Here I am sitting here in a pair of new tight blue wranglers, and it brings to mind the story of two times when my brother and I got our wranglers warmed by dad. Dad was of stern German stock, and he didn't put up with much from us as we were growing up. Just saying or doing the wrong thing could set him off and we would find ourselves over his knees getting a whipping for somthing. And when we got whipped, we got whipped hard! We didn't sit down for a while, to say the least.

In a previous story I wrote, I mentioned that some day I would get even for my brother Wayne's smirky smile after I had gotten whipped on my bare ass for the first time. I vowed I would get even, and that day came.

Wayne had stolen something small from a store, and the owner pretended he didn't notice. But he did, and when Dad came into the store, the owner said to him, "Did you know that little imp of yours took a piece of candy from the counter today?"

That made dad more than mad. He came home that night and took Wayne by the arm and confronted him.

"Did you steal a piece of candy from the store today?

Wayne didn't say anything, but he kind of hung his head.

Dad then turned to me, and asked me if I knew anything about it.

"You tell the truth or you'll both get your asses warmed."

That was enough. I had indeed seen Wayne take a small piece of candy from the counter top in the store, and I knew I'd get my ass warmed if I didn't tell the truth, so I said yes.

In less than a minute, Dad grabbed Wayne by the arm and took him over to his favorite chair and bent him over his knees. I was told to stand and watch, because if I tried the same thing ever I would get the same punishment.

There was Wayne, lying across dad's knees, with his butt tightly clad in his favorite pair of Wranglers, and Dad was really laying it on him.

Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack...."

The sound of that spanking could be heard all over the house, as Dad punctuated it with questions, like, "Are you ever gonna do it again? Are you sorry you stole that candy, 'cause you're paying for it now? Do you know how embarrassed I was to have someone tell me my son stole something? "

The whipping went on for what seemed like fifteen minutes, though it was probably more like 8-10 minutes all total All the time Wayne kept trying to get up and kept trying to reach back and rub his butt, but Dad kept on saying, "Get your hands away or you're going to get more."

When it finally ended, Wayne got up and rubbed the seat of his Wranglers over and over again and looked over at me from time to time as he kept crying. I had a smirk on my face this time, but Dad wiped it off really fast when he said to me, "Wipe that smirk off your face or I'll give it to you, too!"

You can bet Wayne didn't sit for a while in those Wranglers. They were surely smoking!

The second story involves that same pair of Wranglers a couple of months later.

This time I was wearing them. I had decided to go out to where Dad was working at the time. I think by this time (pre-teens) I was already looking for an occasion to make Dad mad enough to give me a whipping. I had gotten them so often I was beginning to like the feeling I got with each one.

Anyway, I couldn't find a pair of my own jeans, so I decided to wear Wayne's (by now) old faded Wranglers. I practically had to use a shoe horn to get into them , since he was smaller than I, but I buttoned them and pulled up the zipper. They really fit tight, and I looked good in them, but there was hardly any room to breathe, though.

I walked out the mile or so to where Dad was building a new building for someone, and I just hung around while Dad did his thing, He had only one instruction for me.

"You can stay if you want, but don't fool around with any of this guy's new equipment. I haven't got the kind of money it would take to have to fix it."

That worked for a while, but I got curious and started fooling around with a certain machine to see if it worked. Oh, it worked all right. I couldn't get it to stop working. That's when Dad showed up on the scene.

He got it to stop, but it was only beginning for me.

"Come with me, NOW" was all he had to say. I knew I was in for it.

We walked out behind the building, and he found a maple tree, and broke a switch off the tree, peeling all the leaves and twigs from it. I knew what was next.

Dad never switched us before. He used his hand to whip us, but this time he started landing that switch across the seat of those Wranglers. Remember: they were skin-tight?

SWITCH, SWITCH, SWITCH, SWITCH, SWITCH...

Man, oh man, did that switch sting my butt. Each time it hurt all the more, and I was in sheer agony. He just kept scolding me and wielding that switch. I am guessing it was more like fifteen times, I got it, but it sure seemed like a lot more. My knees were buckling from the sheer pain of the switch.

When he was finished he let me go, and put me in the car and took me home. He didn't say a word to Mom or to anybody else. But I am sure they knew my tail had gotten wamed in those Wranglers. You could read it on my face, and I could read it on my butt.

I can feel a warming sensation in these Wranglers even as I tell these two stories of "tails of warmed Wranglers," (pun intended.)