YMCA

Author : Eddie Knapps

An Eddie Knapps true life (mis)adventure

A lot of guys think about the YMCA mostly in terms of an old Village People song, or some kind of smelly gym class they were made to take some summer. For me, though, it's got a more special significance. The YMCA in Charlotte, NC, in l964, was the location of my last really public SPANKING growing up (I've had many since 21!), when I was a boy of 12 years old. The Charlotte Y was new then, state of the art. They had a clean, bright, Olympic size pool, and on Wednesdays, I think it was, they used to hold "Father/Son Night." As a kid, I loved to swim, and my dad used to take my little brother and me almost every week, especially during the winter, to play around in the pool. On Wednesdays, I'd hurry to get my homework done right after school so I was free to go to the pool. In December, January, even in the mild winters of NC, going to a warm swimming pool, running around in nothing but trunks--that was really wonderful. Now, there are a few things you need to understand about the South in l964. First off, one change--since they opened the new Y--was that you wore swimming trunks. We had moved to NC two years before, but I knew that, in the old Y, everybody had swum not wearing anything at all. But, with the new building, a new rule had been instituted, and now you had to wear trunks. The other thing is that, at that time, spanking was not a really big deal. Most everybody I knew got spanked, or at least, might get spanked, boys and girls. Parents talked about spanking very freely with one another, even in front of kids. I can remember various instances where I felt very embarrassed as my dad explained to other people how he spanked me, though, on the other hand, I over time learned that the Krick boys got spanked with a belt, that Benny Horner's dad often took his pants down, and that Robby Katz (who was three years older than I) got spanked bare bottom with a hairbrush, something which awaited me, tho I didn't know it, when I was his age. Spankings also occurred in school. Not only principals and coaches, but teachers as well, had paddles or rulers that they used on naughty bottoms--usually clothed but sometimes naked as well. Mr. Kearny, the elementary school principal, spanked me and Donald Brower over his knee with our pants down in 6th grade for fighting (after we had both been paddled on the seat of the pants for the same offence twice before), and he also told our folks so we both got spanked at home for it too. Thirty years ago in the South, spankings were simply part of growing up. It was the time, I guess, and the region. From 10 to 12, I must have seen a dozen of my friends at least get a swat, and a few really get a spanking, including two with their pants down (Jeff Krickk and Jimmy Rode--the first two years younger and the other 1 year older). Boys, especially, were subject to spanking, either from their dads, their moms, or both, and often on the bare bottom. Beyond that, I knew of boys a lot older than me, in junior high and high school, who I heard about getting spanked. Certainly, lots of my friends saw me get it, and on my bare bottom! My dad, at that time, truly believed in the benefits of spanking, for boys especially, and that was the punishment that most often awaited me for any and all misdeeds. Up to eleven, I might get it from either of my parents, but from that age, it was mostly my dad who was in charge of disciplining me. If he was present when I misbehaved, the punishment took place right then. I was hauled across his lap, my pants and underpants came down, and --WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!--my little bottom squirmed and I cried. This happened a lot. Occasionally, I got it with some instrument instead of his hand--a belt, a switch, a brush used to clean tires. Usually, tho, it was just that hard palm. If he wasn't around, I had to put up with: "Wait till you father gets home!" Those days seemed to go on forever with a black cloud over them. Occasionally, especially if my misdeed occurred late in the afternoon, like after school, I would have to stand in the corner in the living room. I can still remember standing there, and feeling the dread rise up in me when I heard the car pull in the driveway, the door slam, my dad whistling as he came up the walk, the front door opening... There was never any questioning about things. When he came in, he would see me. I would hear my Mom tell him about my misbehavior. He would come in the living room, take me by the arm, and say, "All right, young man!" By then, I'd be sniffling. He would sit down in the black chair, pull my pants down, and turn me across his knee. My 9, 10, 11 year old bottom would be up in the air, and then SMACK! I always cried when I got spanked, even when I was 17, when I found myself in the usual position, bare bottom, tho by then I was getting the hairbrush. But I'm getting way ahead of myself. Back to the YMCA...

That Wednesday--it was in February of '64, I think--my little brother didn't come with us. He had the flu, I think, or a cold, but my dad and I went. Something I want to make clear is that I loved my dad a lot. He was very good to me, to my brother and sister. He took a lot of time with us, praised us, played with us, helped us with homework, all the things a good dad is supposed to do. It's just that he was very strict, especially with me, who was the oldest boy. He had been brought up on spanking, and I don't know it occurred to him there was any other way to make a boy mind. Like I said, I was 12, going on 13 I guess. I was in the period when I got spanked more than any other in my life. Indeed, there was a 15 day period when I was 14 when I got spanked 5 times in two weeks, a record I didn't break until I was in my 40s. I wasn't really a "bad" kid, but I was one who was always testing limits, kind of a smart aleck, in trouble a lot--not major trouble, but trouble. I was a little younger and maybe a little smaller than most of the other boys in my class, so maybe I was trying to make up for that, being mouthy, seeing what I could get away with. Still, by that winter of '64, I was beginning to feel my oats. My balls had descended, and I had the first little frosting of hairs around my pecker and my puckerhole. That spring, I remember, my dad took me out for a walk and gave me a kind of "birds and bees" talk. But that was later. Anyhow, we went to the Y. I always got a charge out of doing that--a kind of "man" thing, like sometimes when we would go down to the RR station to watch the trains go through late at night, where it smelled of diesels and cigar smoke and I'd get timetables. Going to the Y, it would be dark and cold, but we would put the heater on in the car (it was a Studebaker) and then hustle in out of the parking lot and go to the locker room, strip down and get our trunks on. Even then, I think, I liked being naked, and liked to see other guys naked. That night, as I remember, was a pretty normal one--somewhere between thirty and forty fathers and sons. The boys were 6 to 16 (that was the rule, I think), and since some were brothers or had come with somebody else's dad, there were probably a dozen to 15 men and the rest boys of various ages. I jumped in the pool, and you have to figure a half hour or so went by. I got to playing around with three or four other kids, pretty much about my age, though one of them was younger, maybe eight or so. We got rowdier and rowdier: yelling and splashing. The lifeguard tweeted at us. We settled down a little bit, but then we started playing rough again. I remember being excited--I might have even gotten a little hardon from all the wrestling around--and laughing a lot, and I suppose we all were kind of picking on the littler kid, though he was putting up with it pretty well. The lifeguard tweeted at us a second time. Again we calmed down, but boys that age can't keep their energy under control very long. My dad had been swimming laps over on the other side of the pool, I think (there was a string of floats down the middle, so some of the lanes were kept free). We started horsing around again. I don't know quite how it happened, but the little kid got dunked bad, and came up sputtering and started to cry. I honestly don't know if it was my fault--we were all kind of piling on each other and dunking and that kind of thing. But then, the lifeguard's whistle tweeted really loud a third time. And then I heard my dad's shout: "You get your fanny over here. NOW!" I knew I was in trouble, but I didn't realize how much. He was standing on the lip of the pool, and he looked really mad, but I was still all hyped from playing. I stroked over to the edge (I was a good swimmer for my age). As soon as my hand hit the tile, he grabbed my arm and literally dragged me out of that water. What did I weigh? 100 lbs maybe? 5 ft tall max. When he pulled me out, all of a sudden, I knew I was in BIG trouble, and I had this sick feeling about what was about to happen. What was scariest is that he didn't say anything. He just pulled me along after him across the deck. There were benches scattered around the edge of the pool. As he came to the closest one, he sat down, gave a yank and swung me over his lap. I felt his fingers on the waistband of my trunks, and right then, I started to cry. I knew I was going to get spanked. I think I said, real soft, "No, daddy." I was wearing red trunks, I remember. Red terry cloth with white stripes. My dad gave one solid pull, and they were halfway down my legs. My smooth little fanny was out there for all the world to see. Then--SMACK! He brought his hand down HARD on my bare bottom, and then again, and then again. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The pool chamber was all glass and tile and cement, which means those whacks must have echoed like gunshots. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Needless to say, I don't remember. Everything had happened so fast. A minute before I had been screwing around in the water, and now I was bare bottom over my dad's knee in front of forty people, getting spanked! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The swats continued falling, and what had been some quiet snuffling started to rise in volume to full- throated bawling! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! His palm could hurt so much, especially for a boy of 12, and my legs started to kick. It was almost like I could feel his palm burning into my rear end, making handprints across that soft, white skin. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! I swung my head around. I still remember that I was half-blinded with tears, but I could see people watching. It's like a photograph in my head, just one image, but I can see two of the boys I was playing with in the pool, a couple teenagers, a little boy standing next to his dad, and maybe four or five of the men, just looking. The kids in the pool have this kind of frozen expression--scared as if this might happen next to them. The men are mostly impassive, and the teenagers are smirking. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! I was wiggling plenty, like I always did when I got spanked, and I'm sure everybody there was getting a bird's eye view of about everything this kid had to offer--my legs going every which way, bouncing and bucking, my smooth little fanny going redder with every swat. As I kicked and squirmed, my trunks fell lower and lower. I was squalling up a storm, and it wasn't stopping. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! It was probably real quiet then, there around the pool, but you couldn't prove it by me. Quiet, that is, except for the yowls of a boy getting spanked, and the steady SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! of a man's hand on a boy's bare bottom. After the initial shock of what was happening, and the initial pain of the licks, I somewhere along the line realized the situation I was in, getting spanked in front of more people than I had ever been spanked in front of before, having forty men and boys looking at my naked fanny wiggling over my dad's knee! If I ever understood the notion of "humiliation," it was then. I started howling like a banshee, but the whacking didn't stop. Really, it was probably only 50 or 60 smacks at most I got, maybe less, but it seemed like forever. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! My legs were cutting the air like propeller blades, and I was bouncing all over my dad's lap. Like I said, my trunks were down to my ankles, and I was bawling to beat the band! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Finally--FINALLY--he yanked me up off his lap. I was squalling like a baby. He shook me hard. "Don't you ever--EVER--bully a boy like that again! You understand me! UNDERSTAND!" "Yes, Sir! Yes, Sir!" I blubbered. "I won't. I won't ever. Ever, Sir. Yes, Sir!" I just wanted it to stop. My bottom hurt bad and I was so embarrassed. My dad let go of me and I skittered toward the locker room, my little fanny on fire and my trunks down, kicking them off as I ran and grabbing them in one hand as I bolted for the door. I stood there in the shower and cried. My dad came in a minute later.

"Get dressed," he said gruffly, and you can bet I did, real fast. I sure didn't want to get spanked again. We drove home in absolute silence, and I went up and got my pajamas on and went to bed. It wasn't till he got home from work the next day and we'd had dinner and he'd gone down to work on the car in the garage that he called me down there next evening. He said he was sorry he had to spank me at the Y, and he was sorry if I was embarrassed. But he said I had to learn to do what my betters said, and that the lifeguard had made it clear we boys were misbehaving. And he said he wouldn't tolerate me picking on somebody younger and weaker than I was, that that wasn't fair, and that the two other boys who were doing it should have gotten spanked too, and that he hoped at least their dads did exactly that when they got home. We went to the Y the next week, same as always, with my little brother that time. A number of the boys looked at me, and one of the teenagers really did say to me--"Your daddy gonna whip your butt again tonight?" with a grin. I wish his daddy had blistered him that night, I can tell you. As far as I know, none of the men or the lifeguard either ever said anything to my dad about it, so I guess they all must have approved. Like I said, it was kind of a different world then. It wasn't long after that I really got my growth, really began to hair out (I come from pretty furry stock on both sides), and got that birds and bees talk. My dad never spanked me in public again, though one of my uncles saw me get it at 14, and both my mom and dad spanked me at 15, and there was an extremely embarrassing blistering at 16 in front of a couple friends that I realized, years later, I had literally repressed, the humiliation was so great. After the YMCA, it was up to my folks' room to go over dad's knee, pants down as always. But from 13 on, I got it with the wooden hairbrush, and I wondered at the time if it wouldn't be worth it to get it in front of other people on my bare bottom rather than suffer that damned brush! But that's another story...