Dont believe anyone who tells you children of United States military personnel are brats. Its not true, or at least its not completely truthful. Barrack brats as were sometimes called, are just bored. Plain and simple. While there is excitement to be had, especially when stationed in a foreign country like South Korea, both military and parental rules limit the possibilities.
My family was sent to Pusan, South Korea because my father, then a corporal in the US Marine Corps, was aiding top brass with negotiations. No big surprise that it had to do with the demilitarized zone. Thats the unused strip of land separating what were told is the democratic free world from the demonic, dictatorial communists. Im not a big expert on geo-politics and socio-cultural economics, but I can tell you those poor, starving folks in North Korea posed no threat to anyone.
On a smaller scale, of course, us kids were considered a threat to decorum and to our own physical safety. As if riding our bikes across the runway right before a C-130 Hercules lands is bad? But seriously, my relatively new friend and I did our best to adventure. We had met in January, just about six weeks before, and bonded in that first second. Both of us only children, and both wishing wed had a brother for a ready playmate considering our frequent moves. We spent nearly every waking hour together, when we werent in school or at home sleeping. But we were separated by only two houses.
A bit about my friend and me: His name is Chuck, short for Charlton as his parents were huge Heston fans. (Proudly carried their NRA cards.) His father was an Air Force man, with administrative duties similar to my fathers. We were both 15 years old, about the same height – though he might have been taller by an inch – and weighed about 150 lbs. His blond hair and blue-green eyes inherited from his mother, were so unlike my plain ol brown hair and eyes. Chuck was born in Wisconsin, a northern version of the close-minded corner of the South Im from – South Carolina. By the way, Im Jay . . . dont think I introduced myself before now.
This one day, Chuck and I decide to explore the swampy area on the far side of the runways which was on the far side of the base. So, we rushed home after class let out, changed into our jeans and sweatshirts, hopped on our BMX bikes . . . and we were off! Joking and laughing, acting like a security patrol or couriers sent behind enemy lines, we zoomed toward our destination. Chuck was jumping curbs where there were curbs, and jumping rocks when we left the asphalt behind.
After mucking around the tall grasses and shallow swampy holes for an hour or so, as the sun dropped lower along with the temperature, we started our journey home. Mama allowed me to invite Chuck over for dinner and to sleep over cause it was Friday. We didnt have classes the next day. Once wed be excused from dinner, we could go to my room and play games and talk about all sorts of stuff . . . but nothing that would get us in trouble, like talk about girls. Besides, we didnt have any experience with dating or kissing, let alone knowledge of more advanced intimacy.
Along our return home, we cut down a gravel path that passed behind one of the hangars. A door was left ajar, and no one seemed to be around. So, we peeked in. There was a Blackhawk helicopter, lookin shiny and new. A series of tool carts meant it was or would be undergoing repair or standard maintenance.
Cool, whispered Chuck. Lets take a closer look, as he laid his bike down on the gravel with a soft crunch and started through the door.
My arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder. Dont. You know were not allowed.
"Im just going to look, he insisted. Nothing wrong with that, huh?
I knew better, watched him step into the hangar, trot over to the copter, peer inside. Come on, Jay, he half-whispered, half-shouted.
No, I responded, as Chuck began his circular walk about the Blackhawk. Regardless of how he tried to tempt me, I refused. In fact, I rode my bike about thirty feet down the way to wait for my errant friend. But I wasnt going to leave him.
Sure nough, and as I half-expected, a few minutes later I heard a loud shriek. When I rode back to the door and peered in, there was Chuck face-to-face with two mechanics. The two escorted him to the door, took his name and told him theyd have to report the incident. Though I was guilty of nothing, they took my name, too.
We got back to my house, spent an hour in my bedroom playing Monopoly, until Mama called us down for supper. My father had just gotten in from work and joined us at the table, after removing his uniform jacket and tie.
Some chitchat over dinner about school and work. Mama had talked with her mother stateside. Father has lunch with so-and-so. Chuck and I recounted our adventure . . . minus the incident at the hangar. As we finished the main meal, Mama had Chuck and me clear the table for dessert. Just then, the phone rang.
Father answered the call in the living room. I overheard bits of the conversation, somewhat obscured by the clank of dishes and silverware being dropped in the sink.
Oh really, Father said . . . At what time? . . . Where exactly? . . . What did the other say? . . . He put the phone down, and then called out, Jay . . . Chuck.
Yes Sir, we responded in unison. Chuck was raised in an equally strict household, so knew to address older men as sir.
Fathers response did not bode well: Up to Jays bedroom. No dessert. Ill be up in ten minutes.
Our playful banter ceased immediately as we knew those mechanics really had told on us as they said they would. Yes Sir, we called back, heading to my bedroom. Mama watched us go, sympathetically, knowing we must have gotten into trouble and deserved punishment while believing Father went overboard sometimes. After all, shed seen my butt following many a spanking or strapping, seen her fair share of bruises and welts. I heard my father pick up the phone and dial as Chuck and I climbed the stairs . . .
We waited in silence until my father arrived. Hed since removed his dress shirt and uniform pants, so wore a white T-shirt and jeans. He also held the strop.
Without a hint of anger, Father said, Boys, I had two interesting phone calls. A supervisor over at M Hangar called to say two youths were snooping around inside. When caught, they gave your names. Tell me what happened.
Chuck started, Its all my fault, Sir. Jay didnt do anything. It was my idea to go inside, and he didnt come with me. He stayed outside the whole time.
Well? Fathers stare focused on me, intense enough to vaporize ice into steam.
Chucks right Sir. I told him not to go in and I didnt go in or do anything wrong.
Regardless, Fathers judgment and sentencing: Its not that you didnt do anything wrong. Its that you didnt do enough to stop him. So, you both deserve punishment.
Knowing my father dealt out severe punishments, Chuck asked hopefully, So, I should go home and my dad will punish me, Sir?
Oh no, Father laughed loudly. That was my second phone call. I called your daddy, Chuck, and he thinks I ought to take care of this cause youre sleeping over tonight and you got my son in trouble.
Chuck started to babble in self-defense. But Sir . . . I didnt mean to . . . Ive never been strapped, only spanked . . .
Hush up, now, Father shouted over Chucks out-of-control motor mouth. First things first. Both of you, get undressed. Ill be back in ten minutes. He left the room, placing the strop on top of my chest of drawers, in plain sight. Chuck was terrified, his legs nearly trembling, but this was routine for me.
Cause it was just Chuck, I wasnt embarrassed about undressing. I quickly pulled off my sweatshirt, got my shoes and socks off, and dropped my jeans and briefs down. Chuck was a bit slower, perhaps trying to delay the inevitable, by folding his sweatshirt and pants, removing his shoes and socks . . . but remained in his boxers.
Before my father gets back, youll want to shuck those, I warned.
I just cant, said Chuck, his voice quivering and his face the deepest red Id ever seen. The door was opened right then.
Chuck, you seem to be having trouble following rules today? Father asked seriously, with a sarcastic smirk.
Uhm . . . Sir, Im just not used to getting spanked bare, Chuck replied, head bowed, staring at his bare feet.
Father was getting angrier and more forceful. Boy, theres two things wrong about what you said. First, I dont care what youre used to getting from your daddy. I give strappings, not spankings, on a bare ass." (He waved the strop around for emphasis.) Second, I dont appreciate liars. Your daddy said you scream and cry a whole lot when he spanks your bare ass. So, lying has earned you some extra stripes.
I could sense that Chuck really wanted to curl up and die in the second. His face went white, and tears and sniffles started in anticipation of the impending trauma.
In defense of my friend, I spoke up. Maybe you could take it a bit easy on him, Sir, cause hes never gotten it like you do it?
A rapid-fire response from my father: Maybe if hed get it more severe and more often, and his friends stopped covering for him, hed learn a valuable lesson. I kept my mouth shut after that, knowing Father was right.
To Chuck, my father said, Either you drop em, or I do it for you. Now!
Within seconds, my friend grabbed the waistband of his boxers and ever so slowly pulled them down to reveal an adolescent erection. It probably resulted from nervousness, but it explained Chucks hesitance and embarrassment.
Though I was shocked at what I saw, Father wasnt and didnt skip a beat. Stand in front of that, both of you. He pointed to the closet door that put us out of the way of his backswing. We moved there.
Jay, youll get your first.
Yes Sir, and I stepped forward. I figured I was going first so Chuck would understand what was expected and, perhaps, to increase the psychological impact of the punishment. I laid down on my bed, face-down with my head on the pillow, hands under the pillow (out of the way), and my feet at the foot of the bed.
Without further word or warning, my father delivered ten strokes with the flexible but unforgiving strop. I counted each one aloud, finding it kept me partially distracted. But each of the ten created a room-filling whistle that cut the air . . . made an even louder impact that felt hot as a blast furnace . . . and forced a rush of air from my lungs, causing a throaty grunt of a wounded animal to escape my lips. Thankfully, it was only ten. Though my butt was sore the rest of the night, the redness faded quickly. I got up and returned to my place near the closet door.
Chuck won't be so lucky, I thought, as Father called Chuck over to assume the position. A couple of hand swats got Chuck to cooperate. (I had never before seen a butt as white as Chucks, but saw how the imprint of my fathers hand remained distinct on Chucks.)
My father spoke: Chuck, unlike Jay, you were wrong to sneak into the hangar. But you also lied to me about your daddys spankings. Chuck was already crying from the open-handed swats my father gave, so this speech only increased the level of his crying. But he managed to mutter, Yes Sir.
So youll be getting a real punishment strapping which is meant to teach you to follow you head and not your gut from now on. Itll hurt like hell, but dont you move or itll only be worse.
Again, a muffled Yes Sir.
And Father began. Blow after blow, and Chuck grunting and crying louder and louder after each. The slapping sound of leather on skin echoed in my ears. I could see Chuck tensing up his butt, which I knew would only make it worse, so I said, Try to relax, but Father told me to hush or get more myself.
Truly, my heart bled for Chuck. But though he grunted and cried, screamed and begged for it to stop, he took a severe beating without moving an inch from the position.
After countless blows, Father was near out of breath. He stopped. He seemed to be processing everything as if in slow-motion – looked at Chucks beet red, welt-covered ass and his hand holding the strop. I think it finally sank in that hed gone too far, and that his victim wasnt even his own son. Without word, he left my bedroom, closing the door behind him. I heard him descend the stairs and exit the screen door in the kitchen onto the porch.
All the while, Chuck was lying there, on my bed, sobbing. Tears flowed freely, as did his nose. (I later discovered the pillow case was crusty.) I sat on the bed next to him and tried to calm him down. Just breathe deep, in and out. The pain will go away soon. But youll be sore a long while.
No response.
I got up, pulled on my briefs and went to the bathroom where I retrieved skin lotion. I quickly rubbed a bit on my butt, and returned to my bedroom. Chuck didnt say anything as I rubbed lotion on his butt as gently as I could. He winced now and then, especially when I made contact with a raised welt.
Lets try and get some rest, I suggested, starting to make up the cot in the opposite corner. Stay in my bed, Chuck. No verbal response. But he rolled onto his side, with eyes closed, half asleep already. I noticed his erection had gone away as I pulled a sheet and blanket over him. Then I got in the cot and fell asleep.
Final notes:
The next day, once Chuck left, I discovered that not only was my pillow case crusty from his dripping nose, but the sheet was crusty right where his erection was. With hindsight, Im still not sure whether the strapping turned him on or not, but I know the force and rhythm of the blows must have created enough friction to cause him to orgasm.
Of course, Chuck and I never talked about the experience. And right about the middle of summer, about five months later, wee were moved to Fairfax, Virginia so Father could do some work in Washington D. C., our nations capital. Chuck and I lost touch and – though Ive tried to track him down – I havent been able to reestablish contact.