I went through public school in Illinois, where in Junior high, at least, paddling was the usual means of punishing adolescent boys, and some adolescent girls. It tended to be the younger male teachers, those fresh from college, and, presumably, fraternities, who did the most paddling, though some of the old coots also laid wood to adolescent bottoms, and probably enjoyed it more.
My sixth grade teacher Mr A was a football jock and assistant High School football coach. He carried a piece of well-worn slat board around with him when we walked around the room, but I never saw or heard of him paddling anyone. I would be that if he had, you'd know you'd been paddled. The art teacher, however, as well as most of the 7th and 8th grade male teachers were well known for paddling, and they had their own legendary style.
Mr. C, the art teacher, sometimes would lift a misbehaving boy by the scruff of the neck, stretch him over the art table, and deliver a few swats with a meter stick. More often, however, he'd take the miscreant out in the hall for his punishment. Mr. M, 7th Grade Social Studies, had a frat-type paddle that he used liberally. He'd take a boy into the hall and give 3-4 firm swats. Once a boy barged into a class before the previous class had been dismissed, and he got 8 swats, good and hard. Mr R, the 8th Grade Science Teacher, was legendary. He had a relatively short fuse (Irish temper?) and took boys to the hall almost daily. For major indiscretions, boys were taken to the boiler room, where they were paddled with a broken canoe paddle.
I never got paddled in school. It was expected that I be properly behaved, and I knew that if I got paddled in school, I'd get it again when I got home. My parents did spank me, though almost never by the time I was in Junior High; still, I did not want to repeat the experience, even though it was relatively minor punishment as compared to most. (I usually got hand spanks on my pants, once in a while on my bare bottom, rarely I got the belt on my pants.) On the other hand, I had a certain longing to undergo a school paddling. The thought of it always made me hot. I even entertained the idea of asking Mr. C to paddle me after Art Club on Saturday mornings, but I never had the nerve.
My fantasy was to be fulfilled in 8th grade, however. Mr G came as a new teacher, fresh from college after 3-4 years in the Air Force. He, too, was noted for swatting boys as punishment, and used an actual fraternity paddle, the Greek letters burned into the face. He also served as assistant scoutmaster to my troop, and it was there I found out that in addition to the usual school swats, Mr G also gave birthday paddlings to any number of junior high boys.
One night at scouts, when he was telling about his experiences in his college frat. Paddling, of course, was a major part, each pledge getting swats from each of the 45 actives, and one pledge even getting bribed to screw up more so that he took swats five times in one night. This discussion was really hot, and we asked him more about paddling. ThatŐs when I found out he gave birthday swats; my birthday was less than a month away, and I asked if I could get mine.
"Of course," he replied. "Come in after school on your birthday, and I'll take care of it." He went on to tell about others of my classmates he had already given birthday paddlings to. In addition, he said, on the last day of school all of us would meet to give him each one swat. I could hardly wait!
As it turned out, I didn't have to. The next week or so at scouts, Mr G was teaching Morse code. We were to write out the code for the entire alphabet, study our mistakes, and write it out again. If we didn't do better, we'd get three swats from a ping-pong paddle. I still don't believe that I tried to do worse, but I did. I missed three the first time, and seven the second, so took three swats with the ping-pong paddle- my first paddling. What a rush! My butt was still red the next morning. And then I didn't want to wait three more weeks for my birthday. But I did.
My birthday finally came. I was a member of the schoolboy patrol, guarding the crosswalks, so I didn't get to Mr G's room until about ten minutes after the final bell rang. He was just finishing paddling a 6th grader for his birthday. "Come on in," Mr G announced. My heart was pounding. "Bend over this desk." He had cleared the room and shut the door, but a couple of girls were trying to look in through the vent at the bottom of the door.
"Couldn't we do it over there?" I motioned toward the corner, out of view of the door.
"I won't be able to get a good swing there. Don't worry, I'll take care of them." So I bent over, and WHACK. Fire started in my adolescent butt. WHACK. WHACK. Was this such a good idea? I thought. I had taken three at scouts but now there were eleven to go. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. Halfway there, and my butt was on fire. But I took i stoically; I finally was getting the school paddling I had dreamt of. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. "Fourteen," Mr. G announced, "and one to grow on." WHACK!
I walked home slowly, as I remember, anticipating birthday dinner, and not being able to sit down well. "You're kinda late," my dad accused when I arrived home.
"Yeah. I got my birthday spanking from Mr G."
"Good. Now I won't have to." I had never had a birthday spanking from my parents, so I wasn't worried. But I was hot, and I have craved paddlings ever since.
EPILOGUE First. I went to Mr G's room on the last day of school as he had promised. Not ONE of the other boys he had paddle for birthdays was there. I took the beautiful frat paddle in my hand while Mr G bent over, and gave him a decent, though not outstanding swat. I'd had loved to kept going, then taking a paddling - two or three or five for every one I'd given.
Second. Next year, on my 15th birthday, I fantasized returning to the junior high after school and asking for another birthday paddling. I should have, I suppose. Instead, I went home and paddled myself, good and hard, something I had been doing from time to time for several years. I could give myself a good red butt. Still can.
Third. One of my high school classmates reported our sophomore year about his birthday paddling from Mr. G in the 8th grade. He got it on the bare bottom! Now wouldn't that have been a sight for sore eyes, and wouldn't I have liked that myself!
Fourth. When my father died and we cleared out his house, I found his frat paddle. I thought of taking it over to Mr. G and asking for another birthday paddling - 39 this time, instead of 14. I didn't, to my regret. Mr. G died the next winter. He was only 52.