I was sitting on the carpeted floor in the living room leaning back against the end of the sofa reading a comic book. My 15-year-old step-brother Cliff passed through the room without noticing me. Stopping by the door that led down to the cellar he looked around nervously. I ducked down. Cliff was clearly up to something, and I didnt want to short-circuit his plans. It would be more fun to catch him in the act—whatever that might be! Cliff opened the door, stepped into the stairway, and closed the door behind him.
I waited a moment. Then I got up and crept to the door. I opened it carefully, anxious not to make any noise. Sliding through the opening, I caught sight of the strap hanging on a shiny brass hook on the back of the door. I shuddered a little, and memories rushed through my mind of the two occasions on which my step-father had used it on me.
The first licking—thats what Dad and Cliff called it, so that is what I also called it—occurred just short of two months after Robert Bouchard married my Mom and became my step-father. I got it for "sassing" my mother, being defiant, and cussing at my step-father under my breath. I got it severely, or so it seemed at the time. I got it following what I knew had been more than fair warning. Before the wedding, Mom, and my soon-to-be-Dad, whom I then addressed as "Uncle Robert," sat down with Cliff and me to discuss what it would mean for us to become a family. For Cliff it meant having a step-mother, who Cliffs father asserted forcefully, would be equal to him in authority and in her right to expect Cliffs respect and obedience. Cliff quickly and, it seemed to me, quite genuinely affirmed his understanding and acceptance of this situation. He loved my mother already. Shed been his Grade Seven teacher and he was the one whod brought her together with his father. Mom then turned to me and explained that "Uncle Robert" would become my father and that I would owe him the same respect and obedience that he expected from Cliff.
I felt a little uneasy about this, for I knew that "Uncle Robert" was strict with Cliff and used a strap to punish him. I asked, nervously, if that meant he could "spank" me.
Mom didnt hesitate to answer, "Yes, Tom, it does." She looked briefly at "Uncle Robert." Then she looked back at me and said, "I know hell be fair, and that you need to be held accountable for your behavior. You need discipline. Im glad that Ive not only found a wonderful husband for myself, but also a man who is willing to be your father in every way."
I looked at Mom, and then at "Uncle Robert." He smiled gently. I genuinely liked the man, and I knew he liked me. For as long as hed been seeing my mother hed made a genuine effort to build a positive relationship with me. Id often felt a longing to have a father, and I knew "Uncle Robert" would be a good one. Even his strictness was something I could embrace—at my best moments.
"Okay," I said, "I understand. But Im gonna behave so good he never has to, you know....."
"I do hope that turns out to be the case," my future step-father said.
Naturally, a 12-year-olds promises of perpetual virtue are never fulfilled! Three weeks after the wedding I got into an argument with my mother about cleaning up my half of the room I shared with Cliff. Cliff had complained about the mess I was leaving. I was angry with Cliff for what I saw as snitching and at Mom for what I viewed as taking his side against me.
"Watch your tone, young man," Dad scolded (Id taken, quite happily, to calling him "Dad" almost as soon as he and Mom had returned from their honeymoon). "I expect you to speak respectfully to your mother."
I struck a resistant pose but fortunately for myself kept my mouth shut. Had I sassed him I would probably have gotten my first strapping that day.
Dad frowned and said, "Son, youll stand down now if you know whats good for you."
I did. I caught myself and the rising attitude of defiance, apologized, and went to clean up my room. I didnt then, or ever, feel like shouting "Youre not my father!" or any of the other things angry step-children sometimes say to a step-parent. I had accepted him as my father, and wanted him as my father. I simply had to learn how to express that acceptance. Backing down in obedience had been the right move.
But I was twelve, and talking back to my mother had gotten into my system the way it does with many twelve-year-old boys. Dad knew it. Hed been through it already with Cliff, whod "had trouble" (Dads words) showing the proper respect for his Aunt Anne, Dads sister and Cliffs surrogate mother at the time. Dad was ready to have the same struggle with me hed had with Cliff. I gave it to him.
Two more weeks went by. Mom expected Cliff and me to accompany her to visit her cousin Emily, whod had a baby. Cliff wasnt especially happy about being taken on a two-hour drive on a sunny summer day to meet his step-mothers cousin, her new baby, and assorted other relatives. But Cliff didnt complain because his father made it clear that being gracious about such things went with his promise to show Mom respect and obedience. I, on the other hand, raised a loud fuss.
"It will be so boring, Mom! Therell be nothing to do! I was going fishing with Chris! Why do I have to go? Its not fair! Youre being so mean!"
Dad informed me that I had to go. "And youd better be on your best behavior, young man!"
I repeated my protests to Dad. Cliff gave me a warning look. Hed been where I was and knew where I was heading. I caught the look but disregarded it.
"Im not going!"
"Very well," Dad said calmly. "You can stay home."
I was surprised—stupidly—at how easily I had won, and was about to re-evaluate Dads apparent severity, when he dropped the other foot. I really should have seen it coming!
"Of course, youll stay in your room for the whole day, and your day will start with a licking. Or end with it, if youd prefer that." He never raised his voice. His tone remained matter-of-fact, unemotional.
I knew he wasnt making an idle threat. "Okay, Ill go!" I responded. "Okay?"
"Good, decision, son. But, like I said, you are to be on your best behavior. If I hear otherwise you and the strap will get to know one another. Is that clear, Thomas?" Still, Dads voice was even and calm, and utterly terrifying.
"Yes, Sir," I answered abjectly.
I worked hard during the drive to put myself into a good mood, and Cliff helped me out by telling jokes and playing a punching game with me. I survived the visit, being introduced to my newest cousin, who had the luxury of not having to control his behavior. He fussed and cried during most of the visit. My elderly Aunt Barbara pinched my cheeks and gushed over me. She did the same thing to Cliff and commented on what a "handsome" step-son Mom had. "You must have all the girls after you!" she exclaimed. Mom added to poor Cliffs embarrassment by saying that he took after his father and rolling her eyes in the way ladies did in the early 1960s when they were hinting at something slightly risqué. When we got home, Mom gave Dad a positive report on our behavior: "Perfect gentlemen, both of them!" Dad gave me a look that told me I was very lucky I had obeyed him.
Then the fateful day arrived. Taking a good length of rope, I made a noose and hanged myself! Mom informed me and Cliff that my cousin Geoff was going to spend a week with us. Hed sleep in our room, and I, who was just four months his elder, would be primarily responsible for his entertainment.
"Geoff? Mom! Hes a complete nerd! Hell be boring and stupid! How come he has to stay here?"
"First of all," my mother answered, obviously fighting to control her temper—my temper was an inherited characteristic, "its unkind to refer to your cousin that way, and I will expect you not to use that term when he is here. Second, I am sure that if you give him a chance, youll find that you can have a great deal of fun with him. Third, hes coming here because Auntie Janice thinks it would do him good to spend some time in the country and get out and do the kinds of things you like to do."
"This stinks, Mom!"
"Thomas," my mother responded, as if saying my name would suffice.
"What? What?" I spoke sharply.
"Thomas!" It was Dad. "I could hear you all the way out in the yard. What on earth is going on now?"
"Dad! Mom is being so unfair! Shes bringing my nerd cousin here for a whole week and making me baby-sit him! That just stinks, Dad!"
"Youre shouting at me, Thomas," Dad said, "and you were shouting at your mother, and I dont like the tone I heard."
"Well, Im mad!"
"I can see that, and I could hear it. But that is no excuse for the disrespect." Dad looked at my mother. "Your Mom and I have already discussed Geoffs visit, and we expect you to be a good host. Is that clear?"
"Yes." My answer was sullen and simmering.
"Yes, what, young man?"
"Yes, Sir." It was the sullen response of a boy who was angry with his father.
Years later, Dad—ever a poet—would tell me that the sullen response had the quality of beautiful music for him. He realized that I was comfortable enough with him to be rude! Of course, he wasnt going to let me get away with it. Id played my role perfectly and he had to respond to the cue.
"I think youd better go to your room, son."
"Why? Whatd I do?"
"I dont like that tone of voice."
"What tone of voice?" I asked, with exactly the tone in question.
Dad gave me a sharp, piercing look. I backed down, but with my anger barely concealed. I turned, and marched out of the living room growling and grumbling rather too loudly for my own good. Dad heard the words "f*ck" and "godd*mn." Suddenly, his strong carpenters hand was on the back of my neck, holding it as firmly as one of his vices held a piece of wood.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"Nothing!"
"I didnt hear nothing! You get on up to your room! You, young man, have just earned yourself a licking!"
As soon as he released the vice grip I spun around, rubbing the back of my neck exaggeratedly, and appealed to my mother for the first and only time against one of Dads discipline decisions. Dad stepped back. He knew, and I did, as did Mom, that this was a test of everything theyd told me about their marriage and Dads authority.
"You do as your father says," my mother answered.
I looked into her eyes. There wasnt a flicker of uncertainty. It became instantly clear to me that Mom absolutely supported Dads decision. Indeed, she seemed deeply relieved that he had taken it. He was being the kind of father shed wanted for me. She was not about to undermine him. I knew, then, that I was in serious trouble.
"Im sorry!"
"Too little, too late," Dad said in that steady, even tone that so frightened me. "Upstairs now, Mister!"
I spun around and hurried up to my room. My heart was racing and my stomach had contracted into a tight lump of nausea. With a desperate certainty, I allowed myself to understand that Dad was going to use the strap on me, and that nothing I could do, short of running away—or dying beforehand—could get me out of it.
I heard Dad come up the stairs. Unannounced he opened the door and entered my room. He had the strap with him. His strong jaw, shadowed with his dark beard, was set, and restrained anger glowed in his brown eyes. He set the strap on my bed and left the room without uttering a word.
Dad left me to wait for a half-hour in the unwelcome company of the strap. It was a razor strop, the kind Id grown up seeing hanging from barbers chairs. In rural Ontario in the early 1960s, they were still easy to come by, and many homes had them, although few of them were used for sharpening straight razors. Most of the fathers who owned one used safety razors for shaving and kept the razor strops to use on their sons just as their own fathers had used one on them. Of the ten boys I considered genuine friends, four also had razor strops in their homes. Five had fathers who used belts. The tenth boy had a father who was content to use his open palm. In school, there was also a strap, although this one was applied across the extended palms of the hands. My mother didnt wield it herself, but most of the male teachers had one, and she never had trouble finding someone willing to lay on the licks. Being a Grade Seven teacher, Mom appealed frequently to the threat of "the strap," and made good on the threat whenever she felt she had to. Mostly it was boys who got it, and it was widely assumed that they, more than girls, benefited from the sanction.
In my room, waiting, I looked over at the strap and struggled with my fear. It was almost as if the thing was moving, slowly, sneaking up on me, about to strike like a fat poisonous snake. I was trembling, and the knot of nausea where my stomach had been almost hurt. I also felt like I had to pee and wondered if I should get up and go to the bathroom. What if I wet myself? That would make a terrible situation truly ghastly! Then I worried that going out to the bathroom might get me into trouble. Dad had sent me to my room, after all. I was supposed to stay there! Finally, my aching bladder made my decision for me. I was about to burst. I hurried to the bathroom, took care of my need, and scurried back to the room.
Finally—I was almost relieved—I heard Dad coming up the stairs. My pulse quickened with each firm step on the old painted wood. Hearing him reach the top of the stairs, I rose to meet him. I faced the door and listened to Dad come down the hall. He stopped outside my door.
Oh, God! Oh, God! Im so scared! I dont care if Im a big fat chicken! Im scared!
Dad opened the door, stepped into my room, and closed the door behind him. He looked at me, and I saw that the angry glow had faded. It had been replaced by a kind of sadness Id never seen before. I put my head down. I thought about how disrespectful Id been and wished I hadnt been, not only because it had earned me a licking, but because it had put up a barrier between myself and my Dad, whom I knew I loved.
Still, I wasnt ready to submit to the licking without first trying to save my hide. "Please, Dad," I whimpered, "dont. I wont ever, ever, ever do it again! I promise! Honest, I wont!"
Dad sighed. "Thomas, son, its just too late for that. It wont work. I never did know a boy who didnt say how terribly sorry he was and that he wouldnt do it again when he was facing a licking. Clifford did it. And Ill tell you that I did it when I was a boy. But once youve done the wrong, saying you wont do it again just to save your backside isnt the same as being really sorry. Once youve done wrong, son, youve got to be punished."
"But I am sorry!"
"Im sure somehow you are, Thomas. But being sorry doesnt get you out of being punished. If youre truly sorry, son, if you know you did wrong, youll take your punishment. Thats what a real man does. Do you understand me, boy?"
Dad had me. I desperately wanted to be a man! I knew Dad was a man, and I knew Cliff was getting to be one. I wanted to know how to get there, and I understood that it involved more than simply getting older and bigger.
"Yes, Sir," I answered softly, trying not to cry.
Dad stepped past me, took the pillows on my bed, and stacked them, one atop the other, in the center of the bed. Then he stood behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Youre my son now, Thomas, and Ill expect you to take what youve got coming," he said firmly. "Now, take off your pants and your underwear and get up with your middle over those pillows."
Id know what to expect. Cliff had given me a detailed description of what was involved in a licking from his father, our father. Still, I struggled to obey. I was afraid, and I was anticipating my embarrassment. I had been an only child, raised by my mother alone from the death of my father when I was only two. Id always been shy about undressing in front of other boys, and had become shyer as Id begun my journey into puberty and become more self-conscious of my body. But I knew I had to obey. Refusal would only make things worse. I also didnt want to appear weak and babyish. My fingers trembled violently as I unfastened the button on my jeans, lowered the zipper, and pulled the jeans down to my ankles. I stumbled as I pulled them off over my feet.
Dad reached forward and took them from me. He said nothing.
I hesitated as I put my hands to the waistband of my white cotton briefs. I felt the urge to turn and beg and plead once again for mercy, for forgiveness, for a second chance, but I resisted the urge, and finally found enough fortitude to yank my briefs down and off.
Dad took those from me too.
Naked from the waist down, except for my blue socks, I fumbled up onto the bed, modestly shielding my genitals. I got down on the pillows as instructed, with my feet pointed at the foot of the bed. I became instantly aware of how the pillows elevated my behind as a ready target. I had never felt so naked.
"Fold your arms under your chest," Dad instructed, "and keep them there. Dont try to reach back to cover your backside. If you do, youll get it on your hands, and Ill give you more on you behind too. Dont try to roll away. If I end up hitting whats up front youll decide what I was giving to your behind wasnt much at all. You can cry and yell all you want, son. Its going to hurt, and I expect youll let me know just how much it hurts. But dont think you can get me to stop by begging and crying. It wont work, son, and youll just shame yourself. Better to show me what youre made of and try to take it like a man."
I had closed my eyes and was silently praying. There are no atheists in fox holes, or stretched out on a bed about to get a licking with a razor strop. I heard Dad step to the foot of the bed and take up the strap. He stepped back into place along side me. I knew he was looking down at my bare behind. His gaze was almost palpable.
"Im not going to waste my breath with a long lecture and scolding right now, son. Your ears will be more open to instruction when this is over. But I do want you to listen while I tell you why youre getting a licking. Son, Im laying on the strap because you sassed your mother. Im also doing it because you were disrespectful to me. And Im doing it because of the words I heard you saying. I really ought to also wash your mouth out with some good strong soap for what you said, and I will, Thomas, if I dont think the strap has made enough of an impression. Do you understand, son?"
"Yes, Sir," I whimpered.
Although I would have been elatedly happy to have escaped the licking, I knew Dad was right. I deserved it. Id done everything hed listed, and Id known that each was an offense worthy of a licking. I had never been especially good at denying my guilt when Id done wrong. I was blessed with a healthy conscience. With Dad my conscience seemed to work even more powerfully, probably because he knew exactly what to say, and how to say it, in order to get inside of me and make me admit that I had been disobedient and foolish.
I heard Dad step back and raise the strap. He paused to aim the stroke. I braced myself as best I knew how, unaware that clenching ones buttocks only made a lick of the strap hurt worse. Dad brought the strap down across the round upper curve of my buttocks. I heard it slice through the air.
CRACK! The thick, well-oiled leather—Dad made Cliff, and later me, oil it once in a while—landed cleanly across my rear, leaving behind a searing stripe.
I clenched my fists, my eyes popped open, and I let out a strangled gasp. I had imagined it would hurt, but no amount of imagining had prepared me for just how much it hurt. Id been telling myself that I could "take it like a man," bravely, stoically. Id seen a movie hero, maybe it was Kirk Douglas, endure a bare-back flogging without crying out, and Id imagined doing the same. Instead, following the gasp, when Id managed to suck the air back into my lungs, I let out a pitiful sob, and the tears flowed. At that moment, I was certain that one lick was enough, but I knew Dad was planning on applying more. Cliffs account had made that perfectly clear: "And whatever you think is enough, Dad will give you more!"
Dad laid on the second lick. His aim was precise. It tore across virgin skin just beneath the spot where the first lick had fallen. My behind was small, and the strap wide. That lick edged into what is commonly known as the "sit-spot" and I knew it at once. There was no gasp this time. I let out a full-throated cross between a scream and a sob.
Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! This hurts! This hurts so bad! Please! Please! Please! Not much more! Please!
I almost pulled my hands out from under me and put them back to protect my behind, but I managed to think of the strap coming down across them, and of the threatened additional licks Id get, and I held myself under control.
Dad swung the strap again. I gritted my teeth, pressed my eyes shut, and hoped against hope that I could keep from howling. Dad laid the third lick clean across the tender skin where my small, round buttocks curved down to the backs of my legs. My attempt to keep from crying out failed. I let out another scream-sob.
"Please, Dad! Please! No more!" I begged, instantly feeling ashamed of myself, but unable to keep from crying out.
Dad ignored my plea. I heard him step back, take a breath, and swing the strap again.
"No!" I howled, as the strap cut through the air. "OWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" I shrieked when it again connected with my behind, laying a fresh strip of fire atop the spot where the first lick had fallen. I knew that Dad was starting again, about to work his way down.
Dad raised the strap.
Oh, God, no! Oh, no! Please! No! Not again!
CRACK! The strap landed again. As Dad lifted it away, it felt as if he had pealed off a layer of skin with it. I let out another lusty cry.
I knew, with dread certainty, like a man in the guillotine waiting for the sharp blade to fall, where the next stroke would land.
CRACK! Dad lashed the "sit-spot" and the tender skin burned. I let out a cry that made me wonder if I really was about to die.
I readied myself for another. But it didnt come.
"Thats enough," Dad said, sounding tired.
Then, in the seconds following the end of the whipping, as the blood rushed into the stimulated tissue and nourished the nerve endings, the burning sting quickened and intensified, and I was assaulted by my own body. I lay on the bed, my behind burning and throbbing, and I sobbed. It took me just moments to feel that my sobbing was unmanly and undignified, and I brought it under control. I willed myself to stop crying, and I moved my hands from under my chest to wipe away the tears on my cheeks.
Dad sat down on the bed next to me and I felt his hand on my shoulder. He just held it there, saying nothing, making his presence felt in a way different than he had with the strap. I didnt know if I could look at him. I kept my head down, resting my forehead on the spread, my hands on either side of my face. I wasnt trying to be rebellious, or disrespectful. I was simply profoundly embarrassed about the state I was in, bare-bottomed, wet-faced, red-nosed, swollen-eyed, and genuinely sorry for my misbehavior, mostly, at that point, because of what it had got me, a behind that still throbbed and burned.
Dad patted my shoulder and stood. "You pull yourself together now, son. You mustnt lie up here feeling sorry for yourself or angry with me. Ill leave you now. Get up, get dressed, wash your face, blow your nose, and then come out to my workshop and well have a talk. You understand?"
"Yes, Sir." I lifted my face to answer.
Dad left the room. I knew, although Dad had not said it in so many words, that I had to obey his parting instructions or I would suffer a further licking. Shortly after Dad left, I slid down off the pillows, and got myself to my feet.
"My bum, my bum, my bum," I groaned, reaching back almost instinctively to rub the stinging skin. I considered, with amazement, that Dad had given me just six licks. That, I decided, had been more than enough! How, I wondered, could Cliff have endured the twenty licks he claimed hed got for his last licking?
I found my jeans and briefs set over the back of my desk chair and pulled them on, wincing a little as I drew the elastic waistband of my briefs up over the recently-flogged skin. I gingerly tucked in my shirt. Then I went down to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. The last time Id seen myself looking like this Id been suffering from a vicious stomach flu and had been throwing up all night. I splashed cold water on my face, blew my nose, dried off, and then combed my hair. I looked marginally better.
I made my way downstairs, feeling almost as if I hadnt been there in years. I could hear Mom in the kitchen, obviously keeping herself busy. I wondered where Cliff was, imagining that hed gone off somewhere to avoid having to deal with Dad when he was in a bad mood. I went out the front floor of our house and around to Dads workshop. It was built over what had been the external entrance to the cellar, and one could enter it from the cellar if one wished. I assumed Dad had gone that way. But I avoided it, both because the door to the cellar was close to the kitchen, and I wasnt ready to face Mom, and because I imagined Dad had returned the strap to its hook on the back of the door, and I didnt wish to see that thing again so soon after its use.
I opened the door and slid timidly inside. Dad was seated on a stool at his workbench carefully sanding a joint on a desk drawer he was repairing. I stood, silently, and watched him. I knew he was aware of my presence. Finally, he spoke.
"Do you know why you should respect and obey your mother, Tom?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir. Because she takes care of me, and loves me, and works hard for me, and because the Bible says I have to," I answered.
"And what about me?"
"Yes, Sir. The same reasons."
"You do know I love you, dont you?"
"Yes, Sir. I do. I, I love you too." My voice broke a little and I got a lump in my throat. I did love my step-father.
"You did utter vulgarities didnt you, Tom?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you think its right to use words like those, son?"
"No, Sir."
"Do you think I need to wash your mouth out with soap?"
"I hope not, Sir. But, but, if you think I deserve it....."
"I wont this time. But if I ever hear them again, youll get a licking and a mouth-soaping. Got that, son?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I didnt like giving you a licking, Tom, but I did what I had to. You couldnt be allowed to get away with sass, and disrespect, and cussing. When you have a son of your own, youll understand better." Dad hadnt look at me. Hed continued to focus on the desk drawer he was sanding. But now he set down the sandpaper, got up from his stool, and came towards me.
I looked at him, trying to look into his eyes again, wanting to see that he had really forgiven me. Dad stopped, stood in front of me, and looked down into my eyes. He nodded at me and then extended his hand. I put my hand out and took his. He held my hand and squeezed it firmly. I stepped forward, Dad put his other hand on my shoulder, and let me step into an embrace. I put my arm around him, pressed my face against his solid chest, and felt him rub my back.
"Youve been punished, son, and paid for your wrongs. I hope we can go on now without hard feelings. I know youre not a bad boy," Dad said.
"Okay, Dad," I responded, lifting my face away from his chest. "I know I deserved it, and Ill do better from now on. Im sorry about what I did. No hard feelings."
After that, Dad told me to go and apologize to my mother, and said I could return and work with him if I wanted. I went at once, found my mother, and offered a sincere apology. I promised Id do my best to be nice to Geoff. Mom, despite her firm conviction that Id deserved the licking, nevertheless clearly had been pained by it. She was quite ready to forgive me. She hugged and kissed me, accepted my assurance that I would not sass her again, and then sent me back to Dad.
TO-BE-CONTINUED