An American Boy Growing Up

An American Boy Growing Up: True Incidents in One Boy’s Development

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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What follows are my own recollections from growing up in the sixties. They were intricately etched into my memory and represent forced nudity and disciplinary incidents that are one hundred percent true as reported below. I know they’re accurate. They happened to me.

An American Boy Growing Up: True Incidents in One Boy’s Development

By, Running Bare

INTRODUCTION

Someone once said “sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction”. I guess that’s true. What I do know is the truth can really be as arousing as fiction in so many ways. Did you ever stop to wonder why, for example, we who read stories or write for this site are turned on by “forced nudity”? I have.

A similar adage states in all fiction there is an element of truth. I believe that is definitely an accurate observation.

I invite you to join me as I remember particular incidents during my childhood that I believe contributed to my stories and fetishes. The incidents I’m about to confess were not “all the time” situations, they happened sporadically, but, they did happen. I’ll cover recollections I have from five to thirteen years of age.

I want to make it clear before I start that l haven’t taken to writing these memories to punish my parents or any other authority figures, or assess blame or vent animosity in any way. I don’t want to cast negative aspersions on my teachers or principals either as they too worked under “in loco parentis”. They were charged by the community to enforce behavioral and learning codes and given complete authority to act in the parents’ stead. I did and continue to love the adults who oversaw my boyhood unconditionally.

Other kids, both friends and sitters were just that—kids. As such I hold them harmless. Sitters, as young as they were, often held limited parental authority, and, in their immaturity and curiosity, often abused that authority.

No, I’m not looking to blame anyone for my adult perversions, probably because I enjoy them. I use my stories to vicariously renew the arousals of my childhood. Oh sure, I embellish. When I do so it’s an opportunity to reach beyond those occasions of boyhood hard-ons experienced at the hands and commands of other kids or authority figures, and into the realm of what could have been, not what actually happened. I will try not to embellish in sharing the truisms that follow.

It is important to note during the decades of my upbringing boy nudity was not only accepted by adults, it was expected universally. It was viewed as character building. Prepubescent boys could be and were exposed almost anywhere without people feigning indignation. I’d say people of that time were more true to their feelings than people of today. I’m amused when I tell members of the generation just after mine of having to swim completely nude at various public venues or skinny dipping in streams, lakes and ponds. I tell them that parents of that time generally encouraged it. The younger audience is often doubtful and accuse me of “making that up”. But, no, times have changed. We boys, and I emphasize boys, had absolutely nothing we could hide when it came to our bodies.

Our fathers and male teachers had been brought up under the mindset boys needed to be forced into public exposure. In fact, being naked and nonchalantly flaunting ones penis and ball sack was a sign of becoming a man. Though adult males were comfortable being naked, somewhere in the developmental process the rules changed. They weren’t ever naked in the presence of females—women or girls, except obviously for one’s wife. Being made to expose ones- self in front of females only applied to boys. From what I have gathered, that rule change subtly took place during puberty. Apparently, after hair no more bare (thus my story using that observation as a title on malespank.net).

Back then, the belt was the most popular discipline tool. In my family and those of most, if not all, of my friends it was applied to the bare backside. It was painful, but arguably more productive for boys than the time-out bullshit employed by parents today.

Ironically, as I write this some teenager who killed four people in a DUI incident got off by pleading “affluenza”. Yeah, not guilty because he was spoiled and never disciplined for his wrong doing over his sixteen years. Though I’m sure there may have been one or two of those when I was growing up, I seriously doubt you could find a dozen in the entire state. Today? Well, I’ll let you be the judge.

Enough expounding, just understand that boy nudity and corporal punishment were universally accepted and expected during my childhood. That’s an historic truth and not in any way a fantasy used to fuel my imagination. If you doubt that, write me I have documented proof.

Though every incident cited in what follows actually happened, names and places have been changed to protect anonymity. None of the reports that follow are embellished in any way. They may seem bland in relation to other stories but I guess life can be bland. If you think, yeah, something like that happened to me, write and tell me about it. We can compare notes. Enjoy, and imagine being involved.

Experiences At Home

Four or five is about as far back as my memories go. Among my earliest was timing my father’s arrival home from work by the end of a show called “Howdy Doodie” on the black and white TV. As soon as that show ended, I’d find myself sitting on the concrete steps in front of our home excitedly waiting for my father. He and I would usually spend an hour or two together, before dinner.

At the end of our street there was a large pond. It had cattails growing at the water’s edge, a multitude of bugs called it home. I was especially intrigued with the dragonflies. They looked pretty ominous to a five year old, but Dad reassured me they were completely harmless. On one occasion he actually caught one in his hands and let me touch it as a way of reassuring me. There was another creature that was quite prolific in that pond—frogs. It was here I would learn about the life cycle of frogs and even, on many visits, catch tadpoles in a Mason jar as Dad watched.

What I experienced at the pond was my first memory of total nudity in a wide opened public space. If I hadn’t been walked naked from my house down the block to that pond as was the usual routine, I’d be stripped naked within minutes of getting to the pond’s edge. People were aware of my nakedness but were far from offended by it. One could tell by the remarks neighbors who might be out watering their lawns, sweeping their sidewalks, or just lounging on their porches would make to my father as we passed. I don’t think I was ever aware enough of my exposed five year old package to feel embarrassment. I do remember remarks like, “Oh isn’t he sweet” or people just waving and hollering their greeting as we walked past. Older kids would ride their bikes back and forth down the street as we walked. It never occurred to me they were examining my immature penis and ball sack, but I think they were. Cars passed unremarkably as we trudged to our natural observatory. I’d get a jar handed to me, and I’d wade out into the water on my quest to capture the tadpoles. It was a period in history where the site of nude preadolescent boys was perfectly acceptable.

After a half hour my father would haul me out of the pond and we’d lie side by side on the grass, watching the clouds, while the sun dried me off. Then we begin the walk back home. It must have been a sight, this completely naked five year old boy, walking with one hand being held by his loving father, the other arm wrapped around a Mason jar full of murky pond water with five or six tadpoles swimming around in it.

My mother has black and white pictures of me, standing naked next to my Dad and proudly displaying a jar of those critters. (Yes, back then photos of naked boys were developed and printed and no one went to jail for it.) I was told, if dinner wasn’t ready, they’d let me stay naked and play in the yard or I’d be whisked off to the tub for a pre-dinner bath.

My mother is and always did love seeing naked little boy bottoms. She’d playfully pinch, pat and poke on my butt cheeks I’d guess until I was nine or ten. She also liked little boy legs often commenting about legs on kids she didn’t even know, “Look how cute that little boy’s legs are. He’s gorgeous.” Speaking of legs, she insisted on me wearing shorts almost throughout the year. Somewhere around age eight or nine, I got the idea that wearing shorts was not manly and I rebelled at having to wear them. She tolerated that for just so long before she rid my drawers and closet of long pants completely. I wouldn’t see them again until late fall. At eleven, I was one of the only boys my age who still wore shorts to school. My suit for church and other formal occasions had short pants. So you might imagine an eleven year old wearing a suit coat, white shirt, and tie above the waist, and what I still argue with my mother were short, shorts below. I don’t know how you argue with photos, but when I show her pictures of me all dressed up, I point out the shorts hemmed half way between the top of my knee and bottom of my ass cheeks. She insists the rule of thumb was the hem of the shorts should be one inch below the bottom of the suitcoat. Please bear in mind, boys’ shorts were quite a bit shorter in those days then they are today. But I’m not convinced my mother didn’t busy herself at her sewing machine shortening mine even more. Many pairs, I’d argue exposed the hemline of my tighty whities and bottom edge of my butt cheeks.

The skin exposure, I truly believe, inadvertently led to a modesty problem for me. Adults, some of whom we’d never met, frequently commented about my body. Among the comments were acknowledging my “muscular little legs”, “cute little peepee”, “he’ll make some girl happy some day”, (My penis was notably longer than most boys my age, thus the embarrassing comments which I equated with calling me a freak—a reason to hide it rather than flaunt it.), “tight little knob” (Another “compliment” often made to my parents by those who saw me nude. It was a reference to my tightly circumcised head.), “beautiful tan”, “pinchable (or dimpled) butt cheeks”, “perfect boy chest”, even my navel couldn’t escape scrutiny “cute little inny”. You get the idea. That kind of shit doesn’t make a kid proud. It embarrasses him. If it only happened once in a while, I guess I’d have ignored it. But, for my parents I think it was like a snowball rolling downhill. It reinforced them, especially my mother, to make me present myself in as little, if any, clothing as she could get away with. In fairness, if I had a kid who drew those kinds of comments, I guess I’d be proud to show him off, too.

At six we’d moved to a new larger home. My mother was expecting my second sister and, I’m not certain but, I surmise the move was made to accommodate our growing family. It was here I broached another milestone. That same loving father was taking care of me one night. I was out playing with two of the girls from down the street. Dad called me in, but I decided that I was going to stay out regardless of his directive. I just took off down the street with my new friends. I remember the girls’ mother saying, “Sean your dad called and said he has a surprise for you at home.”

Nothing gets a kid’s attention like a surprise. I immediately peddled my bike home. As I entered the door my father sat on the lower steps of the staircase and began undressing me. He asked calmly about me hearing him tell me to come in. I naively agreed I heard him but explained I wanted to play with the girls. He continued undressing me until I was naked. I knew he was upset. He stood up and removed his belt, folded it in half, took me by the arm, and planted three stripes on my bare ass. I remember his words vividly, “Now, go up to the bathroom so I can give you a bath, unless you want to go do something else.” I got the message. That was the first of many spankings I’d get with the belt after that. Truthfully, I preferred the hand he’d used in prior years over that piece of leather. Hand spankings had been much lower on the pain intensity scale.

All his life my father had been a big supporter of the YMCA. He was a member as a child growing up. As a relatively poor kid he had been actively involved in all their youth programs. It was during that six and seven year old period he and I joined the Indian Guides which was a father-son bonding program sponsored by the Y based on Native American lore. Part of the initiation was for the father to choose a Native American sounding name and then choose one for his son. My dad chose Eagle Feather for himself, and I was to be called Running Bare, with that exact spelling. So my dear readers, as you already probably surmised that is something I hauled out of retirement for my penname. Then it described the amount of time and activities when my parents encouraged me to run around naked, and now it clearly describes my fetish of forced nudity for boys in middle childhood and early adolescence.

We went on many camping trips with the Indian Guides. On most campouts there would be large blocks of time we little boys would be stripped naked and allowed to run around wildly while the fathers shared war stories with each other, and, though I later learned was not allowed, they’d down a beer or two. Basically, the campouts were bonding exercises for males of each generation more than between generations as the program was designed to do. It was in that program I believe I started to become self-conscious about being naked. Though all the other little boys were nude too, we would find private places to feel each other’s equipment and explore each other’s anuses. Our fathers were so wrapped up in their own discussions they either didn’t see us or they chose to ignore it. Back then such behavior from young boys was, I would argue accurately, viewed as typical childhood curiosity and comparison, and certainly nothing to be alarmed about. Usually when we were caught in such play by adults, we were redirected to another activity, not chastised. I don’t remember anyone getting in trouble for playing with each other’s genitals. No one got hurt.

They must have known. How could they not? One would think our fathers would have become suspicious with all the little woodies prancing about that something arousing was in the air or in someone else’s touch.

Indian Guides was the birth of my sexual awareness. We didn’t know what it was. We just knew it felt good to have someone else feel your equipment. When I reminisced about Indian Guides, my mother said, “You’d come home so dirty. You’d have dirt everywhere on your little body—your bottom, your boy parts--everywhere. I’d march you straight to the tub and then tease your father with, “Don’t you guys watch these kids? How’d he get dirt on his penis?”

Dad would honestly say, “They run around naked almost the whole time.”

Mom would retort, “What are your men doing while they do that?”

“Playing cards and talking.” Well you get the picture. No foul except the boys getting dirty. She just didn’t know how dirty, but, then, neither did he.

By the way, I still have the head bands Dad and I wore as Indian Guides. They are aging and drying out and slowly crumbling, but I often look at them and fondly remember those days.

At seven, there was a memorable series of incidents. My father’s boss had a thirteen year old daughter. She became our babysitter when Mom and Dad would go out for an evening. She’d show up shortly before dinner on those occasions and would be in-charge of dishing out whatever Mom had cooked for us that afternoon; helping my sisters with their baths and seeing to it I had mine; then putting us to bed. On the first night she wanted me to strip for my bath while she dried my sister. I remember arguing that I wanted her to take my sister somewhere else so I could close the door to undress. I don’t know why, I guess I was just growing up and didn’t want her to see me naked. She insisted that I strip and that she was going to bathe me. I was seven and I was bathing myself when Mom and Dad were home, I didn’t need her to do the job when they weren’t. I refused. She finished with my sister and left the bathroom to me. I locked the door and took my clothes off, and got in the tub. It was a universal and unwritten rule back then that no boy, for that matter no kid, was ever allowed to lock a door, not just at our house but even at relatives and friends’ homes.

I was half way through my bath and she knocked on the bathroom door. Her fifteen year old brother had apparently been dropped off by her parents to keep her company that night. She said, “Sean, Bobby is here. Let him in, he can give you your bath.” I refused using the argument that I was already in the tub and doing it myself. “Don’t be so silly, he’s a boy too. He has everything you’ve got. Quit being so shy.” I flatly refused. Bobby didn’t need to be seeing me naked either and certainly didn’t need to be washing me.

When Mom and Dad came home, she apparently told them about the bathroom incident. Dad angrily awakened me and hauled me downstairs to confront me in front of Liz and Bobby. Both he and Mom looked pissed. He asked me why I didn’t do as Liz instructed. I was honest and told him I didn’t want her to see me naked. And I reiterated that I was big enough to bathe myself.

Now it is important to note that both he and my mother held disrespect and defiance of an adult directive as a corporal offense. And, even though Liz was not technically an adult, her position of sitter temporarily gave her adult privileges including, but not limited to, seeing me naked. I knew I was in trouble when he ordered me to take off my pajamas. To make it worse I had to do it in front of Liz and Bobby.

I didn’t dare waste much time disrobing as Dad was definitely fired up. I stood there naked as the day I was born as he withdrew his belt from the loops on his pants. I was so scared my little friend couldn’t possibly stiffen. He held my hands down to my sides and began the lecture. Most of you readers can remember the lecture. Those who don’t are referred to my story on malespank.net –“Knocking Roger Down a Peg”. I’d say that story is 90% accurate.

At the end of the lecture, he handed his doubled up belt to Liz. He bent me over, held my upper torso down, and told Liz to use the belt and spank me. To her credit she hesitated and said she didn’t know if she should and Mom reassured her that it was warranted. I mean who does that? Who gives a thirteen year old a belt and presents them with a naked seven year and tells her to beat his bare ass with it? Long story short she did and it hurt. Dad wouldn’t let her stop until he was sure it hurt. After it was over I was paraded over to Liz and Dad said the old, “I’m sure there’s something you want to say to Liz” line. I apologized to her for not letting her give me a bath and made what I think might have been a fatal statement. “And I’m sorry for not letting you see me naked”. I was required from that day on, until I was told differently from Mom or Dad, to stay naked after my bath every time Liz babysat. Mom reasoned, if I was made to be naked when she babysat, maybe I’d overcome my shyness about being bare, not just in front of Liz, but any other authority figure who told me to undress.

Truth of the matter, Liz babysat the very next weekend. To this day I believe Mom and Dad went out that weekend just to make that happen. I swear they did stuff like that just to make a point. Mom said, “Liz why don’t you give him a bath before you eat dinner.” She happily complied and I was nude from about four thirty in the afternoon until Mom woke me the next morning. Other than the bath, Liz never touched my package, but she did hand wash it during my bath. And she did include my butt mounds and crack when she rubbed my back “to relax me for bed”. And yes my little buddy would straighten right out when she did and she did like to watch it especially when it was stiff. But, I don’t know how, she refrained from playing with it. Funny, but I think if she had, Mom and Dad would have excused it.

During those early years, Mom would take us to the beach. Dad was rarely available to do it. Mom was a homemaker, and he travelled for business. From God knows when until I was almost twelve, we’d go to a very popular northeastern Atlantic beach. It was so popular that on a good day you’d have to search for an unpopulated spot to lay out the blanket. We’d get all the stuff—coolers, towels, beach toys, etc.—and carry them down to the blanket from the car. One lasting memory of those trips was the sand was as hot or hotter to my feet than the asphalt in the parking lot. I found myself shuttling quickly back and forth with those supplies while Mom watched my younger sisters at the blanket.

Everything was beautiful on those trips. If one of my boy cousins or a friend didn’t come with us, I would usually find some other boys my age and quickly meld into their social group for the day.

My most prevalent memory was of the departure ritual. Mom would order me to, “Take off your suit and run down and rinse off.” If there were other boys in her care, that command would apply to all of us. She didn’t want any sand in the car. She expected, and got, me (us) to run from the blanket to the water completely naked, rinse off and return to the blanket to dry off. This happened every time we went until I was entering the throes of puberty. Naked, penis (often stiff) bouncing I’d set out for the final dip in the surf, right in front of God and half the population of the state. If I wasn’t free of sand when she looked, she’d send me back to the water again. Who does that? Even back then, I don’t remember any other kids doing that beyond four or five years old, except for my cousins. I think their mother (Mom’s sister) learned that trick from my mother. You know, if I had the guts, I’d challenge both of them to tell me they didn’t do that, at least in part, as a way to embarrass and humiliate us.

When we had one of my neighborhood or school friends in tow, he’d be expected to do the same. It was then I became aware that when other boys had to be naked, it wasn’t as bad as when it was just you. Oh, it still bothered me, but misery truly does love company. Maybe it was the subliminal idea that their nudity drew some of the public’s attention from mine. Whatever, it was easier to be exposed with company.

What perplexed me at the time, but was later revealed to me in early adulthood, was why my sisters never had to strip and rinse off. The answer? “They were girls, and it wasn’t appropriate for girls to be naked in public.”

Now, before you start that whole gender equality argument and rant that echoes of my own question of those times, “If boys had to do it, why not the girls?” I have uncovered several artifacts that verify such thinking was really the global social thinking of the time. The mindset was boys were expected to be comfortable being naked while girls were to be sheltered. I have addressed this specific attitude from back then in some of my stories by quoting my favorite aunt. When asked, she, the mother of three boys and two girls, put it this way, “If God wanted girls to be exposed he would have put their private parts on the outside not hidden them. He put boys’ on the outside to show them off.”

There were many occasions when I visited her and I was to be naked in front of my clothed female cousins. What made it especially embarrassing was her eldest daughter was my age. That wasn’t problematic until I was eight or nine years old. After that I became very self-conscious. One memorable visit occurred during my tenth year. My aunt made me and my boy cousins strip naked and go out and play in an above the ground pool in their backyard. The girls were told to go put on their suits. I told her I didn’t want to swim. I really did, but not under those terms. She knew of what Mom called my “over modesty”. I think that’s what drove her to tell me if I didn’t take my clothes off and get out there, she’d strip me and I could stay naked the whole weekend.

Long story short, I went to the pool clutching my package to shield it from view. Becky, my age mate, was delighted when her ten year old friend from across the street joined us in the pool. I envied my younger male cousins. They were completely unfazed by their exposure in the neighbor’s presence. Guess the frequency of their exposure to others and their age (the oldest boy was eight at the time) made them very accepting of their nudity. Me? I eventually couldn’t maintain my coverage and the girls got their eye candy. I remember Becky and her friend giggling as they got the first view of what I brought to the party. Etched in my memory are the times the neighbor girl brushed my penis with her hand trying to disguise the contact as accidental because of the crowded pool. She and Becky giggled about it each time it happened. Accident, my ass. Yes, I did pop a boner and they were amused when I did.

My aunt brought out some cookies and lemonade. We were all summoned to the picnic table for snacks. I was hesitant because my boyhood would be exposed even more during snack time than it was in the pool. She ordered me to come to the party. I did cup a hand over it, but that was met by my aunt’s command, “Sean, quit playing with yourself. Move your hand.” That brought attention of all of the kids to my erect penis. After Aunt Patsy had gone back into the house, Becky’s friend asked if she could feel my “thing”. I responded with both embarrassment and anger, and told her flatly NO. (Note: If it happened again today, I’d have let her.) Both she and Becky giggled again. One of my younger male cousins innocently told her she could feel his if she wanted to.

I have since found out from Becky, back then she’d often make her brothers strip naked so she and her friends could play with their packages. They loved it when their little penises would harden.

I think the next time I visit my mother, I’ll ask her if those visits to my aunt’s were purposely designed to break what she used to refer to as my “over modesty” problem. There were few if any visits to Aunt Patsy’s, right up to twelve or thirteen, that didn’t involve me being publicly (outside the house), or at the very least semi-publicly (inside the house) exposed to others. I’ll bet it was part of a plan now that I think about it. Neither my uncle nor my Dad, who were often present during exposure times, showed any objection to it either.

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My grandmother was a saint. She really was. But that said, she was also old fashioned in a lot of ways. As a boy, I would often be invited to go home with my grandfather and her. They lived a hundred and fifty miles northwest of our coastal home town. That gave me some welcomed distance between my sisters and me. It also put me in the same town as many of my cousins and Aunt Patsy. Grandma was very petite, and wired like a hyperactive eight year old. She walked everywhere as she didn’t ever bother getting a driver’s license.

When I was at her home, I was only permitted to wear the dreaded shorts my mother endorsed. You know the ones that came up to my ass cheeks. And, as I said before, when Grandma took me to Aunt Patsy’s I was often ordered to be naked. Many times Grandma saw me naked. Even as a twelve year old, I’d sleep nude in her guest bedroom in the attic. It was hot up there and she’d come up to wake me in the mornings or if I was napping. She insisted I sleep nude so I didn’t get too hot up there.

This lady was old fashioned in her health beliefs. For example, she would ask me daily, “Have you had a bowel movement?” And, take it from me you didn’t want to answer no more than two days in row. My last bout with one of Grandma’s enemas was when I was ten. I answered her question without thinking that morning. It was the third day. She kept track, I didn’t. She grabbed me by the arm and ushered me up to the bathroom and told me to get undressed. I didn’t want to be disrespectful, but I wasn’t too excited to be naked in front of my grandmother at that age. I hesitated and she gave me a pissed off look and said, “I said get your clothes off. And, I mean right now!”

Some of you have read, “The Little Grandmother Who Could”, I posted on malespank.net a couple of years ago. It is 100% true. Not an ounce of fiction in that one. Well, if you read it, you know she was quite capable with a belt. So I wasn’t about to piss her off any further. But, I wasn’t beyond respectfully trying for a reprieve. I tried to negotiate for a fourth day. She wouldn’t hear of it. “Are you going to get undressed, or do I need to get one of Grandpa’s belts?”

I unbuckled my belt and lowered my shorts. My next planned move was my shirt, but she ordered my underpants. I dropped them as she stood there watching I removed them one leg at a time. My penis, still flaccid bounced around a bit. At this point, let me just say the quickest way to get a hand print on your bare ass was to cover yourself in an attempt to hide your package. All the adult women in my life would quickly plant a slap on your hip you could reference for hours. By ten you learned to just let it hang loose, or point stiff depending on the circumstances. (While I’m thinking about it, unlike many of the dominance stories you read, the adult women in my life didn’t get offended at a boy’s erection. I really think erections amused them.) Anyway, I finally was standing stark naked in front of my grandmother. She told me to get in the tub, as she pulled out the dreaded red rubber bag and hose. While I lay there exposed to the world, she prepared the warm soapy solution in the bag and then opened the jar of good old Vaseline.

“Pull your knees up and spread them as far apart as you can.” I did giving the perfect diapering pose. She massaged my ball sack and then my hole. Next she applied a coating of Vaseline around the orifice. When she finished she roughly impaled me with her index finger and worked the lubricant in by moving it back and forth. Then she pressed two fingers in. By that time I was hard as a rock. Finally, the hose. In it went. As I remember, she must have been thinking of colonoscopies, because she shoved that baby way up there. I could feel every inch of the entry.

I don’t know how many of you have ever had an enema, but let me just say. You feel just about everything including the water from that damned bag going in. You can actually see the bloating of your abdomen. Once the bag had emptied she tried to decide if that was enough or she had to add more. Thankfully, my groaning saved me from a second round. I was told to lie there and give the solution time to do its work. Trust me you aren’t in any hurry to get up when you’ve been filled with soapy warm water. So there you lay erect and fully exposed to your grandmother. Yeah it is a bit uncomfortable. After a few moments, she allowed me to get up and quickly work my way to the toilet. Believe me no matter how hard you squeeze that sphincter, the water will always win. I barely made it to the toilet when it all came squirting out. The process required a couple of courtesy flushes.

After empting everything in my bowels she insisted on cleaning my hole. She could have been gentler. I knew she was using a wash cloth and soap, but it could well have been a scrub brush with the gusto of her washing.

Grandma would see me naked in the mornings when she woke me, when I got my ass busted by her, or on the occasion of an enema. I take it back. She also saw me naked at Aunt Patsy’s and on one or two occasions at my house. She didn’t seem to get off on watching our little boy penises flop around like most of the other women folk but then again she’d often remark about how cute we were when naked. All I can say is thank God for laxatives and stool softeners in tablet and pill form. Where the hell were they back then?

She also would rub my back nightly as I watched TV just before bed. I’d remove my shirt and she’d tickle and gently rub her hands over my back. Eventually her hands would slide under the elastic on my briefs and she’d gently rub my backside, then my legs. The time would come and I’d have to remove my underwear and retreat naked to the attic. The next morning, she’d awaken me with the gentleness of her touch like the night before. I must admit I liked the light tickle across and up and down my butt cheeks the best.

One other interesting thing about Grandma we all knew. She never told our parents about transgressions. The spanking I got in “The Little Grandmother Who Could” was never reported. I self-reported that to my mother the day of Grandma’s funeral. She was both gratified her mother tore me up, but, at the same time, she was a bit irritated she wasn’t told about it. Another thing that she never told was the day she came up to the attic room and saw my cousin Chris and me nude and playing with each other’s peters. Actually she was quite cool about that. “Boys, in my house, you can be naked whenever you want. Just don’t hide when your do. It makes people wonder what you are doing. You want to be naked just go downstairs and wait for me to check your bottoms before you sit anywhere. Or, you can feel free to go out in the backyard naked if you want to wrestle or carry on.” Chris would later ask if she thought we were wrestling when we were actually yanking on each other’s hard dicks. I think she knew what was going on. Of course, we wasted no time getting dressed. I think she expected that would be the outcome.

No one knew about that happening and I was afraid, if it did, Mom and Dad would make me stay naked again like they did when I was caught by Eddie’s mother.

*******

It was during those nine, ten and eleven year old years I would experience sex play at the hands many of my friends. It really wasn’t uncommon for us to stimulate each other by playing with each other’s penises, testicles or anuses. Of course, we thought (but now I’m not so certain) that we’d be in big trouble if we were caught by our mothers or fathers when we engaged in such activities. Two of the most memorable instances are camping out in my best friend Eddie’s backyard, and two weeks at scout camp.

Turns out, the overnighter at Eddie’s was a very memorable naked experience. Why? We were caught. But the punishment doled out was a bit awkward. It included “the hair of the dog”. Our asses did get the belt from Eddie’s mom, but not for the sex play or nudity. We were strapped because we ran around the neighborhood that night, “disturbing the neighbors”. Both of our mothers and my father decided to make us stay naked for a day and did provide lots of viewing time for the neighbors should they want to see what we had. (I refer you to malespank.net and my story “A Painful End to My Boyhood Modesty” the description of the activities we engaged in that night were 100% accurate and the punishment about 80%.) Thinking back, I’m almost certain the mothers (and probably my father) were on board with the forced nudity portion because it addressed my modesty problem.

If you choose to read it, the story accurately describes exactly what went on until after Eddie’s mom whips our bare asses. The punishment did include keeping us both naked for the following day, and, in fact, the reasoning was “If you want to expose yourselves to others, I’ll help you do it right.” And, yes, we did have to cut the lawn at Eddie’s house entirely in the buff. His mom didn’t really bring out a sign tell folks to photograph us as portrayed in the malespank account though. I did have to walk the three houses down carrying all my clothes when I went home and was greeted by my father who made fun of the situation. I did have to eat supper and watch TV with the family in the nude in front of my mother and sisters and was not allowed clothing of any sort until the next morning. Dad was satisfied Eddie’s mother had sufficiently whipped my ass I guess, because, to my surprise, he didn’t do it again. See both Mom and Dad were the “You get spanked at school (or by a neighbor), you’ll get one again when you get home”, kind of people. When it came to punishing you, nobody I ever heard of threatened lawsuits or complained of welts or bruises. They expected the adult in-charge to use some implement and wear you out if you needed it. The complaints came if they didn’t.

One would think that punishment would have cured the two of us, but it didn’t. Truth is when Eddie and I played the high stakes card games, we’d invent what consequences the loser would suffer and all of them were inflicted with the loser naked. All of the consequences involved the higher and higher possibility of being discovered nude by the general public.

As modest as I was, I always had a deeply seated hope that I would be the loser. The feeling of that ten and eleven year old stiffy combined with the challenge of trying to avoid public exhibition caused a shot of testosterone to surge through me that I found exciting.

On one occasion when we were eleven, I was on the losing end. Eddie had a secret agenda that would change the nature of those games forever. We were playing what we called “the cut” game. We liked it because it was fast. High card when the deck was cut got to claim the choice of the low cardholder’s clothing item until one of us was completely nude. Then we’d wager the next cut on either a clothing item from the boy who still had items to claim, or, for the naked kid, a time, usually two hours, he had to stay naked and do whatever the winner challenged.

There I was naked as the day I was born in the fort situated in the twenty acre wooded area. Eddie had strangled my penis with his hand a few times and told me he wanted to tie me to a tree. We walked out of the semi security of the fort and using a piece of clothesline we normally employed to pull heavy pieces of wood and other treasures to the fort, he secured my wrists behind my back and around the tree. Try as I might I could not free my wrists. I was completely at Eddie’s mercy.

It was then my friend gave me second thoughts about how deep our boyhood bond ran. He announced that he was going to leave me there naked and secured to a tree and go get some girls to come and see (and feel) me. I bellowed my objection and became quite scared and agitated. I remember struggling as my best “friend” walked away laughing. To rub it in he promised to return, but with Cindy Mitchell (a girl from our class) and any of her friends who wanted to ravage my naked body. I pleaded to him to release me or do some other challenge. After all, this wasn’t that I might get caught naked, it was a sure thing.

While he was gone, I distinctly remember trying to do knee bends hoping that the rope would wear out as it slid up and down the rough tree bark. I wiggled and tried to free myself from the rope securing my wrists. I struggled to try to get to the point where I could bring my hands close enough behind that tree to undo the knots, but the tree was too big.

All the while my penis was at full staff and with the hormones surging though me, I got to thinking it might be the ultimate erotic feeling having Cindy feel my boyhood and do to me whatever she wanted. Other than my mother, my sister, my cousin and her friends, and the nurse at school, I could not remember any other female ever touching my boy member. Though they’d seen it for an extended period of time, Eddie’s mother, my aunts and grandmother had, to my memory, never touched it at least in the six or seven years prior to that.

Then I had thoughts of how it’d be all over the school once the girls began bragging and gossiping. Those probabilities shocked me back to reality. No, I wasn’t keen on the idea enough to let my erotic feelings win out. Modesty was definitely beating eroticism.

Another thing that kept coming to mind was the possibility of being found there by someone else—man, woman, boy or girl—as they might be walking through the area. I could maneuver around the tree, but I couldn’t hide my presence. They’d see everything and probably would tell my parents. After the fiasco in Eddie’s backyard that night, God only knew how long my parents would make me stay naked for this. Would they make me deliver my paper route naked? How much of a taste of my father’s belt leather would my ass get? Oh no, what if Cindy tells after she sees and plays with my boyhood? Either of my sisters would tell if they got wind of it at school or through the neighborhood gossip. This wasn’t a good thing Eddie was doing.

On one side, I was a bit lucky. On that given Saturday morning nobody happened by. And Cindy was not with Eddie when he returned. But, Michelle Davis and Cara Etkin were. Both were in the fourth grade at school. And both stood and stared as I tried to secure my knees in such a way that I covered my item of their interest. Eddie just laughed and said, “Come on, let them feel your wiener. They won’t hurt it.” The girls stood silently smiling and had their eyes glued to my legs which were drawn up and hiding my penis, but not the scrotum. I know this because Eddie specifically called their attention to my “bag”.

I was so confused I started to cry a bit and beg them to leave. Eddie, on the other hand, offered to make it so they could see my penis. He grabbed my legs to straighten them out as I sat at the base of the tree. I kicked violently and shouted threatening protests to keep him from doing it. Obviously, the penis was in full view as I did this. The girls just continued to giggle and stare. He employed their help in straightening and spreading my legs. There was my four inch erection in perfect view and in ideal position for them to play with. All I remember was still fighting the ropes and desperately twisting with all I could muster as I tried to break the hold they had on my legs. I suppose they knew if they let go of my legs and tried to feel my appendage, I’d kick like all hell to protect it. So they just stared and chatted. Eddie continued to prod them to “pull it”.

After ten or fifteen minutes of begging and fighting, I finally allowed the hopelessness of the situation sink in and calmed down. I think the futility even allowed for them to loosen their grip. It was Cara that was the first to touch my penis. She pinched the glans, and though I complained, I really liked the feel of someone else touching it. My complaints subsided a bit as she used her index finger to feel my still immature scrotum. Though I felt an instinctual need to protect my testicles during her maneuver, it was pretty evident her touch was gentle enough to be exploratory without hurting me.

After about five minutes of chatter between Eddie and the girls, Michelle decided to give my penis a feel. By that time, because of the pleasurable feelings Cara was eliciting in me, my legs were naturally splayed to fully open my groin to their pleasant feeling exploration. Michelle, not having any male siblings, was intrigued with my boner and cautiously grabbed and released it watching as it bounced back to pointing center. She kind of shrieked, “I didn’t know they were hard like this.” No one told her they weren’t always hard. Wonder when that fact was provided to her. Anyway, Cara was still into feeling my balls through my scrotum.

At one point, Eddie suggested they try putting a stick in “his butt hole”. He even scavenged a stick for them to use. I adamantly opposed the idea not just from the standpoint of violating my anus but also my concern that it would hurt me. My complaining did nothing more than to feed the resolve of the three of them. He and Michelle grabbed my legs and spread them as I again went into a violent kicking spree to avoid Cara’s intrusion with that stick. As I recall, I was yelling “ow, ow, ow!” long before the initial contact was made to the opening. As luck would have it, Cara was as concerned about hurting me as I was about being hurt. I can still remember the scratchiness of that half inch diameter stick as she tried to push it in. Thankfully after one inch or so, she removed it and told Eddie she wanted to play with my erection instead. Maybe it was because, as the old line says, assholes—everyone has one. But, penises were only given to boys and she wanted to know more. Both she and Michelle played with my continuously erect penis and scrotum for about an hour. Then Cara asked if she could get some more kids to come and play. I objected and threatened Eddie, and he, I think half begrudgingly, told her no.

That particular incident stayed pretty quiet for the next week or two. But, and I’m not sure of the source, it must have gotten back to my mother. I remember the “talk” about some things I might do with my body as being “sinful”. I was a bit frightened about that “talk” knowing full well, if she knew, Dad would know too. There were no secrets between my parents. I also was expecting the belt that evening, but it never came and there was never a mention of it again. The only recollection I have is when, Grace Davis, Michelle’s younger sister, approached me on the school playground and asked if she could see my “boy thing, like I let Michelle do”. I, of course, denied the whole thing even happened. But, now that I think about it, maybe Michelle got caught talking about it and her mother called my mom. I’ll have to ask my sister next time I visit her to find out. I’d ask Mom, but even as old as I am now, doing so would be embarrassing to me.

As blindsided as I was with Eddie that time, I never got to retaliate. We never played the card games after that, but we did spend a whole lot of time in the woods mutually naked. To my knowledge we never were seen doing it by others though. Mutual nudity and playing with each other’s packages continued until shortly after we both were “shooters”. Then all that gave way to pleasuring ourselves.

********

At this point, I have to address naked time following spankings. In truth there were only a few instances where I was forced to stay naked after the spanking. One of those times was described in “Changing Into My Birthday Suit”. It is one of my most popular stories and probably because it is another 100%’er. It actually happened just as described, from the apology I had to make standing naked before the little girls to the belting that followed. And yes, I was sporting a boner through most of it. The corner time after the whipping was also embarrassing from the standpoint of being seen with a red ass by all those mothers picking up the girls after the party. That one was painful because I had to strip naked in front of my sister and her friends and I found that punishment both embarrassing as well as painful.

There are a few stories that reflect true naked time following punishment. It’s difficult at times to differentiate when there were spankings delivered when I had to be naked in the first place. That hardly counts as “naked time” in the disciplinary sense. I’ve talked about the mother of all naked time in the recollection of the “Painful End to My Boyhood Modesty”. That spanned a day and a half. Other than those mentioned above there wasn’t much naked time associated with spanking. But, just the thought of it making the boy serve that time turns me on, so I include it in most of my stories.

Actually, the concept of regularly prescribed “naked time” came to me through an actual “parent” I know who did use it in recent years. She was (is) a single grandmother who was raising a twelve year old boy in 2003. She lived two doors down. The boy was a very good looking kid, but a pain in the ass in a lot of ways. Perhaps, and it wasn’t any of my business, that was the reason she had custody of him in the first place. His unmarried mother was a “free spirt”, to say the least. She was unmarried and not a stranger to drugs. She apparently had no hold on discipline with the boy and ignored her parenting responsibilities. So his grandmother got a second chance at raising another child, hopefully with a different outcome.

I first saw the boy the summer of 2001, when he was nine or ten and visiting his grandmother for the summer—a visit that never ended. This beautiful specimen rode his bike down the street, shirtless, well-tanned and wearing shorts that were shorter than the popular board shorts and exposed equally well-tanned muscular legs. I watched as he peddled his way to Marjorie’s driveway, got off the bike and ran into the house.

A few days later, I was out mowing my lawn, and Marjorie was walking past the house with a couple of small bags from the store a half mile down the street. We exchanged greetings and I stopped long enough to talk with her. I mentioned the boy and was told he was her grandson and would be living with her that summer. I really don’t think she was aware that the summer visit would never really end. She actually said, Billy was a handful and she might be calling on me for ideas for dealing with him as he was a difficult kid who argued and talked back. As she comically put it, “Nobody gave me an instruction manual, and I have no idea how to work a boy.”

That summer I offered Billy a chance to earn some pocket money if he’d mow my lawn every two weeks or so. I thought it’d be a good neighborly way to help the kid build responsibility and it would give me a chance to get to know him a little better. Perhaps a relationship with an adult male would take some of the pressure off his grandmother a little bit. My reward would be a cut lawn and a chance to admire this kid’s attractive presence every now and then. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but kids today don’t want to have to earn money as we did during my youth. They expect parents to give it to them. The sad part is most parents today do just that. Don’t get me started.

There were a few times that I got to watch Billy giving his grandmother a difficult time with backtalk. One of those days I was standing in her front yard chitchatting. He smarted off to his grandmother when she told him to get in the house and get his homework done. He retorted that he was going to another kid’s house and the homework could wait. She said, no, it couldn’t and he barked back something rude. I stepped out of line and said, “Hey, Billy, you know what would happen to a boy, your age, talking like that to any adult, much less his grandmother, when I was growing up? Our pants would be down around our ankles and that adult would be whipping our bare ass with a belt. Why don’t you just get the homework done and then go visit your buddy?” I got a dirty look, a shrug of the shoulders, and a slammed screen door as a response.

I remember her saying she wished she could take a belt to him. I said, “Why don’t you? It isn’t going to get any better allowing him to call the shots.”

She said she was afraid the social workers would take him away if she used corporal punishment. I told her, in my mind, if I couldn’t raise a kid in a way I thought was best, they could take him and see what they could do correct his behavior. I was pissed off thinking some social worker thought she knew best and had the power to take a kid away from his family, unless the kid was truly being abused.

During the same conversation she told me of another friend of hers who raised a boy who would leave the house anyway after he’d been grounded. Apparently, her friend and the husband decided that they’d strip the kid naked in an effort to keep him home until his sentence was over. That truly got my attention. I envisioned her doing that with her very handsome young grandson. In order to reinforce that thought, I just said, “If you think that would work for you, why don’t you do it to Billy? Just make him strip naked until his homework has been reviewed by you. I guarantee he won’t be wanting to ride his bike over to his friends’ houses if he’s naked.” She asked how she might make him strip in front of her. My response was, “I’ll contribute a belt to the cause, but you have to promise you’ll use it.” She became a determined woman. She refused my belt saying she had some of her own.

Long story short, I saw some slow changes in her relationship with Billy over the intervening months. She did attribute it to the threat of the belt. She told me she’d applied it several times that fall and he was a bit more compliant. It was then she also said she made him strip naked when he came home and kept him that way until he produced his homework. I was impressed she had gotten that far with a kid who was belligerent enough to have fought with her, but apparently she didn’t have to fight him much. I’d have loved to see that naked boy getting his ass worn out by Marjorie, but that was not in my cards. Damn it!

She told of inviting the young girl across the street over a time or two when Billy was nude. She said he had some problems with math and she was using the thirteen year old girl as a tutor. She also admitted her grandson was embarrassed and humiliated when she’d do that. She snickered when she told me he’d get a woody each time the tutor arrived. The first time he tried to enclose his boy parts by closing his knees. I’ll never forget her saying, “I told him, ‘Oh hell no, Buddy, spread ‘em!’”

She felt embarrassing him that way at home, motivated him to pay better attention in school. He didn’t want a tutor. I’m sure that girl paid attention when she visited her naked pupil as well, but it had nothing to do with math.

That, my friends, is about the only person I ever knew who used naked time to control behavior. I would go to the mat to defend her for it had she ever been given a ration by children’s services. They were never involved, thank God. Obviously, it worked and was productive for both Grandma and Billy. I know the girl across the street would have argued for Marjorie’s methodology, too.

I hate to say it, but if my mother or father had heard that story when I was young, I’d have been forced into being a nudist. My attention to school work was so lackadaisical I’d of spent most of my childhood naked. I’m thinking with my modesty it would have worked for me as well as or better than it did for Billy.

More School-Home Ties

If you followed my stories closely you might suspect I was a handful for my teachers and principals. I guess I was an average on the pain in the ass scale for them. Let me share my most vivid disciplinary situations.

I hate to get sidetracked, but I must say, on the very first day of school every year until high school, Mom would take me to my classroom and tell the teacher, “Make him mind. If you need to pull his pants down and wear him out just do it. Then call me so I can do it again when he gets home. When he’s here, he’s yours.” That’s pretty much verbatim. I remember it because I heard it every year for nine years. Keep in mind it was an unwritten agreement between other parents as well as teachers.

From Kindergarten through fifth grade I attended public schools in a suburban community. My first recollection of correction at school was in the second grade. I threw a penny at another kid in my class to get his attention. I got more than his attention. The teacher told me I had to stay after school for doing it. This was not going to happen. I asked permission to go to the bathroom. It was granted. Outside the classroom were the lockers that contained our coats. I got mine and walked home. Now as a second grade student, I wasn’t capable of reasoning the sequence of events I’d triggered the moment I left the school, but now I remember the well.

I entered the house very early in the afternoon and Mom was vacuuming the living room carpet. Seeing me she abruptly stopped. “What are you doing home?” I told her the teachers had a meeting. No sooner had the words left my lips than the phone rang. I can still recount Mom’s end of the conversation, “No, he just got home. He’s right here.” Pause. “Oh, no, I’ll bring him back to school. First, I’ll deal with it and then I will expect you to deal with it.” She was glaring at me the whole time she was on the phone. I knew it wasn’t good by any measure. She hung up and I got a lump in my throat. I don’t know what I was thinking, how in the hell did I think I’d pull the whole escape thing off without the adults out maneuvering me? Her next words were predictable, “Take off your pants and underpants, right now.”

I wasn’t yet eight, but I knew I wasn’t being prepared for a bath. I complied and she reentered the living room carrying one of Dad’s belts. I was ushered to the kitchen and made to hold on to the seat of one of the kitchen chairs. She unleased a horrendous number of strikes to my bare backside. Yeah, it was hot. Then she had me put my pants back on and hurriedly ushered me to the car. She still had that belt. I was crying and my ass was stinging when we pulled into the school parking lot. She marched me to the building so fast my smaller legs couldn’t keep up. She was still holding Dad’s belt. We went straight to the office. My teacher was summoned and the three of us entered the principal’s office. Mom was all apologetic to the teacher as she pulled my pants down right there in front of the principal and teacher. She made me step out of them leaving me completely bare from the waist down.

She bent me over one of the chairs in the principal’s office, handed my teacher the belt, and told her to get busy on my bare backside. First, Mrs. Tomb, my teacher tried to reason that it looked like Mom had done a sufficient job, and she put her hand on my back and reassured me that she had decided to let me go after school anyway, but I made it worse scaring all the adults with my absence. I could tell she was vying not to have to use that belt. But to no avail. Mom almost commanded, “Please spank him with that belt. He lied to you and he needs to know this kind of behavior is unacceptable.”

I guess the gravity of the offense caused my teacher to rethink her lecturing approach. The next sound was that belt hitting skin, mine. Mrs. Tomb replenished my mother’s original work and I was screaming, tears and snot were pouring out of my eyes and nose. When it was over, everyone but me had calmed down. I replaced my pants slowly and was sent back to my classroom for the last half hour of the school day. I couldn’t sit in the hard seats. Needless to say, the other kids wondered what had happened to me. But, really I think they knew.

That evening Dad told me he’d forego his turn because, “It appears your mother and Mrs. Tomb got the point across. But you can go up and get ready for bed.” Thus ended my first memory of home-school discipline cooperation. Please note, both teacher and parent always got to take a turn each time I got in trouble.

Some of many other memorable humiliating school events come to mind, too many to report here. I’ll just address some highlights by referring you to some stories I posted on malespank.net and report the straight facts that gave birth to the more fictional accounts.

Let’s move to “Turn Your Head and Cough”. It’s the story of me getting my backside busted by my fourth grade teacher during a gang physical exam at school. As it said in the story, we were required by the school board to have a school physical every year prior to coming to school. In my earlier school experience that was done by taking me and my sisters to the family doctor who signed off that we were healthy.

It never dawned on me that Mom didn’t take me to the doctor the summer before I entered the fourth grade. If it had, I’d have probably thought it wasn’t necessary in the new school. Now, if you haven’t read my story, I’ll catch you up a bit. During the first week of school, the teacher told the boys to line up and the girls were to go to another fourth grade. My teacher accompanied thirty or so boys single file to the gym. We, well I, just thought we were having a boys’ P.E. class. When we got there however, there were several desks at various points in the gym each with a lady sitting at them. Turns out they were volunteer moms.

A nurse had the teacher take us to the bleachers and we were told to strip completely and just to leave our clothes on the bleachers. I was caught by complete surprise, but it was evident the other boys were in with the drill and they started slowly removing their clothes. I straggled. What self-respecting nine year old wants to strip naked in the presence of ten or fifteen women, he doesn’t even know? For that matter, who wants to present himself naked to a teacher he hasn’t known for a week?

The other boys were nude and put in a straight line, hands behind their backs. I was still resisting and definitely pissing off Miss Albertson, my extremely young and very attractive teacher. The nurse barked at me, but I think more at Miss Albertson, “that boy needs to hurry up.” I just couldn’t bring myself to remove my underwear. Actually, she was lucky I went down that far. This whole situation was highly suspect for me. Finally, after many attempts one of my naked peers was sent to borrow the paddle from Mrs. Ingram, the P.E. teacher. He left naked as the day he was born to do what was ordered. He emerged from a side door carrying a sizeable paddle walked over and handed it to Miss Albertson. The damned nurse barked again, “Please take care of his attitude, he’s costed us enough time already.”

At that point the paddle was enough of a signal for me to comply and I slowly lowered my underwear freeing a boner that bounced back into position parallel to the floor. Miss Albertson was entertained by it, as I’m sure so were the other women in attendance. My classmates couldn’t see it as they were facing the opposite direction. Long story short, I was made to grab the lower bleacher and Miss Albertson tagged my bare backside three times with the paddle. As I say in the story, I was able to see through my teary eyes, the looks of agreement on the faces of the mothers at the various stations. I joined the line of boys, sniffing back the nasal discharge and feeling quite warm in the backside.

Remember when I talked about remarks making me over sensitive to being naked? The mother from the vision check table looked right at me in that line, boner and all, and she all but shouted to another lady, “Oh my God, that kid is perfect.” It was like I wasn’t there to hear it. She grabbed my shoulder and twirled me around taking in and commenting to other lady volunteers on everything from my facial features, to my boy parts and ass, and, yes my legs too. I can remember her pert, “Put your hands to your sides!”, when I tried to cover. That was really embarrassing and is completely etched in my memory. I’ll address the school physicals later, but if you are really interested in the details read my “Turn Your Head and Cough” (malespank.net). It is 99% accurate and completely true. Only fallacy was the teacher didn’t use my belt on my bare backside that day, she used a paddle. And, yes, we boys were paraded around the school gym, from station to station, completely in the buff for those physicals. And, yes, my sister verified when the girls went in for theirs, they wore their underwear.

Besides being naked for an hour in the open gym at school in the presence of my teacher and those ladies, the two most difficult parts of that physical as reported in my story were what I was told years later was a worm check and the familiar hernia check. During the worm check, the nurse shined a flashlight in our holes and pressed the area with a tongue depressor, while we were bent over and spreading our cheeks. The hernia check started with a quick visual and touch inspection of our penises including the urethra followed by pressing our ball sacks with the order to cough. But then, I’m sure the other boys, even the ones who’d had this experience year before, were probably most embarrassed by the same things.

Really, none of the other boys laughed about my paddling until we were on the playground later that day. I was teased lightly, but the paddling made me an instant hero among them. A classic line I remember was, “At least we didn’t get a shot this year.” Apparently, some years they got jabbed in the ass at one of the stations.

When I got home I didn’t have to question my mother. As I entered the house she apologized and told me she’d forgotten to warn me about the school physical. The teacher had called and told her of the paddling. Apparently, she and Dad decided why pay for a physical, if the school gave them free? I wasn’t onboard with that line of thinking. It probably would have come down the same way, if she had warned me. But again, boys were expected to comply when pubic nudity was required. And all of us were required by our parents to follow any instruction given by the teacher without question, so I “deserved the paddling” for defying the order to strip.

As an adult, I must confess, if the school offered the required physical free for my boy, he’d get one at school, too, even if it was done in such a collective and public way.

The following year wasn’t any more fun. I have written in one story about having poison ivy in my groin and around my anus, probably a result of Eddie and me exploring each other at our fort or “running bare” in the woods. I didn’t disclose the rash to my mother as it would have necessitated her not only seeing but also manhandling my genitals and that was definitely an outcome any ten year old would want to avoid. Bad timing though, it was at its worst the same week as the fifth grade boys’ physical. It obviously came to the attention of the nurse. I went around from station to station and the mothers would “tsk, tsk, tsk” as they gave my pubic area the eye. I was made to sit on some shelf paper whenever I sat down for fear the rash would weep on the seating surface (which does beg some other questions). Following the exam my mother was called. When I got home, there was another series of embarrassing events waiting.

Mom took me into the living room and told me to take off my clothes. After my day at school, I knew what she was looking for. I stripped naked. She reentered the room and told me to stand in front of the huge picture window that overlooked the front yard and street. Her explanation to me was she needed better light. She lifted my penis and pulled at my scrotum. Then she told me to spread my legs and she examined the area between my hole and scrotum. I then had to turn around and spread my cheeks so she could check out the rash around my anus. My next younger sister came in and stood by Mom asking what was wrong with me. This only made things worse as my sisters hadn’t seen my naked form in at least two years. Restart the clock.

Mom sent her for the Calamine lotion while she reinspected my penis and scrotum. All the while I was on display to any one passing the house. Before she doctored my rash, she washed the entire area with a wash cloth and soap, while my sister had an up front seat. Then just prior to putting the lotion on, my youngest sister came in and joined the audience. She was really intrigued with my equipment. And, just as I have written, my mother said, “Oh, the potatoes, I have got to get dinner going.” She told my sister to apply the lotion to my crotch and all its parts and she’d be back to do my other vulnerable areas. I argued that I could do it myself. But, no I had to let my nine year old sister rub that stuff into my penis and scrotum. Yeah, it makes you hard.

She returned from the kitchen and took care of putting the stuff around my anus and the associated areas. My sisters watched. My sister just gloated having touched my penis and balls. I honestly think it was her first touch encounter with boy parts.

It did get worse from there. My father’s favorite prescription for injuries and rashes, no matter where or what, was to “soak it”. My mother’s was “let the air at it”. With this in mind, she presented me with a towel. Like I said, I was totally naked. She handed me the towel and said when you sit down anywhere, put the towel down first. I know my face probably showed a WTF expression. She read it and told me I should stay naked when I wasn’t at school so the air could help dry it out. It got worse.

Twice a day, before school and at bedtime, she or my sister put Calamine on the affected area. At school, I had to report to the nurse after lunch and she applied it at school. She always left the door to her treatment room opened so I was eye candy for anyone coming through the office.

When I got home, Mom would wash the area and send me outside to the backyard, where everyone could enjoy the view, and I had to lay on towel with my knees splayed in what I call the “frog position” in some of my stories (on my back, soles pressed against each other, and hands behind my head). The reason was the air and sunshine would help heal it. This was another time many of the neighbors—adults and children—could have seen Sean naked, up close and personal.

The lady across the street was summoned by Mom to come over and take a look at it. Now, I defy anyone to claim they could remain flaccid as a neighbor lady lifts their penis and pulls at their scrotum and lightly fingers their anus. Any takers?

Luckily after three days, I’d cleared up pretty well and my naked exhibition came to an end.

Interestingly no one, not Mom, not the nurse, not the lady across the street asked, “Now, how’d you get that down there?” I’m glad I didn’t have to dodge that bullet. I think Mom knew that Eddie and I were both exploring each other’s goods and/or running around the woods naked. She never let on and to this day hasn’t.

My sister remembers putting that lotion on my penis and balls. She said she really liked getting to feel them and told her friends about it at school. When we reminisce about it today, I usually say, “Quit rubbing it in,” which brings immediate laughter.

*******

That fifth grade year, I had another very memorable spanking. It was probably the most severe strapping I had in my life. My father was really big about character, honesty, and integrity. I violated all of those tenants. I was eleven at the time.

I was not applying myself to my school work. I had just had a week long bout with failing tests. We were told to take the failed tests home for parent signatures. Needless to say when you’ve already presented two in one week, a third would be problematic. So, how do you get around that? Forge your mother’s signature and turn it in. Again, not a good idea, the signature of an eleven year old will never pass for the smooth script of a thirty some year old woman. It didn’t. Read about it in “Taking Note of Failure”. That story is 100% accurate and true. I had to strip naked from the waist down and my father lashed my ass with a vengeance. It resulted in raised welts, abrasions and bruises. Back then this was not considered abuse.

And, yes, I did run out of the house screaming threats at my father as it says in the story. I had nothing but a t-shirt on and was carrying a pair of briefs. I did run to the woods, and did fall asleep curled up in Eddie and my fort. The next morning I was driven home by a passing neighbor and the cops were there. Dad had gone to work, but I was later told he called every half hour until I was home. He thought looking unconcerned about my absence would send the message to me that such behavior didn’t work.

I often wonder what the outcome would have been, if I’d have taken my bike that night. How far would I have gone as angry as I was with him?

When I came back to school, the day after I returned home, my teacher asked what happened after her conference with Mom. When I told her about the heavy dose of the belt, she seemed pleasantly satisfied. Back then no authorities were called for such things. Spanking boys with the belt was the rule, not an exception.

The YMCA and Scout Camp

As I stated before, my father and thus my family were big supporters of the YMCA. Anyone male or female knew that all swimming activities for boys were always conducted with them nude. That included swimming lessons. I got my first formal swimming instruction at our local Y when I was nine. It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim. It was Dad wanting me to swim better.

I hadn’t done any swimming at the Y prior to that year. I used the community pool or the beach during the summer months. We wore swim attire at the community pool. It was that year I was to become aware the two were not the same. I distinctly remember Mom hurrying me out the door the first morning of the lessons. She had my sisters in tow. We were running a little late, and, in the rush, I did complain “Oh shoot, I forgot my suit!” from the back seat of the station wagon. I wasn’t prepared for Mom’s response, “That’s okay, you don’t wear one at the Y. You boys swim naked.” I was speechless.

What follows was the inspiration for my “Kathy’s Summer Job” series on malespank.net. Most of those stories are fictional. But one or two hold a great percentage of reality. I’ll try to sort it out for you.

When we got there, I stood with my sisters as Mom paid the fees or whatever. The lady who did the registration directed her to the locker room. As we walked down the hallway toward the locker room, I was very apprehensive and tried to get her to see if the community pool had swim lessons. She informed me that Dad learned to swim at the Y and he wanted me to do that too. I was about to have surprise number two.

We got to the door and she pushed it opened and she and my sisters came in. I mean there were naked boys in there and other mothers and siblings. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to strip naked in front of my mother, my sisters, and other kids’ mothers and siblings. There was a young girl in there in a blue one piece swimsuit with a whistle around her neck. She waved me over and asked my name. Then she handed me a wire basket off a large shelf and told me to put my clothes in it. I walked slowly to a bench were my Mom and sisters were parked amusedly taking in the nude boy scenery all around them. Mom helped me get my t-shirt off and folded neatly placed each clothing item in the basket. I hesitated at my underwear and she ordered me to take them off. What the hell could I do? To make matters worse the bench she chose was in the middle of the room. There was nothing to hide my genitals as I slipped them off. “Now go give the instructor the basket and she’ll lock it up for the session.”

Surprise number three. The young college girl was going to be my instructor. A girl was going to lead swim lessons for ten naked nine and ten year old boys?

Hold on, surprise numbers four and five were soon to follow. Number four was that all those ladies, girls and little boys were going to sit in the bleachers and watch us during the lessons.

When we went out to the pool deck, I wasn’t the only one holding a hand in front of his genitalia. In fact, a few boys had erections as we lined up on the deck in a single file line facing the pool and our instructor. Surprise number four was the paddle that Kathy had at her side. The first order of the day was her addressing our shyness. We were told to put our hands behind our backs and spread our legs. You know naked parade rest. She told us she had a brother and knew what boys bodies looked like so there was no need to hide them. Then she went over the usual rules about not running on the pool deck, what to do when she blew the whistle, etc. That was followed by the threat. “First time, I’ll warn you. Second time I’ll crack the paddle across your backsides. So pay attention.”

I don’t think she ever paddled one of us, but I think that’s because we were scared she would right there in front of our moms and brothers and sisters.

Surprise number six was, she did, and I speak from experience, often support us while teaching new strokes or floating by cupping our penis and balls with one hand as she put the other on our chests. As I said before, my appendage was a bit longer than most other boys. More than once during those support times, she sandwiched my shaft between two of her fingers like a cigarette as her palm pressed my ball sack. I don’t have to tell you that can be very uncomfortable for an overly modest kid. But, hey, it couldn’t have been wrong. Our parents were all sitting there watching while she did it.

Woodies were not uncommon from any of us during those lessons. And whenever I popped a woody, or, for that matter, walked rapidly from the ladder to the board (a path directly in front of the gawking visitors), my pecker would swing like a conductor’s wand. And, people of both genders, would take in the sight. I know this because I could see them pointing at it and either smiling or laughing.

And the final surprise, number seven, in one of the Kathy stories I reference a mother who wanted to capture her son’s lessons on film. Though we never left the Y to swim at the community pool as in the story, that mother was a real person and she was frequently popping flashbulbs (for my younger readers: disposable added lighting used in camera’s before the built in strobes of today). And though her son was in the class, for some reason I became one of her favorite subjects. I attribute that to my longer than average penis. Her photographic attention made me even more self-conscious and embarrassed. When I mentioned my dislike of her taking pictures of me naked to Dad, he just said “Don’t worry about it, she’s not going to use them for Christmas cards,” and laughed at the cleverness of his response. I do wonder whatever became of those photos, had the internet been available back then, they most assuredly would have been posted, but I guess I’ll never know.

In one of my Dear Abby clippings, “Mom Dear Abby and Me Part 2” (again posted on malespank), I write extensively about being photographed nude. Though that one is 95% fiction, I’m sure there are many pictures of my naked body floating around. I do know, they aren’t digital, but I can’t believe many more folks didn’t take some during my many naked escapades over those years. I know my mother and father did. I’ve seen them. I know some were taken at Scout camp. I’m sure Aunt Patsy did. Hers would be right up my alley now. Naked boys with clothed girls, what’s not to like about that subject matter? Since Aunt Patsy is no longer among us, I guess I might ask Becky if she knows. The other truism of that story is that if my parents were told they’d be making me stay naked during the visit, they’d have sent me no questions asked. And, though I’m absolutely certain Mom and Dad wouldn’t have condoned the severity of the spankings described in that story, they certainly would have condoned the practice of disciplining with the strap.

*******

On a visit to Aunt Patsy’s when I was twelve, she was bringing Becky and the three of us boys, home from a shopping trip. One of my cousins suggested we could go swim at the pool at the junior high school pool. It was during the time of the open swim session for boys. She thought that would be great. I mentioned that we didn’t have anything to swim in. It was winter and we weren’t even wearing shorts. With a devious smile, Becky was quick to let me know only girls wore suits, but boys weren’t allowed to wear anything in the school pool. She went so far as to teasingly admit, “I get to see you naked.” As I think back, Aunt Patsy most likely shared her excitement about seeing me naked as well.

That did it for me. If you think I was shy during my nine, ten and eleven year old development, twelve was out of the question. My penis had started to grow, my balls were hanging loose and hair was definitely on the immediate horizon. I wasn’t going to swim like that.

Beg as I might to be saved that embarrassment, oh, yes, I was. Aunt Patsy insisted. It was winter and a refreshing swim in the indoor pool at the school would not only get us smelling like chlorine, but would provide a shower afterward so we wouldn’t have to mess up her bathroom. Besides, she and Becky weren’t in any hurry to go home either.

What I was about to learn was, unlike the Y, parents and siblings were not permitted in the locker room. But, they were permitted to watch the boys swim. Yep, we naked boys were eye candy for twenty or thirty people who were waiting for their sons to finish recreating. And, I was probably the oldest boy on exhibit that day. Most of them were seven or eight years old. Talk about being self-conscious.

*******

I was an eleven year old tenderfoot. I really didn’t want to go to Scout camp for two weeks of my summer. I didn’t want to be away from home that long, but Dad insisted I go. I think he knew what the protocol for various activities was. I had been familiar of his escapades at YMCA camp when he was a kid and I guess he was excited by the prospect my experiences would be similar. Suffice to say, he shared photos of his camp days and it looked to include a lot of nudity. I bet in at least half of his black and white photos of camp depicted him and the other boys fully nude. They were proudly displaying their swinging appendages while canoeing, swimming, and even on the basketball court. In fairness, for the close ups, he and his fellow campers would shield their packages with a canoe paddle, but not always. The very thought the same dress code might apply really worried me for weeks.

It turned out that it wasn’t as bad as Dad’s photos of his camping experience painted, unless you were a tenderfoot. We were welcomed to the camp and told of various rules. Among them was that we were to report to the lake naked. All swimming was to be done nude. On three days a week we had to report to swimming with soap and bathe during the session. Some boys were fine with that. They were excited by it, but I was one of the few who were not.

It did get better. The mess hall rules were that we had to be in shorts, shirts and shoes or we would not be allowed to eat. As a tenderfoot I was charged with reporting early to set my patrol’s table. After the meal, I had to clear. Guess rank did have its privileges.

After the rules indoctrination, we were released to our respective troop leaders. It was then I was to learn about tenderfoot initiation to camp. Our adult leaders told us the initiation process was up to the older boys and they would not interfere unless they felt there was some danger of us being hurt. In retrospect I guess “hurt” only applied to bloodletting. First on the initiation agenda was allowing our patrols to “welcome” their first time members. In my patrol I was the only first timer.

My patrol decided it would be fun for them to give me a physical. Frankly, I don’t recall a doctor or nurse practitioner merit badge, but that’s what they wanted to do. I didn’t know what they had in mind until I was summoned to the tent next to where I was assigned. Upon entering the leader told me that I had to strip naked for the initiation. I must admit I gave thought to finding a way to run, but to where? The adult leaders washed their hands of the initiation goings on and we were in the middle of nowhere. Certainly, making me strip naked wasn’t life threatening, and certainly, as I explained earlier, out of line with attitudes toward boy nudity at the time. Besides what harm could come, it was an all male environment. Nobody would defend a kid who didn’t want to strip naked.

Sensing my discomfort, one of the fifteen year olds put me in a full nelson as the others pantsed me right then and there. I had my shorts and underwear down around my ankles, until I was forced to the floor and my shoes and socks were removed and the shorts and underwear were pulled off completely. Then they began fumbling with my shirt buttons. I succumbed to the situation and through my tears of embarrassment and frustration I let them take off my shirt. I believe my reasoning was they’d see my naked form at the lake sooner or later anyway.

I was pulled off the floor and presented to the patrol leader totally vulnerable. That fifteen year old continued to present me to the other boys with his arms and hands interlocked behind my head. The leader reached out and pinched the glans on my now erect penis and shook it like a dog shakes a chew toy. Then he felt my scrotum, pushing my balls around as others watched and laughed. What must have impressed them most was I hadn’t developed any sign of a bush. But at swimming the next day, I’d see there were many of us who hadn’t reached that level of maturity. Two of them were in my own patrol.

The most memorable part of the “physical” was not the many hands that followed my patrol leaders in feeling my genitals, but the anal exam. It involved poking the eraser end of a pencil into my rosebud. But, truthfully, it didn’t hurt any more than the embarrassment of the situation.

Long story short, I wasn’t kept naked for the full two weeks as I wrote in one of my stories. But the troop initiation included me (and three other boys in different patrols) being kept completely naked for the first three days except for trips to the mess hall. We hiked naked, were made to feel each other’s penises and ball sacks and were felt by others. With of all that lewd and lascivious behavior, we three were never compelled to do more than feel each other’s boyhoods or finger an anus. Surprisingly, in spite of the number of boys in the throes of the adolescent hormone rage no one was made to perform oral sex and or allow penile penetration. From that standpoint, I guess it could have been worse. But for those three days there were frequent paddlings by patrol leaders much to the amusement of other Scouts. As a result one’s ass did burn for much of the initiation period. The older boys looked for reasons to paddle us. We all know why, too. Don’t we?

I survived and with some pride I lost my novice designation. As I look back, it wasn’t really all that bad. When I recounted those days with my Dad, he just laughed and said, ‘It didn’t hurt ‘ya.” I’m sure it was considered “man building“ by him and most other adults of the day.

Parting Shots and Thoughts

Funny thing about being forcibly exposed in front of others, particularly strangers. Once I reached seven I progressed from being unaware of my naked state to being more aware. I went from a sense where adults permitted me to be naked to a point where adults began requiring me to be such. When that transition happened, I remember the conflicting feelings that my exposure elicited.

At age eight or nine, expecting me to present myself naked in front of others of different gender or others who were clothed, I found the introductory feeling of embarrassment and humiliation was mixed with a subtle eroticism that tempered the discomfort. When I’d be exposed to others by adult mandate the resulting erection felt good. The conflict of embarrassment and humiliation stayed but was no longer the driving emotion. Actually, to say I didn’t want anyone feeling my appendages was also mixed. You had been taught that touching others was wrong, but being touched felt so good, how could it possibly be bad?

When you are nine or ten and engaged in typical sex play situations with your age mates, and the object of their exploration of your naked body there’s a rush of emotion when first you are initially stripped. After they fondled you, you never feel a desire to make it stop. Truthfully, you can’t get enough of it.

A few years ago, I watched my niece with her young four year old son. She stripped him and gave him a bath before bed. After the bath, she brought him out to the living room and spread him out on a small blanket on the living room floor in the presence of four or five of us including her husband and one of our ten year old nieces. The naked little dude had the look of anticipation written all over his face. She sat beside him and began massaging his face, torso (including brief contacts with his penis and scrotum), both arms, hands, legs and both feet. She was, and still is, a staunch advocate of child massage for bonding and calming. Who would have thought a child of the nineties could identify with the flower children of my generation?

Watching the boy and his mother in such an intimate activity was truly interesting. After doing the front of his body, he flipped over and she did the back. When she did his backside she firmly kneaded his butt cheeks, thighs and calves. Momentarily the boy rolled back over and his penis was a bit erect. Then she asked him where he would like her to concentrate her attention for the last few minutes. I was kind of taken off guard when he answered, “Do my peepee, Mommy”. As requested she gently fondled his penis and scrotum with no self-consciousness from either.

I asked her how often she did that with the boy. She said she massaged him every night before bed. She also kind of sheepishly said, “His peepee is his favorite part for us to massage.” Both she and her husband had no qualms about rubbing his genitalia. Of course, I was curious how they were going to handle the description of “good touch-bad touch” the school would sell him in a year or two. Her husband was pretty vocal about the government staying out of their child-rearing beliefs. After watching that I guess I’d agree.

I’m surprised my mother hadn’t used massage with me. I guess the research hadn’t been available back then. I know my Dad wouldn’t have been too engaged in it, but Mom certainly would have and massaging my penis and scrotum wouldn’t have fazed her. Besides, back then it wouldn’t have even been questioned. Raising us was our parents’ business and everything short of bloodletting was okay.

(End of File)