When I was 18 years old, I left home for college. I hadn't done really well in high school, but my grades were good enough to get me into a state college that was about 200 miles from home.
I had a great time my first semester. I spent a lot of time out partying and drinking at parties. Not a whole lot of time in class... I just couldn't bring myself to get up for those seven am classes after coming home at four in the morning. I also felt that it was necessary to repay the hospitality of those who invited me to their parties... I gave my own in my dorm room.
Needless to say, I went home for Christmas, and my grades shortly followed. Not good. I had a few "D's," and a string of "F's." There was also a letter informing me that I would not be allowed to return to the dorm. If I went back next semester, I was on Academic Probation, and I had to live off campus because of some things that happened at the dorm. My parents were furious... they were footing the bill for everything. After a miserable holiday, my dad sat me down and explained the following: I would be returning to college, and he expected my grades to improve. He was not going to make me go to work (yet) because he felt I needed to concentrate on the studying. He also explained that he'd come up with a solution for the housing problem, and he felt that this solution would help with the grades too. I was going to live with my two uncles- my dads two brothers- who lived near campus. He'd talked to them, and they agreed to let me stay with them at no cost to my dad. If this didn't work, that was it. I was on my own. Initially, I thought this was a good plan. My uncles were both pretty cool guys, and I'd gone by and seen them a few times during my first semester. My dad gave me one final lecture about "improving the grades," and told me that he was leaving me in the capable hands of his brothers. I headed back to school, vowing to do better, but also knowing that realistically, my grades weren't going to get that much better.
I arrived at my uncles house the Saturday before registration. I got in about six pm, and I figured I'd dump my stuff, and head out and see what my friends were doing. I'd just turned 19 and I thought I was looking pretty "mature," and was hoping to be able to get into a bar or two without being ID'd. My uncles had a different plan. Both had just got home from work, and seemed glad to see me. But they also said I wasn't going anywhere. They said tonight was going to be the night for "laying down the ground rules." My uncle Vince said, "Stow your _s_h_i_t_ in your room and come back out to the living room."
I dragged my bags into what was going to be my room, and returned to the living room, wondering what was up. I said both my uncles had just come home from work- they're both motorcycle cops with the city police. Uncle Vince was 45, and had been on the department since he was around 21. He was twice divorced, and had only moved in with my uncle Jack about a year and a half ago to save expenses. Uncle Vince was a hugely intimidating figure... he was 6'4" tall, and about 250 lbs of mostly muscle. He had a heavy black mustache that crept down past the corners of his mouth. He once told me that his Sergeant was constantly harassing him about keeping it trimmed. His hair was in a short, standard police cut- over the ears, but getting a little shaggy. He was pretty hairy... I could see course, heavy hair growing on both of his arms. Uncle Jack was 28, and had been on the department for about three years. He'd never been married. He was just an inch shorter than uncle Vince, and didn't have an ounce of body fat on him. He worked out at the gym about four times a week. He also wore a thick mustache, but he kept it trimmed nice and crisp. His hair was cut in a fresh high n tight. I found out later that he cut his hair himself once a week. Both of them were still in uniform: crisp black city police issue. Breeches, and black leather high-boots that came up almost to their knees, shined so sharply that I could almost see my reflection. Both wore thick black leather duty belts, with heavy silver buckles. Both were packing Sig 45's, the holsters supported by a black cross-strap that went across their chests and down their backs. Uncle Jack was still wearing his riding gloves... black leather, with the fingers cut out.
Uncle Vince immediately told me to sit down, and gestured to a wooden chair near the middle of the room. He leaned casually up against the wall in front of me. Uncle Jack stood behind me, and immediately clamped his hands on my shoulders. I jumped a little, but didn't really find it unusual... both of them had always been kind of touchy in a kind of a rough, masculine way. He began massaging my shoulders and neck roughly. It felt good, but every once and a while, he'd hit a nerve and it would pinch. Uncle Vince was lighting a thick, dark brown cigar. "Son," he said around the smoke, "You're with the men now. And we're gonna put you in line." He took a long drag on the cigar. "We've had a long talk with you daddy, and I think we both have a pretty firm grasp on what your problems are. Boy, we're gonna take care of those problems." Uncle Jack's fingers tightened the back of my neck. I was starting to get a little nervous. "Boy, we're gonna lay down the rules," Uncle Vince said, "Let you know exactly what's expected of you, and exactly what's going to happen to you if you step out of line. You're going to learn very quickly that we are both authoritarian, and disciplinarian in nature." "Rule number one, boy: When you speak to either of us, or to any other man in our presence, you use the word `sir.' Every time boy. You understand that?"
"Well," I thought, "That's not that bad." It seemed a little out of the ordinary... growing up, I called my dad "sir" from time to time... usually when he was pissed off. That probably came from him. "Yes, sir," I answered.
"Rule number two. You will bring to us copies of every test, and every paper that you write. To start with, we expect a grade of `C' or better. Later on, we'll expect better."
"Yes, sir." I had expected that.
"Rule number three. You'll have a heavy set of chores you'll do around the house. Jack will give you your first assignments tomorrow. Mostly, it'll be yard work, and housecleaning. But we'll come up with some other _s_h_i_t_ as we go on." "Rule number four. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings, you're confined to the house. That also goes for the nights before tests. We're gonna keep an eye on your activities during the rest of the week too. Depending on your behavior and performance, we might get a little lax on that rule. We also might have to tighten it up."
I was starting to get pissed. This was looking like I wasn't going to have any fun at all.
I started to protest, but uncle Jack tightened his grip on my shoulders, and said, "Shut up, boy, we're not done yet."
Uncle Vince looked at me with something that was almost amusement. "Let's talk about discipline," he said, "I know from talking to your daddy that he's always been lax on you. That probably comes from your mother." "When it comes to discipline, boy, we're from the old school. A good, old fashioned trip to the woodshed will usually work wonders. And son, you're gonna find that we both have a heavy hand when it comes to use of the strap."
I was horrified. Neither of my parents had ever hit me.
Uncle Vince must have been reading my mind. He said, "I know you never got the belt, boy. But the belt, can be a very effective tool when it comes to disciplining a young man. And son, in your case, we're well beyond the belt." He took a few puffs on his cigar, turned it around in his hand, and contemplated it. "Son, we're gonna use a razor strap on you. A well oiled, heavy, thick, leather razor strap. The same one that your grandfather used on us."
That was enough. I tired to stand up, but was pushed back down by uncle Jack. I went off. I told them that I wasn't staying with them. That this was bull_s_h_i_t_. That I was 19!
"Son," Uncle Vince said, "You don't have much choice. In fact, you don't have any choice at all. You go back home, and your daddy's going to throw you out on your ass. You can't support yourself. There's nowhere for you to go."
This was true. I knew he was completely right. "Does my father know about this?" I asked.
"Son," Uncle Jack spoke from behind me for the first time, "Who's idea do you think this was?"
I settled down, and started to think about this. They were making it sound rough, but was it really going to be that bad? Maybe they were just trying to scare me. They'd always been cool in the past... a little strict, maybe, but not bad. Right then, I made up my mind- I'd try it at least. If it was that bad, I'd go home and try to work on my father. "OK," I said, "I'll stay."
"Good boy," Uncle Jack said, loosening up on my shoulders a little.
Uncle Vince was not smiling. "Boy," he asked, "What is rule number one?"
I didn't have a clue. After hearing about the strappings in store for me, most of the rules were gone from my mind.
Apparently, my face was blank because Uncle Vince said, "Rule number one: When you speak to either of us, or when you speak to another man in our presence, you will use the word `sir.'"
"Oh. Sorry, sir."
"Buddy boy," he said, "In the past few minutes, you've spoken several times and haven't addressed me as `sir.' I'd be willing to let that slide, except for the fact that you've never been whipped before. We're going to head out to the garage, and I'm going to light your ass up with the strap. Partially for not calling me `sir,' but mostly because I want you to know what the sting of the strap feels like. When we threaten you with the strap, I want you to know fear. I want you to know exactly what's in store."
Uh-oh. I didn't think this was going to be happening this quick.
"Being that we don't have a woodshed, the garage is going to have to do," Uncle Jack said, "Get on your feet, and get your ass out there." I stood up, and let Uncle Jack guide me through the kitchen, and out to the garage. He kept one hand firmly planted on the back of my neck. We entered the garage, and I could immediately smell a whole spectrum of odors... sawdust, paint, motor oil. And the now ever present smell of Uncle Vince's cigar.
As he came in, he immediately unhooked a leather strap that was hanging on the wall. I couldn't believe the size of it. It was huge! A thick, black leather strap that was more than two inches wide. It nearly glistened in the light... it was obviously well oiled. Uncle Vince spoke without taking the cigar out of his mouth. His orders were sharp and crisp. It was the voice of a cop. Of someone who expected to be obeyed immediately. "Pull your jeans, and your shorts down around your ankles."
I hesitated a second... I hadn't thought about this.
"Move boy!" Uncle Jack ordered.
Hesitantly, I undid my jeans, and pulled them down. I was more nervous about pulling my underpants down, and started to do so slowly. From behind, Uncle Jack grabbed the back, and yanked them down all the way.
"Now bend over that sawhorse," Uncle Vince ordered. I did, and was able to rest me knees on a low sawhorse. My chest came down on a second sawhorse that was a little higher.
"Grab hold of the workbench, boy," Uncle Jack said.
I reached forward, and held onto the edge of a workbench against the wall. From behind me, I felt Uncle Jack's boot between my legs. He pushed both of my feet as far apart as they would go... not very far, since my jeans were around my ankles, but I still felt like my rear end was horribly exposed.
"Son," Uncle Vince said, "I'm not going to give you any bull_s_h_i_t_ about `this is going to hurt me, more than it does you.' You're here to take your discipline. I'm gonna light your ass up, and you're gonna take it. While you're being strapped, you keep your mouth shut, and take your discipline like a man. I want you to try and stay as still as you can. Your Uncle Jack's going to help hold you in place, but I want you to quickly learn to stay still. If this ever turns into a problem, I have no qualms about handcuffing you in place."
Uncle Jack stood next to me, and again clamped his hand down on the back of my neck. I could feel the leather from his glove. His fingers were digging into my neck.
Uncle Vince paused. "Look straight ahead at the wall, son."
I did, and focused on a rack with a set of screwdrivers hanging from the wall. I heard the first blow before I felt it. The sound of leather cutting through the air. Then, like lightning, it came down on my ass. My first thought was, "this isn't going to be that bad." Sure, it stung, but the sting was going away almost immediately. Then the second blow came down. The heavy sting again, but this time it left a throbbing sore spot. By the fifth blow, I was in agony, and tried to pull up. Uncle Jack pushed down hard on my neck. Each lash gave a burning sting, but my whole ass was becoming very tender, and was starting to ache. Uncle Vince worked the strap well. He efficiently, and effectively leathered my entire ass with the strap. When Uncle Jack finally let me up, I was dizzy. I'd managed to keep my mouth shut, but I felt like I was ready to burst forth sobbing. My eyes were watering.
Uncle Vince only gave me 20 lashes on that first strapping. And compared to what came later, he went very easy on me. I learned very quickly that spring that when Uncle Vince used the strap, he was thorough, and effective. Every blow counted. When Uncle Jack disciplined me, the strapping always went on longer. Usually with some pauses in between each lash. I also learned that one of the other chores my uncles developed for me was to keep that strap freshly oiled and ready at all times. It was a long spring.