This is the story of the worst (and last) spanking I ever got. I still think about it a lot even though I am 23 now.
When I was 16 and living in Colorado I raced Motocross. I was pretty good and had even won a championship for my age group in the 80cc class when I was 15. Anyway, one February I was fooling around at the Valley Dirt Riders track in Denver when my bike hit a patch of ice and I went flying and broke my left leg. After the cast came off I was not supposed to ride for eight weeks, to let it heal up completely. I still had two weeks to go and had promised my dad up and down that I wouldn't get on a bike until then. But being a stupid kid, what did I do, I snuck off one Saturday with my friend Jon and we took turns riding his Husqvarna dirt bike. It was lots of fun as I had not ridden for about three months! I had told my little brother Jeremy to tell my dad I was at the mall if he asked. So, second stupid move, when Jon drops me off at my house I am still wearing my riding suit, which is kind of a nylon jumpsuit. Anyway I see my dad's car and tell Jon to let me out down the block, and I cut thru the neighbor's yard into the garage, where my plan is to change clothes.
I am halfway out of the jumpsuit when Dad comes in the garage and says, Jeff, where have you been? I decide I better not stick with my mall story and instead say I was out at the track watching Jon ride. And Dad asks me if I rode any and I say no sir. So he asks why I have clay and grease all over my cuffs: "Tell me the truth, Son." So I decide the jig is pretty much up and level with him. I just rode a little, I say, and was real careful.
"Why did Jeremy say you were at the mall?"
"Because ... that's where I was planning to go."
"Jeff, you don't go to the mall in a jumpsuit. You had Jeremy lie to me, didn't you? Don't lie to me again."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir, what? Jeremy lied?"
"Yes sir." I was down looking at my shoes.
"Speak up, son."
"Yes sir! I'm sorry, Dad ... Sir."
Dad told me to finish changing and wait in my room. I put on some jeans, sneakers and a clean T-shirt. I headed down the hall. I could hear Jeremy. He was crying: Daddy, Daddy, please don't. I promise I won't lie. No, please. Please. Sobbing.
I duck into my room just as Dad comes out of Jeremy's room. I crack my door to where I can hear what's going on and sit on the bed. Even though I can't see it, I know what's going to happen to Jeremy. I hear Dad open the hall closet. That's to get the paddle. I hadn't gotten it since I was 11.
Dad says something to Jeremy in a low voice. Telling him to come with him into the garage. They both head down the hall, Jeremy bawling: Daddy, Daddy, no, please.
I hear the door from the kitchen to the garage open. Then Dad lecturing Jeremy. Raising his voice some but not a lot. I hear the word "lie" repeated a few times. Then the sound of the door closing. Dad's muffled voice, probably telling Jeremy to take his pants down. Then maybe 10 seconds of silence. And then smack. Smack smack smack. Jeremy bawling, yelling. Smack smack smack. More shrieking, the sound of something hitting the washing machine. Silence. Dad's voice. I am 90 percent sure the situation is this: Jeremy was getting paddled bent over the laundry table and he started kicking, hitting the washer, so Dad told him to take his sneakers off. Dad's muffled voice again: probably telling him to stand in front of the washing machine. Then the paddling starts up again, this time without interruption: Smack smack smack smack. Jeremy is crying, on and off, the whole time. I can hear him bawling the words Daddy, Daddy. Also: I'm sorry. Finally it stops and I hear the door open and Dad call my name. It seems to take about five minutes to walk the 25 feet down the hall to the door to the garage.
Sure enough Jeremy is standing barefoot facing the washer with his jeans and underpants around his ankles. His Reeboks and socks in a pile next to him. He is looking at me crying, or trying to cry, but no sound is coming out of his mouth. His face is really red and tears are running down his cheeks. His Metallica T-shirt is hanging down over his butt so I can't see what the damage is.
"Take him to his room and then get back in here," Dad says. "And put on your sweatshirt."
That's because it's kind of chilly in the garage and, I guess, my pants will be keeping just my ankles warm.
Pull up your Levi's, I tell Jeremy, but he just stands there with the dry heaves. So I pull them up for him, or start to, but when I try to hitch his briefs up I lift his T-shirt and see his bottom. It looks like fresh hamburger. So I let the jeans fall back down and tell him to step out of them. Then I pick up the pants, shoes and socks with one hand and guide Jeremy back to his room with the other. Suddenly he finds his voice again and starts bawling. I had to tell him, he sobs, Daddy made me tell.
It's okay, I say. I tell him to lie down on his stomach. I put a sweatshirt on over my tee and head back down the hall for whatever is waiting for me.
Dad is obviously pretty mad. How could you do such a foolish thing when your leg is almost healed, he asks. And having Jeremy lie about it, and lying myself, makes it even worse. I look at the floor at my shoes.
"Yes sir."
"Jeff, you're going to get a spanking with the paddle. And again a week from today. You won't be able to ride a motorcycle again until your leg is completely healed. Do you understand?"
I gulp. "Yes sir," I say. I think of some other things I could say but it seems pretty pointless. I am going to get it no matter what.
Dad closes the door into the house. Then we get into the logistics of how I am going to be spanked.
"Take off your pants."
I put my right foot on the bumper of Dad's car and undo the laces, then the left foot. Then pull the sneakers off. I'm not wearing any socks and the cement floor is cold. There is a little rug in front of the washer where Jeremy got his spanking.
"Stand over there, Son. Hand me your jeans."
I watch myself take off my pants. It's almost like I am watching a movie of some other poor kid taking off his pants, like this is happening to someone else. Dad drapes my 501's over the laundry tub. Then looks down at my underwear and nods.
I step out of my Jockeys and look at Dad, unsure what he wants me to do next.
"Stand over there."
I take two steps over to the washer and stand in front of it, on the little rug. I clasp my hand together and rest my arms on top of the washing machine.
Dad reaches around me and rolls up my sweatshirt and T-shirt, to just above my waist. The washer is cold where my stomach touches it. I am standing there, waiting, and nothing happens. I look back behind me and Dad is looking all over the room. He can't remember where he put the paddle.
"Dad?"
"What?!"
"Here it is." I reach up to the little shelf above the washer and hand him the paddle. It is rectangular and maybe three-quarters of an inch thick. Both the grip and the part that will hit my bare bottom are covered with sweat.
"Dad?"
"What is it, Son?" He is getting kind of exasperated.
"I'm sorry."
"I know, Son. So am I. Now turn around."
I turn around and stare at the washing machine controls. KENMORE, it says. Dad is wiping the paddle off with a towel. I can feel a cool breeze on my behind, kind of an unusual sensation. Dad reaches his left arm around my stomach and tells me to put my legs together. So I put my feet side by side on the little rug and then I look down at my watch. Then the paddling begins. It lasts a little over 12 minutes.
Maybe 30 whacks in the first minute, but then I lose track. Pow pow pow. I can hear them echoing off the walls in the garage. Between each whack I am sucking in air. Dad and I get kind of a rhythm going: Whack, gasp, whack, gasp. There is not much talking.
When I put all my weight on my elbows and bend my knees so my legs lift up off the rug, Dad says, "Keep your feet on the floor."
I am able to keep from crying for maybe 8 minutes. "It hurts," I say. "It hurts, Dad."
Pow pow pow pow pow. Pow pow pow pow pow. I am crying just like a little kid, it hurts so much.
It feels like someone has a blowtorch on my butt. The individual smacks have stopped hurting and the instead pain is continuous. When my bottom is sufficiently red, Dad stops.
"Go to your room, Jeff," he says, and walks out of the garage. But I just stand there in front of the washer crying. I am thinking about when Dad and I have to do this again next week.