It was with a sense of real regret that I learned of the death of my neighbor Mr. B. I hardly knew him well enough to be grieved at his passing but his death meant I would probably never receive that old razor strop he had promised me. Certainly I didn't know his widow well enough to ask if I could go look around in their attic for it and it wasn't likely to be in his will, if he had even made a will. Here is how this rather unusual offer came about.
I was administering the strapping in my dining room where I had my desk set up. As a punishment scenario, I like to sit behind the desk with the boy standing nearby while I lecture him, usually with the punishment implement in my hand or on the desk. Sometimes I make him give me his own belt.
The two front rooms in that house were the dining room and living room, which both had windows onto the front porch. I was just home from work and still dressed in business drag, though I had loosened my tie and kicked off my shoes and rolled up my sleeves with some ceremony just prior to the strapping. Of course, I'd also removed my belt. My "nephew" was 27 or 28 but looked half that age when he was clean shaven. We had reached the point at which I had him bent over the desk, trousers (but not underwear) dropped and was in the midst of giving him a dozen good ones when the doorbell rang. It caused me a moment's panic before I realized I was in my own home and doing nothing illegal or immoral. It was impossible that whoever was at the door did not hear the sound of the strapping but I decided to make no attempt either to conceal or explain. A friend would be tolerant (even though some of my friends think it's sick) and a solicitor would be easier to get rid of. When it turned out to be the neighbor from down the street from whom I had bought the house, I decided that a man of his generation and background probably approved of corporal punishment. I was right.
I didn't need to change any of the facts, although his assessment of the situation differed somewhat from what was actually happening. I answered the door with the belt in my hand and, as I was wrapping it into a coil around the buckle, explained that I was in the middle of giving the young man in the next room a lesson in discipline. The dining room isn't visible from the front door, so I invited my neighbor in and excused myself while I went over to the door to the dining room and told my young guest that we would take a little break and that he could pull up his pants, and (jokingly) besides he was starting to smoke back there anyway. I also told him with some severity to wipe that impudent look off his face and to be sure to ASK me for the five swats I still owed him before the day was over or we would start all over again from one. Then to get him out of the house, I told him to take out the trash and not to get into any trouble for the next few minutes. When I was able to turn my attention to my unexpected guest, I said simply that he's a good kid who lives with his divorced mother who can't control him and that he had been asking to have his butt warmed for days--all true.
It turned out my neighbor had wanted to look in the garage for some electrical fitting he thought he had left behind some six months prior to this when he packed up the house. It was during this time we discussed corporal punishment philosophies. He thought my judgement was good in this regard, not like so many of my permissive generation. At this point, it was pretty easy to play the responsible, concerned adult who doesn't hesitate to apply a few licks of the strap when called for: that is the role in which he so firmly cast me. I was able to remember most of the old 'spare the rod' routine I heard as a boy and interjected that if corporal punishment were not a good thing, it wouldn't be in the bible and how I used to get it much worse from my old man and it did me a lot of good, etc. Mostly bull_s_h_i_t_, of course. I hated getting strapped and only enjoyed hearing my friends or enemies get it or hearing their stories of telling stories about my own beatings. He told me both his boys turned out to be solid citizens and that as they were growing up, he made liberal use of the razor strop. I told him my father did the same with me. (Actually dad used his belt but I didn't want to quibble over details when we were building such a good rapport.) This is when he told me I could have his old razor strop, if he could find it next time he was in his attic. I assured him it would be put to good use.
I asked him if he thought I would be too lenient to forgive the additional five swats. He said it would be ok but only if he didn't "forget" to ask me for them. I learned the idea of a sort of probation from him. It works like this: I will withhold the five licks I still owe you BUT if you give me cause to punish you this weekend (day, week, whatever) you will first receive the five strokes I was prepared to forgive THEN in addition you will receive whatever punishment your new offense has earned you.
This was the last time I used the front room for punishment. Even though this incident went quite well and having this extra bit of reality in the scene made it all the more exciting for both of us, I considered what could have happened if Mr. B thought I was committing child abuse and tried to have me busted. Of course it would be easy enough to prove that we were both consenting adults if the law actually got involved but it's not the sort of thing I would like to go through.
A good part of my disappointment in not inheriting Mr. B's old strop is that it would have come to me with its history intact. Eventually I found a fine razor strop at a dusty old antique shop. Depending on how energetically I swing it, it can induce a satisfying sting or a breathtaking, red hot electric shock of pain. How I wish I knew its story--the routine punishments when it brought a peachy glow to a young man's nether cheeks, and the less frequent but much more severe and memorable strappings that induced a welted criss-cross of fiery crimson. It shows signs of use: there are nicks where the blade wasn't drawn over its surface carefully and the name embossed in the handle is only partially legible due to frequent handling. It's a number 122 (what can that mean?) but I can't tell if it's McDonald or MacDonald. (Please send me a message, dear reader, if you can shed some light on these details). Did its owner get rid of it when he changed to a safety razor, or did he just move it from the bathroom to a place where it would be handy when discipline was called for? I'm creating a new story for my venerable old M'Donald strop even as I speculate and fantasize about its past.