Not many parents realize, or want to acknowledge, that their young children develop _s_e_x_ual urges from an early age on. Most parents rather like to think that their little ones are completely innocent.
In the days when I grew up as a boy _s_e_x_ual education did not exist. In school and in most homes the subject of _s_e_x_ was completely taboo. In those days children learned about the facts of life from their mates in the street or in the schoolyard. As children we often played games like doctor and nurse, undressing each other for "medical" examination. Superfluous to mention that the genital area always got the most attention!
There was a game that was played by the boys exclusively, and it always caused a lot of excitement. We called it "swishing". Before it started each boy cut a switch from a birch or hazelnut tree and made it smooth by cutting of the leaves and side branches.
One of the boys was randomly chosen to start the game. He had to cover his eyes with his hands and had to lean slightly bent with his head against a tree trunk so that his bum was sticking out nicely. In turn one of the other boys raised his switch high above his head and with as much force as he could muster hit the bottom of the boy at the tree.
The hit boy mostly let out a yelp, jumped up and rubbed his bottom. He then turned around and he had to guess which of the boys had hit him. If he guessed correctly which boy it was then that boy had to take his place. If he failed he had to bend over again and take the next stroke. And so on.
As soon as a boy had delivered his stroke with the switch the boys quickly moved around. If it was my turn to be switched I mostly pointed out the boy who was hiding behind the backs of the other boys, and many times my guess was right.
One day when we were playing the switching game Billy Potter was bending over against the tree. I liked Billy. His shorts were tightly stretched over his plump buttocks. It was my turn to switch and with glee I delivered a mighty stroke to his inviting backside.
"Aw!" Billy cried, and rubbing his backside he turned around and looked at our grinning faces. My face probably showed the excitement and satisfaction I had derived from delivering the stroke, so Billy pointed his finger at me and said: "It was you!"
I said: "Yes, it was" and I took the position at the tree. Unfortunately that day I was wearing a pair of old cotton summer shorts, which I had more or less outgrown. They were actually too tight for me, especially as I was bending over. And I did not even wear underpants.
When the first stroke landed I could hardly hold back a howl of pain. The flimsy cotton shorts did not offer any protection against the switch, which was cruelly biting into my backside. I took a deep breath, turned around and was confronted with the laughing and grinning faces of my mates. Some of them were jumping up and down, and some had their hand on their crotch. I looked at each of them and decided to point my finger at a big boy at the back of the group.
"It is you," I said.
He said: "No, it is not." He pointed at the tree and said to me: "Bend over mate!" I sighed deeply and took the position again.
A moment later I heard the hissing sound of a switch and felt the burning sensation of it's landing on my hindquarters. With difficulty I suppressed a groan. I jumped up and down frantically rubbing my bottom. At last I turned around to face the boys again. They were hilarious. Once again I failed to make the right guess and once again my quivering backside was awaiting the next stroke of the switch.
When the next stroke landed I could no longer hold back a wail of pain. Tears sprang from my eyes. I couldn't help crying. It took a short while to put myself together and to turn around. This time the boys were beside themselves. They hooted and slapped each other on the back and had tears in their eyes of laughter.
"Who was it, Anthony?" they shouted at me.
I said sniffing: "Sorry boys, I had enough."
That caused a chorus of protests. "You can't do that, CHICKEN! COWARD!"
"O. K.", I said and through my tears pointed at one of the boys.
This caused another wave of hilarity from the boys. "No," they shouted, "back to the tree!"
With dread I awaited the next stroke. As at that moment I did not have my left eye fully covered by my left hand so I got sight of the tip of a brown boot stepping forward and CRACK landed the switch on my bottom. I let out another howl of pain, but in my mind I knew that this time I would be able to identify my tormentor. I turned around to face the loudly laughing crowd but this time instead of looking at the faces I looked at the footwear. There was only one boy with brown boots. Peter Hill.
I said: "It was Peter Hill."
The crowd laughed and shouted: "No it wasn't. Bend over again!"
I said: "It was Peter Hill. You are cheating!"
They shouted: "No we aren't. Come on, bend over!"
I shouted back: "No I won't. It was Peter I saw him."
They asked: "How could you have seen him?"
I said: "I saw his brown boots."
They said: "So you have been cheating too!"
I asked; "Why did you do this to me?"
They laughed and grinned. At last Billy Potter said to me: "Because you look so cute in those tight little shorts you are wearing, and your bum is sticking out so nicely. We thought we would have some fun with you."
One boy said: "Strip down your shorts Anthony, we want to see the stripes on your bum."
"Oh yea!" cried the others, "Let us see."
Reluctantly I pulled down my shorts they were all behind me exclaiming "Ah's! and Oh's!" I felt like a hero. Some touched the weals on my bottom, which caused me to flinch with pain.
In the meantime some of the boys were disappearing behind the bushes in pairs.
Billy Potter, who was bigger and one year older then me, took me by the shoulder and said: "Come." I hoisted up my shorts carefully over my sore bottom and followed Billy into the shrubs. We played with each other for about fifteen minutes.
When we came out of the shrubs we saw several of the other boys appearing out of the bushes. We said Good Bye to each other and went to our homes with guilty but satisfied grins on our faces.
Most of the boys I played with in my young years are now happily married family fathers with children of their own. I wonder if they ever remember the days of their boyhood. Probably not.
This is a true story.