SCHOOL ATHLETES SPANKING STORY

Author: Bill

            It was only the second day of my sophomore year at Jefferson High School, and already I knew the bullying was going to start again.  There he was by the trophy case in the main lobby, my nemesis since grade school, Greg Bulling.  And there they were.  Those gorgeous, muscular legs that just about drove me crazy.  The summer sun had tanned the dark blonde’s somewhat fair skin an unbelievably deep golden brown.  The legs were lean and hard, and I scanned the silky, platinum and gold hairs that covered the backs of his enormous calves.  The hair stopped just above his ankles where a smattering of freckles covered his deeply defined Achilles tendons.  But the blonde theme was repeated again in fine, golden hairs that garnished each instep and each perfectly formed pink toe.  Apparently, the brown leather sandals he wore were new because his large, masculine feet were much paler than his legs.  The tan line a few inches above his ankles indicated he’d spent the summer in tennis shoes and tube socks pushed down to reveal as much of his extremely hairy legs as possible.  This was undoubtedly for the benefit of the many girls who came to the local amusement park to ride the roller coaster he operated during the summer vacation.  It certainly wasn’t for my benefit.  If he even suspected how he infatuated me, he would have beaten me.  He gave me a hell of a rough way to go as it was.  Yet at the time, I really didn’t understand the feelings I was having.

            Everyone called Greg Bulling by his nickname, Bull.  The name suited him, for at six feet and 200 pounds, he was a first class jock and strong as a bull.  On the other hand, I was not an athlete.  I was tall at six feet three inches, but quite skinny and awkward.  To compensate for what I believed to be my physical shortcomings, I focused on academics.  Looking back at myself in September 1965, I have to admit I was something of a nerd.  And, as I know now, I was gay.

            I knew the reason I got bullied was in part because I was tall.  Guys expected me to stand up to them – exchange a few insults, throw a few friendly punches, talk about sports – be one of the guys.  And I just couldn’t do that stuff.  In my defense, I’d like to point out that I was still 14, while Bull was already 17, although he was only a sophomore like me.  Unlike me, Bull was never much of a student.  But that didn’t matter.  This year he got to play varsity sports with the juniors and seniors, and the coaches were eagerly anticipating the baseball season.  Bull was such a good pitcher that he was already dreaming of the major leagues.

            Jefferson was a large school of some 2,000 students in the four grades.  It was located in a wealthy and, of course, all white suburb of Atlanta.  The temperature was still in the 90’s, and few school buildings had any air conditioning in those days.  Students were permitted to wear tee shirts, shorts, and sandals under these stifling conditions.  Unfortunately, tank tops were forbidden as too revealing.  While I never tired of seeing the guys dressed this way, I was too embarrassed about my skinny body to wear these clothes myself.  Of course, this was just one more reason I didn’t fit in very well.

            But Bull fit in.  As I walked through the lobby that morning before school, I could see him in the distance standing with four senior girls I didn’t know and one senior guy that everyone knew.  He was Joey Marino, student body president, student council president, but no, not captain of the football team.  Of course, he was a quarterback on the team, but Joey’s sport was swimming.  In fact, he was hoping to swim in the Olympic trials.  Swimming was a big sport at Jefferson because the wealthy school had an Olympic size pool and because Coach Ted Anders had been on the Olympic swimming team.  I had read his short bio in the faculty section of the school yearbook many times.  When he failed to win any medals, he joined the Navy, fought in World War II, and then went to college on the GI Bill.  Now at 40, he headed the Physical Education Department and coached the varsity sports, including swimming and diving.

            As I walked closer to the group, I realized one of the girls was Karen Wilson, Joey Marino’s girl friend.  Her long, dark hair blew softly in the breeze from an open door.  I could see she was beautiful, and I had often heard guys say she was a “hot babe.”  But they knew better than to say that to Joey’s face.  And what a face it was.  He was Italian and looked it.  He had a slight cleft in his chin.  His white teeth flashed his sexy smile at Karen as he talked to the group.  His dark brown, curly hair matched his dark brown, piercing eyes.  Joey’s olive complexion was naturally dark and had tanned beautifully at his summer job as a lifeguard at one of the many public pools.  Like most 17-year-old guys who loved to swim, his body was lean and solid with well-defined muscles, but he did not yet have the beefy look of the coach.  Joey was nearly as tall as Bull.  His legs were a dark olive brown, and the nearly black hair covered them generously.  In fact, the last thing I remember was the stark contrast between the platinum white hair all over Bull’s legs and the jet-black hair all over Joey’s legs.

            I woke up on a cot in the nurse’s office.  She explained that Bull had tripped me, and I had hit my head on the trophy case.  My glasses were broken and I had a deep gash in my forehead.  My mother took me to the hospital, where I got four stitches to close the wound.

            The next day my parents insisted I go to school even though I felt like a geek with a bandage on my forehead and my glasses taped together.  In my first period math class, everyone wanted to hear the story.  One of the freshmen jocks asked if I knew if Bull was going to be suspended and not be allowed to plan in the big Homecoming game.  But another guy had it straight from Mr. Klein, his PE teacher, that Bull would not be suspended.  As I went to my second period study hall, I felt angry that jocks always got away with whatever they wanted to do.

            Mrs. Johnson, our old lady principal, met me outside the classroom.  She explained that she had given Bull and Joey a “harsh lecture,” and they were sorry.  It seems Joey was also blamed because he knew what Bull was going to do but didn’t try to stop him.  Also, Joey had lied at first and said he tripped me because he didn’t want Bull to get suspended before the big football game.  She said Coach Anders would see that they apologized to me.  Since it was just a study hall, she gave me a hall pass to go to see the Coach.

            I was angry again that Bull got to send me to the hospital and then simply say he was sorry just because he was one of the school’s star athletes.  After all, he had been picking on me for years.  How sorry could he be?  The truth was he was only sorry he got caught.  And I had another problem with it.

            Although I knew I wasn’t in any trouble, I still felt scared as I thought of meeting Coach Anders in his office inside the locker room.  Jocks were often hanging out in his office.  It was always a struggle to hide my feeling in PE class among some skinny underclassmen, but to mingle with jocks was a mixture of paradise and torture.

            As I walked down the hall past the gymnasium, I saw a PE class of freshmen boys just beginning to count off for a game of Shirts and Skins.  This was a coming of age way to divide a gym class into two teams for a game of basketball.  The boys in their tee shirts played opposite the ones who had been randomly selected to strip their tee shirts off.  I hated it, as I hated everything about PE class.

            The halls were crowded as classes changed for second period.  As I turned the corner to start down the next corridor, I met my best friend, Scott Campbell, going the other way.  I knew he was in a sophomore PE class first period and work in the audio-visual department second period.  He was the only kid in school I liked who was also a fairly good athlete.  He had played freshmen basketball, but he had really grown over the summer.  As he walked toward me, I realized he was now close to six feet tall.  His grandparents had come here from Scotland, and he looked it.  His strawberry blonde hair was soaked from his mandatory shower and still dripped on his tee shirt.  His skin-tight cutoffs revealed pale, smooth legs that were getting very solid.  He was grinning and shouted to me, “Bill, guess what happened in gym class.”

            We met, and he hugged me the way I’d seen jocks do.  I got a whiff of soap scent from his neck before he let go.  I shook my head “no,” and he continued his excited tale.

            “You know how Ken Weber always harassed both of us in freshmen PE last year?  Well, we just played Shirts and Skins, and I made five baskets right over his head.  Five!  He was so pissed!”

            “That’s great, Scott.  Weber’s a jerk.”

            “But wait!  Here’s the best part.  After class, Mr. Klein said, ‘Campbell, I want you to be sure you try out for varsity basketball next month.  You’re too good for the reserve squad.’  And he said it right in front of the whole class.  Weber was so mad his face was red.”

            “What do you know!  Scott Campbell with a varsity letter his sophomore year.  I promise I’ll come watch you play,” I said.

            “But I thought you hated sports.”

            “I’ll come to see you play.”

            “Anyway,” Scott said practically dancing with excitement, “We were all packed in the shower room.  You know how it gets – two or three guys under every showerhead and more yelling to get in.  Chip Matheson and I was sharing a showerhead and both soaping ourselves up.  You know Matheson, right?  He’s just a sophomore.  But he already plays varsity football, and he’s sure to play varsity hoops, too.  Anyway, in comes Weber to a spot under the next showerhead.  He says to me, ‘Give me the soap, you son of a bitch,’ and he grabs it out of my hand.  Everything gets real still, you know, like when there’s gonna be a fight.  Matheson just stands there soaping his pits and watching us like a hawk.  I look down – got that – down on Weber and laughed in his face.  I said, ‘You’ll be lucky to make reserve, and I’m as good as on varsity.  Kiss my ass, Weber,’ and I grab the soap back out of his hand.  And Weber just turned away and got another bar of soap!”

            I asked in total fascination, “What did Matheson say?”

            “Nothing,” Scott said.  “He just rinsed himself and left.  All the guys just went about their business.  But wait!  I toweled off and went to my locker.  I’m standing there bare-assed working the combination lock.  Chip Matheson sneaks up behind me, snaps his towel at my ass, and stings me good.  Thinking it’s Weber, I twirl around ready to pop him one.  There’s Matheson grinning, and he shakes my hand.  Do you know what he said?  ‘Congratulations, Campbell.’  Can you believe it?  Chip Matheson, the best sophomore athlete next to Bull, said to me, Scott Campbell, ‘Congratulations, Campbell.’  Can you believe it?”

            I said, “I believe it, Scott.  I always said you were good.”

            Scott grabbed my arm as he continued, “Then, I ask him if he really thinks I could play varsity.  Matheson says, “Sure, you’re accurate under the basket.  But to play varsity, you need these.’  Then he grabs his balls and shakes ‘em at me, and he says, ‘I gotta tell ya, Campbell, a lotta guys who matter were saying you didn’t know where yours were.  I’m real glad you just found ‘em in the shower.  I’ll let all the guys know what happened.’  Then we dressed, and here I am.”

            I told Scott I was proud he stood up for himself and glad he was my friend.  He was describing a world I knew I’d never belong to.  Still, I was enthralled with his story.

            Then Scott said, “Matheson will let all the guys know I’ve got balls.  Do you know what that means?  It means that in a few days even senior jocks will speak to me.  And no one – not even seniors – will ever try to push me around again.  At least they better not.  ‘Cuz not only will they answer to me but to a bunch of other guys, too.”

            The bell rang which started second period.  Anyone who wasn’t where they were supposed to be by now would get a detention.  No excuses.  The noisy halls were now silent.  I said, “Shit, Scott, you’re late!”

            “Naw, I do A/V this period, but there’s nothing scheduled.  Not even that exciting filmstrip about the Roman Empire.  It’s a great job, man.  I got a permanent hall pass for second period that’s good all over the school.”

            Just then, a senior hall monitor walked up.  He asked, “Where are you two supposed to be?”

            Scott showed him his pass, and I showed him mine.  When he saw the principal’s signature and the destination of Coach Anders’ office, the hall monitor taunted, “I hope your ass is made of concrete,” and walked away laughing devilishly.

            Scott grabbed my hall pass, read it, and then looked physically ill.  He exclaimed, “Oh, no.  Oh, my God, no!  How in the world?  What the fuck did you do?”

            “Nothing,” I laughed.

            But Scott paid no attention and said, “I’ve heard if you squeeze your cheeks together as hard as you can just when you hear the air start to whistle, it doesn’t hurt as much.”

            “Look, Scott.  Listen to me.  It’s all because Bull and Joey Marino tripped me yesterday, and I cut my head.  I had to get four stitches.  That’s how I broke my glasses.  Mrs. Johnson said Coach Anders would have them apologize to me.  That’s all.”

            “That’s all?” Scott asked very relieved.  “She’s got to be the stupidest principal in the world.  Doesn’t she know how guys like that think?  They think they got away with it.  They’ll get with their buddies and make jokes.  Laugh at her.  And Bull will think he has a license to start a reign of terror on all underclassmen.”

            We saw a teacher at the far end of the hall.  Even with hall passes, we knew we were pushing our luck.  I said, “We’d better go.  And congratulation, Campbell!”

I descended the stairs to the lower level and was met by the strong smell of chlorine from the pool.  I remembered that Coach Anders held his elite swimming and diving class during a combination of the first and second periods.  I slowed my pace as I passed the glass doors to the pool, but moisture condensation allowed only a foggy glimpse of male pulchritude.  As I opened the door marked “Men’s Locker Room,” I was immediately struck by that powerful combination of odors.  Sweat, dirty socks, soap, spray deodorant, and cheap men’s cologne mixed in the air that was heavy with humidity from the showers.

            Mr. Maxwell, one of the student teachers, was sorting through boxes of new gym clothes with JHS printed on them.  I showed him my pass, and he sternly told me to wait in Coach Anders’ office.  I was somewhat amused by this cute, twenty-year-old, college jock trying to act like he had any real authority.  The Coach’s office, located inside the locker room, was normally not a place a boy wanted to find himself.  There were two chairs facing the desk and a third at the far end, where I took a seat.  I realized for the first time that the large mirror in the locker room was actually a one-way mirror that allowed the Coach to see down all four rows of lockers at absolutely everything that went on.  And because of air ducts, it was fairly easy to hear as well.

            I heard the locker room door open and the sound of cheerful voices.  I also heard the unmistakable sound of flip-flops alternately smacking the bottoms of bare feet and squeaking on the linoleum floor.  Through the mirror, I saw Bull, Joey, and the Coach talking and laughing.  It seemed Smitty had accidentally dropped his gym bag in the pool, but I failed to see why this was hysterically funny.  Then the Coach said, “Come in my office a minute, guys.”

            As they got to the doorway, Joey froze when he saw me sitting there.  The Coach said, “Go on, boys.  Have a seat.”

            As they entered the office and sat down, I felt a rush of adrenaline at the incredible sight.  Both Bull and Joey wore nothing but wet Speedo’s and flip-flops, and Coach Anders wore only black swim trunks and flip-flops.  It was like a sex dream come to life.  I didn’t know where to look.  Bull’s thighs were huge, and I could plainly see the striations in his quads.  His chest was covered with the same platinum white hair that covered his legs.  His nipples were small, flat pink disks not much larger than a nickel.  In contrast, Joey’s dark maroon nipples were the size of half-dollars.  They crowned his firm pectorals that were covered with a generous amount of his dark pubic hair.  This hair became a narrow line as it ran down his flat, rippled stomach and past the dark, round cavern of his open navel.  It began to blossom again just as it disappeared into his blue Speedo’s.

Coach Anders was the biggest treat of all.  He looked like an older and bigger version of Bull.  Blonde and reddish brown hairs covered his chest, arms, and legs, and he was extraordinarily muscular.  He resembled a cover photo on a fitness magazine I’d seen at the drug store.  His upper arms were as big as Bull’s thighs.  Hanging from his neck was a silver whistle that rested softly in the patch of auburn hair between his large pink man-tits.  Freckles lightly covered his shoulders and upper arms.  His left biceps was covered with a red and blue tattoo that had always before been covered by the sleeve of his tee shirts.  It was an anchor with the words “US Navy” above it.  Then I saw what I’d always dreamed about, what I knew had to be there, but never imagined I would ever get to see.  For reasons I don’t understand to this day, the subject has always been an obsession of mine.  On his left shoulder was a tiny smallpox vaccination scar from childhood.  That was no big deal.  In those days, all kids had to get them by age five before starting school.  Coach Anders’ scar was actually smaller than mine was, but above it, exactly in the center of his cannon-ball-sized deltoid was another vaccination scar at least the size of a quarter.  The evenly spaced puncture marks and the swirling pattern in the scar tissue spoke volumes.  Once, a classmate had repeated a story he was told by his older brother who was drafted and returned from boot camp to say he had to be held down while he “got marked.”  My curiosity aroused, I researched it all in old army manuals I happened to find in the basement of the public library.  Now I knew the navy obviously followed similar regulations.  This book told all about the exact methods for the re-vaccination of new recruits – usually on the last day of boot camp.  There was an old photo of a wicked-looking medical instrument called a rotary lancet.  The book said it was “used for its speed and efficacy even though unfortunately it is excruciatingly painful and quite disfiguring.”  The now certain knowledge that a young Ted Anders had suffered this fate at the hands of a Navy medic almost made me shoot off in my jeans.  My heart began to pound as Coach Anders settled into the chair behind his desk, crossed his hairy legs, and began to dangle one of his flip-flops playfully between the thick toes of his right foot.  Bull and Joey sat stiffly in their chairs looking down at their feet.  Joey nervously brushed the dark hair on his left thigh back and forth with his hand.

            The Coach said, “Mrs. Johnson tells me you owe Bill Miller here an apology.”

            Joey seemed to relax a little as he looked at me and said, “Man, I am sorry, Bill.  Nobody meant for you to get hurt or for anything bad to happen.  I wish I had stopped Bull from tripping you.  And I should never have lied to cover it up.  I’m really, really sorry.  Okay, man?”

            There was an awkward silence until the Coach’s voice boomed, “Bull, what do you say?”

            Bull looked at me, and I noticed that his hands were shaking a little.  “I…I’m sorry too, man.”

            I thought to myself how much I hated arrogant jocks, but I knew it was hopeless to say how I felt about years of bullying.  I said I accepted their apology, and Bull headed for the door like a shot. 

“Not so fast, Mr. Bulling,” said the Coach.  Bull sat back down as the Coach said, “Gentlemen, I’m glad you regret what you did.  But surely you two don’t think that’s the end of it.  Your horseplay caused a serious injury, and now you must suffer the consequences.”  Coach Anders opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the most terrifying looking paddle I had ever seen.  It was about two feet long, and the blade was quite wide – maybe five or six inches.  There were two rows of holes drilled along each side and in between the rows the word “CONSEQUENCES” was stenciled in large black letters.  Adhesive tape was wound around the handle which was long enough for a two handed grip.  Indeed, the reality was worse than the rumors.

            Bull muttered under his breath, “Aw, shit, man.  I just knew it.  Aw, shit.”

            Joey gulped, and in his deep voice -- now an octave higher -- begged, “Please, Coach, not the paddle.  PLEASE!  We didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.  Can’t we run laps, clean the showers, scrub the diving board with a toothbrush?  We’ll do anything you want.”

            The Coach slammed the desk drawer and laid the paddle in the middle of his desk where we could all get a good look at it.  Ignoring the plea for mercy, he said, “Have you ever been paddled before?  Bulling, I know you have.  What about you, Marino?”

            “No, sir.  My parents don’t believe in it.”

            “Well, I’m a big believer in it. It really gets a boy’s attention.  Just a moment, I need a faculty witness.”  The Coach opened the door and yelled above the locker room noise, “Mr. Klein, will you come in here a moment?”  I realized that while we were talking, the swimming class had returned to the locker room and was showering and changing.  I glanced through the mirror at the delightful site of a dozen naked jocks opening lockers, snapping towels, parading to the showers, and just generally carrying on like naughty boys.  I was beginning to tremble with sexual excitement, my mouth was getting dry, and my stomach was starting to burn.  I knew this meant I would soon have a raging hard-on.  Mr. Klein closed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against it.  He appeared bored, as if he had done this hundreds of times. 

            Keith Klein seethed with Irish good looks.  His thick, wavy, jet-black hair contrasted with his striking blue eyes and pale, smooth skin.  The twenty-something wore black leather sandals, black sweat pants, and a black tee shirt, which revealed solid arms and powerful forearms.  The deep scoop at the neck of his shirt suggested his chest was as smooth as his arms.  The yearbook stated he went to college on a tennis scholarship, and he coached our tennis team each spring.  However, his main responsibility was freshmen PE.  Coach Anders, who was far too busy to fool with freshmen, gave Mr. Klein full reign over them.  He had his own paddle made of oiled teakwood with the word “JUSTICE” stenciled on it.  But there weren’t any holes in it.  He said freshmen were too small to withstand a paddle with holes.

            This was all part of the terrorizing welcome lecture he gave each freshman PE class.  Designed to scare the hell out of 13-year-olds, it was very effective in keeping order.  But “JUSTICE” was not an idle threat.  I had often heard of boys being paddled in junior high school, but the first paddling I’d actually seen happened in my freshmen PE class with Mr. Klein almost a year before now.  The school year was just getting started, and the freshmen boys were rowdy.  During class, someone pulled the fire alarm in the gymnasium.  Two days later when our class met again, Mr. Klein began by saying he knew it was done by one of the five boys who were near the alarm box at the time.  He held up a pad of blue detention slips and said he a week of after school busy work for the guilty boy.  He asked for the guilty boy to confess.  Every boy knew it was Ken Weber, but there was dead silence.

            Mr. Klein then told the five suspected boys to get down from the bleachers and stand around him.  The boys were Scott Campbell, Chip Matheson, Ken Weber, and the Gleason identical twins, Mark and Matt.  The twins were honor students and polite as could be, but they had made the mistake of being near Ken Weber at the wrong moment.  Mr. Klein looked each boy straight in the eyes and asked him if he pulled the fire alarm, but all five solemnly said, “No, sir.”  Then he asked each boy if he knew who had pulled the alarm, but all five said, “No, sir.”

            Mr. Klein then explained that he must know who did it because he only wanted it in the permanent records of the boy responsible.  He said he would now find out who did it.  From inside his grade book, he produced five pink slips and held them up.  He said, “These are signed by Mrs. Johnson referring each of you to me for three swats.  And I can tell you boys they will hurt a lot more than any whacks you may have gotten at home or in school up to now.  On the other hand, the guilty boy has one last chance to confess for a week’s detention, and no one will be paddled.”

            There was total silence.  All five looked scared, but Mark and Matt looked terrified.  Mr. Klein looked disgusted.  He said, “All right, then.  I’ll have my answer another way.”  I about shit when he looked at me and said, “Miller, run to my desk and get my paddle out of the bottom drawer.  It’s the one I showed the class.  It’s marked “JUSTICE.”  I never hurried so fast in my life, but in the empty hallway I did take a few test swings with it.  I was amazed at how heavy it was and perplexed that just the sight and feel of this paddle was causing me to feel the same way I did around some boys.

            My heart was pounding as I handed Mr. Klein the heavy paddle.  He held it up and said, “Justice.  Indeed it is justice because although only one of you pulled the fire alarm, all five of you lied when you said you didn’t know who did.  Loyalty is a good quality, until it gets in the way of justice.  Let’s return to the scene of the crime, boys.”

            Mr. Klein led the five over to the gymnasium wall where the red fire alarm pull box was mounted.  The entire PE class followed and formed a semi-circle around them.  In a firm voice, he ordered the twins, Mark and Matt, on one side of the alarm box, and Weber, Matheson, and Scott Campbell on the other side.  I felt terrible for my best friend, but still I jockeyed for a good viewing spot with the rest of the class.  Mr. Klein spread-eagled the five boys with their hands against the wall and their feet back from the wall and spread wide apart.  The thin, white cotton gym shorts clung tightly to the young, bubble butts, and afforded them little protection.

            Mr. Klein sternly said, “None of you are to take your hands off that wall for any reason until I specifically tell all of you to do it at once.  I will now move down the line three times, giving each of you one hard swat on each trip.  After each swat, I want to hear you say, “Thank you, sir.  May I have another?”

            There were giggles and whispers.  Mr. Klein turned to the class and yelled, “You boys won’t think it’s so funny if I add several of you to this line-up.”  Again, there was deafening silence.  Mr. Klein’s big hands gripped the paddle like a baseball bat.  He stepped behind the pale, lanky Mark Gleason, placed “JUSTICE” on his white shorts, raised the paddle, and THWACK!  Both the Gleason twins jumped.  I could barely hear Mark say, “Thank you, sir. May I have another?”  The handsome former tennis pro took two steps and repeated the process on Mark’s brother, Matt.  Again, both twins jumped as Matt made a hushed request for another stinging swat.  Mr. Klein took five steps past the fire alarm and stood behind the budding jock, Chip Matheson.  THWACK!  In a proud and stunningly masculine voice that could have belonged to a Marine recruit, Chip sounded off, “Mr. Klein, sir!  Thank you, sir!  May I please have another?”  Clearly impressed, Mr. Klein replied, “Yes you may, Mr. Matheson, I’ll be back.”  He stepped behind Ken Weber who’s hairy but skinny legs were visibly shaking.  THWACK!  Ken sounded on the verge of tears as he struggled with the humiliating question.  Last, Mr. Klein stepped behind Scott Campbell.  I felt so sad for my friend as I watched his pale, freckled legs begin to tremble.  THWACK!  Scott yelled, “Oh!” more from surprise at the unexpected sensation of his first swat than because it hurt unbearably.  In a voice nearly as strong as Chip’s, Scott grunted out the required question.  I felt strangely excited at the masculine firmness in his voice.

            Mr. Klein’s gym shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor as he returned to the starting position behind Mark.  He moved down the line again, whacking each young butt as he went.  Then he made the trip one last time.  The third swat was much harder than the first two, and each boy tensed his body and let out a slight yell an instant after the impact.  As soon as justice was done, he yelled harshly, “Turn around, boys.  Your classmates want to see your faces.”  All five took their hands from the wall and immediately massaged the seats of their white gym shorts.  As they turned around, I studied their faces.  Four of them looked defiant and angry, particularly Scott.  But tears streamed down Ken Weber’s young face.  When he saw the entire class surrounding the scene, he began to sob.  “I’m sorry,” he babbled, “I’m sorry.”

            Mr. Klein looked around at all of us and calmly said, “I told you I would have my answer.  Weber, here is your blue slip good for one week of after school detention.  I’m sure you realize you could have gotten it much more easily.”

            Mr. Klein picked up his grade book and took out the five pink slips for corporal punishment referrals.  He separated out one and signed it, and held it in Ken Weber’s tear-stained face.  He told him, “Now, this pink slip as well as that blue one, when it’s been signed, will go in your permanent record.  These other four pink slips are garbage.”  He tore them in small pieces, walked to the trashcan, and dropped them in.  As he did so, I couldn’t help scanning up and down the backs of his pale, smooth, solid legs.  As the trash can lid swung back and forth, he turned around and commanded, “Everyone, and I do mean everyone, spread out for pushups.  And a word to the wise, I’m in no mood for any childish foolishness.  MOVE!”

            Everyone cranked out twenty-five pushups.  My arms were like rubber by the time Mr. Klein blew his whistle.  We then switched to sit-ups.  As I held Scott’s freckled, bare shins, I asked stupidly, “Does it hurt, Scott?”

            “Hell, yes, it hurts,” he grunted as he did his sit-ups.  “It stings like mad.  I thought that third swat was gonna send me through the wall.  The paddle’s still over there on the bleachers.  If you’re curious, why don’t you ask Mr. Klein to give you three?”

            “Very funny,” I said to the boy of my dreams.  “It was a stupid question.”  As we switched positions, I said, “I hate PE.”

            I felt a surge of excitement as Scott’s warm hands grasped my bare shins.  He countered, “I like it OK, but Weber’s a fuckin’ asshole.”

            From nearby, Chip Matheson easily pulled himself up to a sitting position and said, “You got that right, Campbell.  But I plan to take care of his ass someday.” 

            My over-active mind returned to the present when Mr. Klein moved from his position against the locked office door.  His boredom had gotten the better of him, and he reached for the top magazine from a stack of Sports Illustrated.  As he reached for the magazine with his left hand, the sleeve of his tee shirt slide up to his shoulder.  I couldn’t help but notice his vaccination scar as it shimmered in the light.  I then remembered that the yearbook said Mr. Klein served two years in the army before starting to teach at Jefferson High School.  I translated this to mean that once he graduated from college and lost his student deferment, he was drafted.  Although the perfectly round scar just above his triceps was smaller than Coach Anders’ mark, it was definitely an unwanted gift from his Uncle Sam and not his pediatrician.  Macho or not, I knew he must have squirmed plenty when the medic jabbed his arm over and over with the lancet.  I ignored the thought that this could one day be done to me, although at the same time it seemed an exciting prospect.

            Mr. Klein noticed me looking his way and gave me a manly wink.  He smiled as if this was a party and asked, “Have a good summer, Miller?”

            “It was fine, sir,” I answered, I was amazed he could flip through a magazine and make small talk while two terrified boys were about to get the worst paddling of their lives.  I looked at Joey, and Mr. Klein looked back at his magazine.

I could see in Joey’s face that his mind was going a mile a minute.

            Joey said desperately to Coach Anders, “Uh, I didn’t think you could paddle us without parental consent.”

            “Your parents signed forms at the beginning of the year, remember?  They may have assumed the form was meaningless because you would never get in any trouble, but nevertheless it’s on file.  That’s all the permission I need.  But if your parents don’t believe in it, Joey, I can certainly call your father.  I have his number right here.”

            Joey looked undecided.  He said, “I don’t know.  My Dad’s always so proud of me.  You know, my grades, my chance at the Olympics, all that.  No, sir, please don’t call him.  The look on his face would hurt me more than your paddle.”

            Bull chuckled sarcastically and said, “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

            The Coach glared at Bull and said, “Bull, your Dad and I work out together three or four times a week.  I know him real well.  Do you want me to call him?”

            Bull smirked, “I may be stupid, Coach, but I ain’t crazy.  He’ll just tell you to go ahead.  And when he gets home from work tonight, we’ll go to the basement, and he’ll use his strap on the backs of my bare legs.  I don’t want any part of that.”

            Coach Anders pushed the telephone aside and stood.  He was an awesome presence in the small office.  Both boys looked up at him in horror as the dreaded moment got closer and closer.

            Joey tried,  “Don’t we have to be paddled within 24 hours of an incident?”

            “I’ve got until the end of the school day.  Nice try, though, Marino.  You should be a defense attorney.”

            “You’re not going to paddle us in wet Speedo’s, are you, sir?”

            “Of course, not.  Kick off your flip-flops and strip your Speedo’s off.  NOW!”

            Both boys jumped to their feet, but then hesitated again as they looked at me.  Bull rolled his eyes in disgust and asked, “Does he have to leave now?”

            I stood to leave, but the Coach said, “No, Miller, stay right there.  Since you were hurt, I think you deserve to watch these boys feel some pain.”

            “That’s not fair, Coach.  Aw, shit, man.”

            “Any why isn’t it fair, Mr. Bulling?”

            “I don’t know.  It’s just…just…just not fair.”

            “Very eloquent.  You should not be a defense attorney.  Let’s go, gentlemen.  Let’s get those buttocks exposed for punishment.”

            With that, I could feel my young cock beginning to stiffen in my jeans.  I tried to act uninterested as the two sexiest jocks in the school turned their backs to me and struggled out of their wet Speedo’s.  The muscles in Bull’s arms rippled as he forced the tight red nylon to brush through the golden hair as it moved down his powerful legs.  But the greatest excitement came when I, a lowly sophomore, got to see the great Joey Marino totally naked.  There was a thick mat of damp, black pubic hair around the base of his long, thick cock that arched semi-erect over his low hanging balls.  I watched transfixed as his big nuts swung between his hairy thighs as he stepped out of the blue Speedo’s that had dropped to his ankles.  Both boys had incredible tan lines that left their round, muscular asses a creamy white.  My cock stiffened a little more as I noticed Joey had a small, dark mole on his right ass cheek.  When they turned around, I got another surprise.  Just below Bull’s tan line but above his golden pubic bush was a tattoo in the pale white flesh.  In black ink was the head of an angry-looking bull with a ring through its nose and its red tongue sticking out.  And then I finally got to see it.  The longest, thickest, most perfectly shaped cock I’ve ever seen even to this day.  Bull had been circumcised, but some foreskin was still able to cover the large, mushroom-shaped head.  Three thick blue veins ran along its length on top with branches that squiggled away to its underneath side.  A drop of pre-cum oozed from its piss slit and created a momentary string of clear fluid, which disappeared as it dropped to the floor.  That was all it took.  I now had a rock-hard boner running down the right leg of my jeans, but everyone seemed too pre-occupied to notice.

            Coach Anders was now totally in charge.  “Mrs. Johnson has asked me to give each of you gentlemen twelve swats.  That’s the maximum based on your age, not your grade, in case you’re wondering, Mr. Bulling.  And you’re both getting the same number because Mrs. Johnson considers you equally responsible.  Here are the referral slips that will be placed in your files after Mr. Klein and I sign them.”  He briefly held up the infamous “pink slips” that I’d heard whispered about but never actually seen.  I had just enough time to see Mrs. Johnson’s signature and the boldfaced title, “REFERRAL FOR CORPORAL PUNISHMENT.”  Then the Coach continued, “Believe me, twelve’s enough that you will never forget this day.  Since Mr. Bulling has had experience with this, I’ll start with his sorry ass.  And since you two are such good buddies, I think it’s only natural that you’ll want to help each other just like you did yesterday.  Mr. Bulling, I want you to face Mr. Miller so he can see just how sorry you’re going to become.  That’s good, and now bend over and grab your ankles.  Now, Mr. Marino, I want you to place his head and neck between your thighs, then place your hands on his shoulders to hold him down.”

            I could scarcely believe what was happening.  As Joey spread his legs and wrapped them around the back of Bull’s head, his cock and balls rested between Bull’s shoulders.  I was looking at Joey’s gorgeous butt directly above Bull’s masculine face, and all of it was about eight feet in front of me.  Coach Anders picked up the paddle, moved behind Bull, and looked directly at Joey.  “Don’t let him move, Mr. Marino, or it’ll cost you.  I mean it.”

            The Coach placed the paddle lightly on Bull’s massive buns and rubbed the wooden surface back and forth on the sensitive skin.  Goose bumps appeared on his forearms causing the golden hair to stand up.  Bull moved his hands from the front of his shins and gripped Joey’s hairy calves. Bull’s face was a mixture of anger and fear as he looked at me from between Joey’s thighs. I could see tears welling up in Bull’s almond-shaped blue eyes.  He lowered his head and hid his face against the backs of Joey’s knees.  Coach Anders said, “You know, Mr. Bulling, this paddle’s just wide enough to cover your muscular ass.  If you keep working at that squat rack I’m gonna have to get a bigger paddle just for you.”

The backs of Joey’s legs muffled Bull’s, “Thank you, sir.”

Then I have to admit I was pleased to see a tear of Bull’s pure humiliation run down the back of Joey’s right calf.  It left behind a tiny trail of matted hairs and hesitated on Joey’s thick ankle before dropping to the floor.  I knew Joey felt it because he briefly wiggled his toes and turned his head to look down and back.  I also knew the Coach saw it, because he smiled a satisfied grin that told me he had just gotten exactly what he wanted.  The Coach took a few practice swings, and then suddenly the paddle whistled through the air.  It struck its target with such a loud THWACK that I jumped.  Bull’s head snapped up as he sucked in a sudden breath and his face contorted with pain.  Coach Anders stood calmly with the paddle at his side and waited.  Even Joey seemed surprised as Bull said in a deep, masculine voice, “One, sir!”

“You, see, Mr. Marino, this gentlemen knows he’s expected to keep an accurate count so I don’t give him too many.  I’ll expect you to do the same when it’s your turn.”

            “Yes, sir,” said Joey in a voice that shook with fear.

            The paddle struck Bull a second time, driving him up on his toes and forcing Joey to struggle to keep his balance.  The veins in Bull’s huge forearms bulged as his body tensed from the pain.  The jocks who pumped iron called this “vascularity.”  Once in math class, Joey had said to one of the other jocks, “Christ, have you seen the vascularity in Bull’s forearms?”  I didn’t know what he meant then and made the mistake of asking him.  They just harassed me for asking but didn’t really answer.  I could see the vascularity now, however.  In fact, where the veins passed through the crook of Bull’s elbow, I could see his pulse moving a small mole that was right over the vein.  In fact, Bull gripped Joey’s calves so hard that I could see red marks on Joey’s legs in the imprint of  Bull’s fingers.  The coach waited a few seconds for the nerve endings in Bull’s young ass to respond.  When they did, Bull gasped as before, said “Shit!” under his breath, then barked, “Two, sir!”

            THWACK!  “Three, sir.”  THWACK!  “Four, sir.”  THWACK!  “Oh, my God, my ass!  Five, sir!”  THWACK!  “Come on, Coach, take it easy!  Six, sir!”

            In his sexy, macho voice, Joey said, “Hang on, Pal.  You’re halfway through.”

            I glanced through the mirror to see that all activity in the locker room had stopped.  The mostly naked swim team was whispering among themselves trying to determine who was in the Coach’s office.  Smitty, a true red head covered with freckles from head to toe ran naked from the shower room yelling, “Man, oh man, who’s getting it?”

            Dan Moon, whose nickname was, of course, “Mooner,” rubbed his bare butt in mock agony and said, “Shit if I know, but some poor son of a bitch is frying.”

            Dave Jenkins, the muscular captain of the football team, said, “It sounds like Bull.  He told me he and Marino were only going to have to apologize to that nerd they tripped.  He said they weren’t going to be in much trouble because Marino was in the mess, too.”

            “Shit, that’s right,” said Smitty as he scratched the copper-colored hair in his crotch causing his uncut cock to flop from side to side.  “I bet Joey’s in there, too.  Has anybody seen him?”

            “No, he and Bull left class early with the Coach,” I heard Mooner say to the assembled jocks.  “And I can tell you from personal experience Joey’s in there struggling to hold down Bull knowing all the while that his turn’s coming.”

            When I looked back at the sight before me, Bull had reached back and was rubbing his butt furiously.  The Coach said, “That only makes it worse, Mr. Bulling.  It takes away some of the numbness so you feel the next swat even more.  Move your hands, please.”

            But Bull ignored him.  The Coach instructed, “Mr. Marino, grasp Mr. Bulling’s wrists and pull his hands from his butt.  Now, hold them firmly behind you and do not let go until I tell you to do so.”

Again the Coach rubbed the paddle back and forth on Bull’s tender cheeks and asked, “Can you feel the wood?”

“Yes, sir, Bull replied as his sad face flushed with embarrassment.

“Can you feel the holes in the wood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s because you rubbed away the numbness.  I’m sure you’ll feel this, too.”  Coach Anders’ arm muscles rippled as he raised the paddle again.  There was a blur and the whistling of rushing air.  THWACK!

Bull’s handsome face winced in pain.  “Seven, sir!”

On and on it went in this methodical way.  The Coach’s cold demeanor and rhythmic swinging made him seem more like a machine than a person.  With each swat, Bull’s body tensed and Joey struggled to keep Bull’s hands out of the way of the paddle.  Bull barked out the count of his own punishment in his husky voice, “OUCH!  Eleven, sir!”

Then, the Coach gripped the paddle with both hands and swung it like he was hitting a home run.  Bull barely managed to babble “Twelve, sir!” as he collapsed to his knees in front of Joey.  He sobbed uncontrollably, “I’m sorry, Coach, I won’t do it again, I promise!  Thank you for disciplining me, sir!”  He jerked his wrists free of Joey’s grip, jumped to his feet, and frantically rubbed his bright red ass.  He danced about wildly.  His bare feet slapped the tile floor and his huge cock and balls swung madly from side to side in their dark blonde nest.  He was desperate to stop the burning of his ass, but nothing would do that except some time.  He yelled, “Joey, my ass is on fire!  Make it stop!  Make it stop!”

            “It will, buddy.  It will,” Joey comforted him.

            “Now, gentlemen, please switch positions,” the Coach said with a smirk on his face.

            Joey Marino turned and faced me.  Perhaps in a last attempt for some mercy, he said to me, “Bill, I just want you to know that paddle or no paddle, I’m really, genuinely sorry you got hurt.”

            “I know,” I said.  I’m sorry you got mixed up with Bull.  You’re not really like that.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Mr. Marino, this is not a student council meeting.  If you would be so good as to assume the position.”

            Joey’s face blushed with embarrassment as he bent over in front of me and grabbed his ankles.  Bull turned and wrapped his thighs around the back of Joey’s head.  This gave me the first good look at Bull’s ass.  It was no longer creamy white, but covered with blue and purple blotches on a field of red.

            The Coach showed no difference in his treatment of Joey.  He rubbed the wooden paddle on Joey’s ass until goose bumps covered his arms and legs.  Joey’s hands trembled as he took hold of Bull’s massive calves.  “Mr. Marino,” said the Coach, “I thought you were too smart for this, but I was wrong.  This is going to be a butt flaming you’ll never forget.  Don’t move, boy.  And don’t forget to count off for me in a good, strong voice.”

            Mr. Klein’s dark eyes peered over the top of this tennis magazine in surprise as Coach Anders took a two-handed grip on the paddle’s handle.  He would use this powerful grip for all twelve terrible swats.  He gently placed the paddle on Joey’s hairy ass to get the right aim.  He drew it straight back, and Joey shuddered.  To be honest, I couldn’t wait to see this beefy, Italian kid react to the first swat he’d ever felt.  Suddenly, the Coach stopped and said, “Oh, no, Marino.  I can’t let you get away with that trick.  Relax your butt, son.”

            I remembered Scott Campbell’s earlier advice.  I’d have to tell him it was true.  The Coach once again took aim and once again stopped.  He said, “Marino, I’m trying to be patient because I know this is your first time.  And because I think you’re really a terrific kid who just made one big mistake.  But I can’t let you get by with tensing your ass.”

            I looked at Joey’s handsome face between Bull’s strong thighs as he said, “I don’t mean to, Coach.  I’m scared.”

            “All right, son.  I’m not allowed to touch you.  So, reach back and spread your cheeks apart.”

            I couldn’t believe it.  Joey’s muscular arms reached backwards, and he place one hand on each cheek.  Then he spread them apart.  The Coach said, “Just hold them apart for a bit.  Okay, now, slowly let go and grab Bull’s ankles.”

            Almost before Joey’s hand reached Bull’s golden brown legs, there was a loud whistling of air and then, THWACK!  I observed so much in the next few seconds that I felt like everyone had just been caught in a time warp.  Events seemed to happen in slow motion.  As the paddle left Joey’s bare ass, his flattened cheeks returned to their round fullness as they jiggled up and down rapidly and then slowed to a stop.  As he had done with Bull, Coach Anders dropped his paddling arm to his side and waited.  The sound of the devastating swat echoed through the locker room outside.  The intensity of the whack surprised Bull who had assumed Coach Anders would go easy on the biggest start athlete in the history of the school.  Apparently, the Coach had decided to do just the opposite to prevent anyone from saying Joey was let off easy.  The muscles in Bull’s arms bulged as he pressed down on Joey’s shoulders with all of his considerable strength.  Bull knew what was about to happen when the message from Joey’s butt reached his brain.  Bull looked at the Coach as if to ask, “Why’d you have to hit him so hard?”  But the Coach’s gaze was fixed on his target.  The curly black hair on the back of Joey’s head was all that could be seen, for Joey still had his shame-ridden face buried in the backs of Bull’s knees.  I could almost sense the firing of the synapses in Joey’s brain, for he suddenly tensed every muscle in his body.  His toes curled under and then wiggled involuntarily.  His head snapped up uncontrollably to reveal his young, masculine face.  At first his expression was one of surprise, but it soon began to shift to distress, then to suffering, and then to agony.  Joey wrinkled his nose and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  His jaw locked, and he began to grind his teeth.  Suddenly, his mouth flew open as wide as possible, and from deep in his throat came a primeval sound which modulated up and down in register while it rose in a crescendo.  “AAAHHHHHH!!!”  Joey’s hands left Bull’s ankles on an express trip to Joey’s sizzling cheeks, and he frantically rubbed his buttocks.  As Joey tried to stand up, he threw Bull off balance and caught Bull’s huge balls between the back of his head and Bull’s pelvis.

            Bull yelled, “Jesus, my nuts!  My nuts!!!”  He leaped off Joe who now stood straight up and then continued beyond vertical as he arched his back.  Bull was now doubled over with some new pain of his own.  “Damn it, Joey.  You goosed the hell out of me.”

            Mr. Klein began to laugh, then Coach Anders, and finally I laughed, too.  The Coach barked, “Mr. Bulling, please help our Italian Stallion to take his punishment like a man!”

Bull grabbed Joey’s wrists and pulled his hands away from his stinging butt.  “Come on, Joey.  That won’t help.  You’ll only get more.  Grab my calves and hang on, man!  One, sir!” Bull offered for Joey.

“We’ll start over,” the Coach said smugly.  “Marino, try to remember you’re a future Olympic competitor and take this so I can be proud of you.”

THWACK!  “One, sir!” Joey croaked through tears that were already flowing.  THWACK!  “Two, sir!”  THWACK!  “Three, sir!”  I watched Joey curl and relax his hairy toes with each searing swat.  His young, masculine face was contorted with pain as he suddenly yelled, “Oh, my God, it hurts.  I can’t stand it!  Please Coach, it HURTS!”

“Of course, it hurts, Mr. Marino.  That’s why boys whisper about my infamous paddle.  Because it sets a boy’s ass on fire.  And it doesn’t care if he’s an A student or a D student.  And it doesn’t care if he’s a stud or a nerd, an athlete or a weakling.  Or how beautiful his girl friend is.  It doesn’t even care if he’s the student body president.  It’s just a big, thick piece of wood, and when I swat a bare ass with it like I’m doing to you right now, it HURTS!  How many was that, young man?”

“Four, sir!”  THWACK!  “Five, sir!”  THWACK!  “Six, sir!”

“Your halfway there, Joey,” Bull said as he patted Joey’s beefy shoulders in an attempt at comfort.

THWACK!  “OH!  OH!  I can’t stand it!  Please, Coach, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are, Marino.  How many?”

“Seven, sir!”  THWACK!  “Eight, sir!”

Outside, Smitty suddenly exclaimed, “Mooner’s right!  Joey’s burnin’.  Can you hear him yelling.  Anders is beatin his ass off!  Oh, man, I know that’s gotta hurt like hell.!”

“You know it,” Mooner agreed.  “His buns are getting toasted, all right.  Twelve swats will just about make a guy go crazy.  Believe me, they’ll both have big red welts on their asses when they come out of there.”

THWACK!  Joey let go of Bull’s calves and reached for his ass, but Bull grabbed Joey’s wrists and pulled Joey’s hands behind his back.  This time it was the veins in Joey’s arms that pulsed as he frantically tried to escape Bull’s grasp, but Bull’s hands were like vices.  Bull said, “Come on, pal.  Don’t fight me!  He’ll just swat you harder.  Count, man, count!”

“Nine, sir!”  Joey groaned in a deep, husky voice, “Shit, please. Shit, please!”

“Here’s some shit, Marino!”  Coach Anders swung the paddle by stepping into the motion.  The swat echoed through the locker room and shower room like a gunshot.  Outside, the redheaded Smitty yelled, “Oh, son of a bitch, man.  Did you hear that one?”

As the force of the impact drove Joey forward, Bull was pushed back onto his heels.  This made his calf muscles bulge and then ripple as he pushed forward onto his toes in the struggle to hold Joey down.  Every muscle in Joey’s firm, young body tensed and his mouth opened wide.  At first no sound came out, but then from deep in his chest came an unbelievable scream.  Coach Anders face showed no emotion as he waited and gently tapped the paddle against the side of huge, hairy leg.  Mr. Klein tossed his sports magazine back on the stack and casually strolled over to the desk.  He picked up a pen and scrawled his signature on each of the two pink slips.

Joey again begged, “Please, sir, no more!  I won’t do it again.  I promise!”

The Coach asked in a firm, masculine voice, “How many have you had?”

“Ten, sir,” Joey sobbed.

“Two more quick ones, then.  Hold still…”

Coach Anders powerful right arm became a blur as he quickly but forcefully swung the paddle twice.  THWACK!  THWACK!

Mr. Klein walked casually to the door and unlocked it.  When the twelfth and final swat slammed into Joey’s raw ass, he turned the doorknob and opened the door.  As if nothing unusual had happened, he said, “See you later, guys,” and walked out, closing the door behind him.  Joey was heaving with sobs and had begun to babble incoherently.  He grunted three unintelligible syllables in an effort to finish the count.

Joey fought savagely to free his wrists from Bull’s grasp, but couldn’t.  He begged, “Please, Bull, it’s over, let go!”

Bull cautioned, “Thank him!”

Still sobbing, Joey struggled to enunciate, “Thank you, sir, for disciplining me.”

“I hope this has taught you a lesson.  Release him, Mr. Bulling.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped Bull as he released Joey’s wrists and quickly hopped backward off his neck and shoulders to avoid getting goosed again.  Joey desperately massaged his flaming butt cheeks as he began his dance of pain.  He jumped back and forth from one foot to the other and tried to regain his composure.  When he turned around, I could see that his ass was even redder and more blotchy that Bull’s.  The sudden silence was broken by the sound of the bottom desk drawer being opened followed by the thud of the heavy “CONSEQUENCES” being dropped into it.  As he slammed the drawer shut with his thong-clad foot, Coach Anders said somberly, “I hope I’ve taught you boys a lesson about what it’s like to be bullied.  Just remember, there’s always someone a lot bigger than you.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys said in unison.

“Go shower and dress.  When you’re ready, I’ll give you a pass to your next class.  Don’t forget your stuff.”

Bull and Joey bent over side by side to pick up their Speedo’s and flip-flops.  Their young, muscular, crimson asses nearly glowed.  As the two boys filed out of the office into the locker room still rubbing their butts with their free hand, their fully dressed classmates sat waiting on the benches in stunned silence.  At the sight of their naked buddies, the group broke into cat calls and applause.  Then Jenkins, the stocky captain of the football team said, “Aw, man, look at their flaming buns!  That’s brutal, man.  Bull, was it twelve each?”

“Yeah,” Bull replied in a mortified tone.

“Is that the maximum?”

“Yeah.”  Bull didn’t care; he was still on fire.  He dropped his stuff on the floor and gently rubbed his ass.  Immediately, his buddies whistled and guffawed.  I heard a guy yell mockingly, “What’s the matter?  Do your poor, little buns hurt you?”  I was always amazed how guys learned early to hide any emotions like sympathy behind bad jokes and macho bravado.  Bull and Joey disappeared among the rows of lockers.

I walked out of the Coach’s office fully dressed and carrying my books.  Instantly, there was complete silence.  Still shaking with the adrenal of sexual excitement at fifteen, I once again felt like a complete nerd as I passed the group of jocks.  My footsteps echoed in the silent locker room as I walked out into the empty corridor.  When I got to the foot of the stairs, Smitty and Mooner stepped out of nowhere and blocked the stairs.  I’m sure my face looked terrified.

Mooner seemed to tower over me as he said, “Miller, you little shit.  Because you’re such an uncoordinated nerd that you can’t even trip without sending yourself to the hospital, two of the greatest guys in this school just got their asses fried.  I can’t believe the Coach let you watch.  It makes me sick to my stomach.  You gonna go home and whack off now?  Huh, you little faggot?’

Mooner lunged forward to grab me, but Smitty held him back.  The tall, muscular red-head said, “Cool it, Mooner.  We already agreed he wasn’t worth the consequences.”

I now knew what jocks meant all the times I’d heard them talk about consequences.  I had thought it was a strange word for them to use, but now I knew its double meaning.  Smitty released Mooner and then moved inches from my face.  I could really only see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, his greenish blue eyes, and his copper-colored eye lashes and eye brows.  Then he said to me in a frightening whisper, “You better be careful, pussy.  Because if any of us hear any of your little snot-nosed pals talking about what you saw in there, we’ll know where they heard it.  And there will come a time and a place where no one can hear you scream.  And we will paddle your skinny, faggot butt off.”  Smitty stepped aside and said, “Well, what are you waiting for?  Go beat off!”

            I ran up the steps two at a time.  At the top of the stairs, I looked down, but the two studs were gone.  The locker room door banged against the wall as if it had been shoved open with great force.  I heard Smitty say, “Cool it, Mooner,” as the third period bell rang to signal another class change.