Barber's Pole - Sex Stories

Barber's Pole

What a stupid question! No, of course not! No, I never regretted moving to the coast. Why would I? A tidy little inheritance and my early retirement had enabled it. My house was one of a detached pair in typical 1950s style. With extensive sea views and long gardens, I counted my good fortune every single day. The coastal climate was fantastic and I felt ten years younger at least. In fact, the only annoyance at my new home was the seagulls. Of course, you get them almost everywhere inland these days, but I did tire of their constant noise and of them shitting all over the place. My neighbour was Mr Shepard. He was 70, if he was a day. He was a retired barber from the West End of London. He used to regale me with tales of his famous and infamous customers, though rarely of the more humdrum ones. Evidently, his salon had been a fairly lucrative business. He was a stocky man, completely bald on top but with a neatly trimmed white moustache. He always wore dark, neatly pressed trousers and had a taste for striped shirts. His shoes shone immaculately, whether brown or black, and he always wore a matching thick leather belt. It soon became clear to me that this handsome old devil was gay, whereas my own sexuality had always been a little, how shall we say, ambiguous? Despite myself, I fancied him something rotten. I was amazed to find he’d refitted one of the downstairs rooms of his home as a bijou barber’s salon. There was just one leather padded adjustable barber’s chair, but ...

... the illusion was completed by all the usual trappings – a huge mirror lit from above, clippers, razors, combs, towels, tubs of dressings, styptic pencils and even a display of what appeared to be fine old Fetherlite and Gossamer condom advertisements. On hooks to the side of the chair hung a back mirror, a razor strop and somewhat incongruously, a school cane. I asked him about that cane. “Oho, that! Gets a lot of comment, that! I call it my barber’s pole! I used to use the strop and cane on uncooperative customers, back in the day.” I assumed he meant young customers but I couldn’t be sure! I wanted to talk about it a bit more, but didn’t know how to tune the conversation in on the subject. In truth, I’d been caned at school rather a lot and began to enjoy the invigorating sting of the rattan. I was waiting for him to offer me a short back and sides, or a short, sharp shock, but sadly neither was mentioned. It was a few days later when we were sat in his garden enjoying the summer sunshine and the cool ocean breeze. I gazed lovingly into his sea-blue eyes. I sipped at my vodka and Coke and cursed as a seagull crapped on the cast iron table we were sat at. “Those fuckin’ seagulls! Always shitting everywhere!” “Tut, tut, Jason! What awful language! I ought to tan your hide with my strop and pole for that. Wherever did you pick up such foul language?” My first thought was that I’d picked it up at school, like you do, decades before! I blushed a little. It was as if he could read ...