Around the Corner, Down the Hall

I hate literature.

Not the subject (and certainly not the material), just the class.

Actually, I don’t really hate the class either. I just hated my seventh grade teacher’s class. She was nice and a decent teacher, but instead of just giving me the assignments and getting out of my way (as most of my lit teachers had the sense to do), she expected me to keep to the snail’s pace she set for the class.

Boring!

At least Mrs. Grimes (no jokes, please) was fairly liberal about allowing the use of the restroom pass. I tried not to take advantage of it, but every once in a while, it just seemed to be necessary. I’m not sure if I really needed it that day—just needed a break from a boring class discussion—or if my spanko-sense was tingling, but I was certainly happily surprised when I went through the door to the open area and heard a loud, definitely male voice.

"I will not tolerate that kind of behavior in my class, and I don’t care how good a student you are. Understand me?"

The open area, which was one of those experimental ideas that gets popular for a while, makes everyone who actually has to use them insane, then quickly fades away, was in one corner of the school. The nearest bathrooms were just down the science hall, which was just around the corner, going around which barely involved more than crossing the hall.

As soon as I heard that voice, I stopped and glanced behind me to make sure the hall was clear. Then waited at the corner.

"You can’t say I didn’t warn you, though."

It was like listening to a phone conversation. Whoever the kid was, he was obviously responding too quietly for me to hear him.

There were only six classrooms down that hall. Three of them were women, and two of the men were at the far end, which would definitely have echoed a lot more, if I’d been able to hear them at all. That meant this must be Mr. Barnes!

Mr. Barnes was the most feared paddler in the school; worse than the coaches, worse than even the vice principal. Part of that was because he was at least as enthusiastic as those other gentlemen, part was because he was always willing to paddle, and part was because of his acrylic paddle. Everyone who’d tried it agreed that the thing lit a fire that stayed with you for a long time, and even kids who never had him for a class (like me) had heard the details of it.

"Feet back, hands on the wall."

It wasn’t that Mr. Barnes was yelling, but he had a voice that was made for lecturing in auditoriums, and he wasn’t bothering to throttle it back.

Knowing the paddling was about to begin, I made a couple of quick calculations and then a bet. From my direction, Mr. Barnes’ classroom was on the left side of the hall. There were lockers on the right side, but not the left. If Mr. Barnes was right handed (I had no idea if he was, but odds are he was), then he’d be facing away from me to swat the kid.

I stuck my head around the corner.

The tall, stocky figure in a dark brown suit was definitely Mr. Barnes. Unfortunately, Mr. Barnes was standing where a right-handed paddler would be, so I had almost no view of the boy actually getting it. I could see his arms leaning against the wall, and tell he had brown, rather longish hair and was wearing a blue, collared shirt. Other than that, Mr. Barnes obscured the details.

I watched while the paddle climbed slowly into the air, then descended much more rapidly, connecting with an echoing crack.

The boy’s head flew up a bit, and I stepped around the corner, not wanting to risk sharing his experience. A quick glance over my shoulder to be sure the hall was still deserted, and then I leaned back against the wall.

I’d had a raging hard on since the second I’d realized what was happening. Now I ran my fingers lightly across the front of my jeans, shivering at the mild contact. I didn’t even consider pulling it out, more scared of humiliation and being teased for the next five years than of any punishment, but my fingers were slowly, tenderly tracing down Little Jackie’s length when the paddle cracked down again.

Two swats were the usual penalty at our school back then. Three weren’t uncommon, but were only used for very serious or repeat misbehavior. I listened for as long as the time between the first swat and second, then listened that much longer before going around the corner and on with my errand.

Stepping towards the restroom, I was mostly concerned with whether I’d be able to take a leak with a hard on. That concern died as I pushed into the bathroom.

Snapshot: he was slightly taller than me, but leaner. His hair was about the same shade of dark brown and long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. His shirt was blue and white, and just hit the top of his hips. He was wearing Wrangler jeans, which were currently unfastened and down enough to be showing some white briefs. His shirt covered the waistband, but the two hemlines running down the side of either cheek suggested Montgomery Wards or J.C. Penny’s store brands. His left arm was against the wall of the stall, and he was leaning forward with his face resting on his forearm. His right hand was down his jeans, rubbing energetically.

The snapshot lasted only a second; he quickly reacted to the opening of the door, snapping up, rubbing a hand across his face, and looking at me accusingly.

"Hey," I said calmly.

I vaguely recognized the kid. I knew he was a chess player—a kid named Paul, I was pretty sure—but we had different lunches, so I didn’t see him very often.

"Hey," he said suspiciously, like he suspected me of doing what I’d done, but on purpose.

"Are you the kid that got swats?" I asked, deciding to bring the matter out in the open.

"How’d you know?" he asked, a bit angry.

"I came out of the open area and heard someone get one, and…" I added, gesturing at him, the state of his clothes, and his damp, bloodshot eyes.

Something seemed to run out of him, and he just nodded, then reached back with both hands to start rubbing again. I watched as his jeans slipped down a bit more, revealing a nice little bulge in the front.

"You’re an eighth grader, aren’t you?"

"Yeah, Paul Bedford. You’re in chess club, aren’t you?"

"Yeah," I answered. "Jack Wells."

He nodded at me, and I stepped over to the urinal and undid my pants, unsure if I’d be able to go, but still needing to.

"Who was it?"

"Mr. Barnes," he said disgustedly.

"Ouch. Is he as bad as they say?"

"Worse. My butt’s burning bad."

He was quiet for a second, then stepped up beside me.

"The worst thing is, my dad’s gonna tear my ass up when I get home tonight."

"Why?"

"Because… Everybody says I should be a straight A student. I make some As, but some Bs too, and all my teachers say my grades would be much better if I didn’t clown around in class so much, so Dad whups me whenever I get a bad conduct grade or get in trouble at school."

I was quiet for a second, then asked a question that had occurred to me several years ago.

"How’s he find out?"

"Huh!?!"

"I don’t think the school contacts your parents most of the time. How’s he find out?"

Paul was quiet and had a thousand yard stare, so I took a second to glance at him. His face was turned away from me, but I was much more interested in what was in his hand. His skin was a little darker than mine, but not a real dark brown or red yet. He had a little pubic hair, which was the same dark brown as on his head. It was hard to tell how much, because of the way he was holding himself. What really interested me though was his shaft. When Little Jackie’s not excited, he’s generally short and chubby. Paul’s best friend was just the opposite—longer, but lean. Glancing at it left me with a burning desire to see how we’d compare if he was hard. Of course, that wasn’t a big surprise, since I had that desire with about ninety percent of the boys I knew at that age.

"You don’t think he’d find out?" Paul asked, turning to face me.

"I haven’t got swats in middle school, but my parents only found out about me getting them once in elementary, and I knew the principal was calling my dad that time."

He was looking at me now, as I finally managed to relax enough to relieve myself. He had a really pleasant face; not especially handsome, but open, warm, and friendly.

He nodded at me, obviously thinking hard about what I’d said.

"Look at it this way; what’s your dad going to do if you don’t tell him?"

His face looked lost for a second, then he shrugged.

"Give me some extra smacks, I guess. Like I’d even notice a few extra. You’re right, man. Thanks."

I needed to get back to class, so I just nodded at him and left him shoving his hands back down his jeans for another rub.



I thought hard about Paul that night; the sound of the paddle smacking down on his rear, how quietly he’d taken it, but then how he’d gone into the bathroom to break down just a bit, and finally wondering exactly how his dad ‘whupped’ him.

Then I put it aside. At least until I was reminded of it.



"Hey, kid. Jack!"

I was walking into Lit class, trying to give Petey the answer to the last couple of questions as we walked, when I heard my name. Looking around, I saw Paul.

"Hey," I replied.

"You ride the bus?"

"No, I walk."

"Meet me at the front doors after school?"

"Sure," I agreed without thinking.



Soon enough I was distracted by class, but every once in a while, Paul would pop back into my head. Thankfully, Lit was towards the end of the day, so it wasn’t long until I was standing by the front door.

"Hey, Jack."

I looked around to see Paul cutting towards me, through the crowd.

"You gotta go straight home?"

"Not really," I answered him. "Why?"

"Which way you live?"

I pointed in the general direction.

"Good. Let’s go to Dairy Queen. I owe you a soda or an ice cream… Whatever you want."

"Okay," I agreed again and started after him. "Why?"

"No whuppin last night. I jumped like a scalded cat every time the phone rang, but he never even suspected."

"That’s great."

"Yeah. My big brother’s a little mad at me, but I can live with that."

"Why?"

"’Cause he always got into more trouble at home than I did, so he thought it was funny when Dad whupped me for gettin’ in trouble at school."

"How’d he find out?"

"We share a bedroom. The second pop landed down here," he said, indicating right below the pockets of his jeans, "and I had about this much red showing under my jockeys," he added, holding his fingers about an inch apart.

"He’s not a snitch though, so Dad didn’t find out. He said my butt was still pretty red though. That damned paddle really does burn."

"Does it still hurt?"

"Not now, but it still stung a little when I went to bed."

"Wow," I responded, truly grateful I didn’t have Mr. Barnes and hoping I’d avoid him next year. (I did.)



It turned out that Paul only lived a few blocks from my dad. He and I never became close friends, because we didn’t have a lot of interests in common. However, since we were both chess players, we became friendly acquaintances, saying hello to each other in the hall, and getting together for an occasional game when we were both bored. The last time I saw him was the summer of ‘86, when we’d both just graduated college, and he was spending some time home before starting the job hunt.

That was Paul’s last whupping at home for trouble at school, and his dad was so impressed by the ‘improvement’ that he let the occasional bad conduct mark on the report card go, since it was just one teacher. Paul thanked me again at the end of the year, when he reported that to me.

I never did have another spanking related episode with Paul, and we weren’t comfortable enough for me to suggest anything sexual with him, but I did learn that he and his big brother both got whupped with the belt, usually just on their jockeys, but occasionally bare. The funniest thing he shared with me, though, was that his big brother, who thought he was beyond whuppings at the ripe old age of fifteen, got his last one about a month after what turned out to be Paul’s last one.

That was a source of amusement for Paul for years to come.





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