was the complete change in attitude towards me on the part of the eunuchs. Whereas before they were obliged to respect me and hang on my whims, now they saw me reduced to their level and worse. I quickly became a figure of fun for having a pussy, whereas they all had at least the remains of their former glories about them somewhere, which they cherished with a nostalgic pride. They soon set me to work on my basic training and smacked me about if I didn't come up to the highest standards immediately.

The eunuchs were the only members of the court other than the Queen who dressed in Western fashion, though goodness knows how the stuff was imported. Most of it looked like cast-offs from The Lullaby Of Broadway.

I was not allowed to leave the quarters each morning without putting on pair of ladies' drawers, lacy suspender-belt, stockings and heels. Plus petticoat and a swishy dress. Hours were spent teaching me to apply lipstick and mascara properly. My hair grew long and luxuriant and I wore dangly earrings. Soon I was wiggling my increasingly plump bottom like the other “girls” and crossing my legs Jean Harlow style. My skin gradually lost its hair, and I became decidedly pretty. The strangest thing was my high-pitched voice which I hardly recognized it as my own.

It was six months before the time came to be presented to Queen Arsolina, who laughed uncontrollably as I stood there in a floral dress, my blonde hair tumbling forward over my mascara'd eyes. Then she nodded downwards and I knelt to kiss her stockinged foot, for the privilege of kissing the Queen's backside was restricted to her official husband. When I stood up she put her hand up my dress and rubbed up and down between my legs approvingly.

After that I began my duties as Keeper Of The Queen’s Underwear, which involved a great deal of ironing and the dressing of the Queen in the mornings and for state occasions. I believe I was good at my work, as I was able to use my male memories to help the Queen choose the most alluring garments for her nights in bed with Nobby and the others who followed after his unfortunate accident with a hot pan of cooking oil.

Strange to say I soon became devoted to my work and, considering I had fought in the Afghan wars, I took pride and pleasure in the folding of skirts and the ironing of slips and camisoles.

I must admit, though, to some feelings of melancholy during this the most uneventful period of my sojourn in Africa, for I must not pretend in these pages that there is no sense of loss in a man castrated against his will. I soon became aware that everyone, both men and women., looks down on the man who has, how can I put it, mislaid the keys to his whereabouts. Even the Queen, who had once worshipped at the feet of my intellect, soon got into the habit of treating me as if I was not there. Several times, for example, I experienced the full force of her flatulence while kneeling behind her to straighten her gusset, though moments like that soon blew over. On other occasions she would lecture me angrily for the slightest twist in her stockings and within a few weeks had taken to flogging me with a small stick to speed me in my duties. Fortunately I had learned a few handy body swerves at the Harlequins.

Increasingly she found ways to humiliate me, culminating in my demotion from Keeper Of The Royal Underwear, to Royal Clothes Horse, which involved long periods of kneeling absent-mindedly, and watching through semi-transparent material while she rampaged in bed with the latest of her husbands, her bloomers positioned over my face, her stockings over my outstretched arms.

Such was my descent in her eyes that I sensed my days even in this employment were numbered.

Sure enough, one day, two summers after I first arrived in Bumoni, the Chief Eunuch came to me and curtly announced that I was to be transferred to the barracks whorehouse at Dekalali on the Southern border with Pujimbo.

I never saw Queen Arsolina again.

The next six months I spent as a prostitute in the whorehouse at Dekalali, and I am afraid I have wiped most my experiences in that hell-hole out of my memory. To be frank, I don't know how I would have survived if I hadn't served in the Household Cavalry as a younger man. All I will say is that I now walk with a pronounced limp and never turn my back instinctively on anyone with a spear.

I assume I would have ended my days there eventually, as the lifespan of a barracks eunuch is said to be mercifully brief. You never hear of them bringing out their memoirs, that's for sure

But my salvation came about in the following way. Tired of their endless defeats by the Bumoni, the Pujimbi secretly signed a treaty with the British Empire, and the next time there was a battle between the armies the Bumoni were put to flight like zebra by lions, as a result of the presence of a company of British fusiliers in the Pujimbi ranks. We girls stood on the whorehouse balcony cheering their retreat wildly and blowing kisses to the relief force. In fact for the next couple of days there was a lot of relief all round.

Was it all worth it? After all these years I think I can say in my heart of hearts that, yes it was. For, as a result of my adventures, I was able to produce a book that proved seminal in the annals of anthropological research: “The Eunuchs Of Bumoni”. Plus, of course, the best sellers “Up The Bottom” and “Bend Over Bandits”, and the privately printed “Frilly Underwear For Boys.”

I wouldn't have become the man I am not today without Bumoni.

The End.