Kenny Sharp

I first met Kenny Sharp when I was in sixth grade. It was a few weeks before my twelfth birthday and a few weeks after his eleventh. I met him because we were both playing on the same baseball team, which wasn’t a happy occasion for either of us.

I hated baseball. I didn’t know that when I’d agreed to play, and it turned out that it wasn’t true anyway. I didn’t mind baseball too much, though I wasn’t crazy about it. My problem was that Mom had talked me into playing right when I’d turned twelve, which was when puberty hit me like a ton of bricks. I shot up in height and could barely walk and talk at the same time, much less play a game that required coordination. If I remember correctly, I also got a new pair of glasses that summer, right AFTER the season ended, which I’m sure didn’t make things any better before that.

For years, I thought I hated baseball, and it was only when I was dragooned into playing softball with the church youth group that I found out I was actually pretty good; but that’s a story for another day.

While I hated playing baseball, I didn’t hate the team—at least not all of them. I guess our team really broke into four groups. Besides me, there were three other guys who’d never played before and weren’t especially good at it. Then there were the guys who were good at it—some of whom were very good. Those guys broke into two groups. Some of them seemed to hate me and the other three guys for dragging down their team. Fortunately, there were only a couple of those. Most of the guys who were good at it were supportive and helpful. The last group actually wasn’t a group; rather, they were those who stood outside the other groups for one reason or another.

Kenny Sharp was one of the kids who was really good, but was supportive of those of us who weren’t. His dad couldn’t coach because he couldn’t always get off on time, but he showed up when he could and spent time working with us. I made several trips over to Kenny’s house on non-practice days trying to improve my skills (maybe develop would be a better word there).



If you’re not familiar with it, spring in Texas can be rather… temperamental? Mercurial? Stormy? It was one spring day when we had neither practice nor a game, and I was pursuing my preferred hobby—hunting (for new comic books). I’d made my usual rounds and ended up at Discount Books. It just so happened that Kenny lived right across the street from the bookstore, and he was out in the yard when I wandered around the corner. He waved at me, and I crossed the street to say hello.

At first, I’d taken a lot of ribbing from the other kids about collecting comics, but to most of them, it had just become an eccentricity. Kenny and I talked a bit, then I glanced up at the gathering clouds and excused myself. I don’t remember what our conversation had been about (The Six Million Dollar Man?), but Kenny wasn’t quite finished and followed me over to the bookstore. I think he actually had fun watching me shop. They had a bunch of new ones in, so I had to sort through them, which was always an agonizing experience, even though the owner was willing to hold some for me, since I was such a regular customer.

The comics were kept in the back part of the store, and by the time I’d made my selection, it was almost pitch black outside, though it was only a little after 5pm. I asked Faith to hold several for me, bought what I could, then hurried outside.

It was already starting to rain, only scattered drops so far, but they were those huge drops that presage a drenching storm. As a flash of lightning clove the darkness, Kenny suggested I come home with him and either get a ride from his dad or call my parents. I agreed and shoved my bag under my shirt.

The street that separated Kenny’s home from the bookstore had four lanes and we weren’t far from a major intersection. The light had just changed, and we were waiting for one last car to pass. It was so dark the streetlights had already activated, but then it was suddenly bright as daylight. Then, not even a second later, there was a crash of thunder so loud that I felt it in my bones. Even as the car passed, and Kenny and I ran out into the road, the sky broke, and it was like someone was standing on a nearby roof, aiming a fire hose at us.

Mr. Sharp had come out onto their front porch, probably looking for his son and was now waving at us as we ran across the four lanes and their front yard. He might have been yelling something as well, but I couldn’t hear him over the beat of the rain. I had no trouble seeing him shake his head, but he didn’t seem mad—more just a bit disgusted that we didn’t have sense to get inside before the rain started.

When he saw us on our way, he stepped back inside. The two of us bounded up onto the porch, only to be met by Mr. Sharp at the door. Kenny was very much a smaller copy of his dad. While I was big for my age, and very big for the team, since I was the oldest one on the team, Mr. Sharp towered over me. Having just turned twelve, and being big, but not huge for my age, I was probably about 5’1" or so. I’m sure Mr. Sharp was at least a foot taller than me. I remember he had very broad shoulders, but a fairly narrow waist. He had the same thick, very dark brown hair that his son had, though Kenny was far away from being able to duplicate his father’s thick, luxurious mustache. They both shared the same long, narrow nose, and heavy brow. You couldn’t really see Mr. Sharp’s mouth, so I wasn’t sure if he shared the same thin lips his son did, but it was easy to see that Kenny had his mother’s blue eyes, which seemed to be where he resembled her most.

"Stop right there," Mr. Sharp warned us. "I don’t want you tracking water all over everything. Get your shoes off and leave them out there."

Both of us toed out of our sneakers, and only then did Mr. Sharp open the door for us, revealing a stack of towels.

"Go straight to Kenny’s room and get out of those clothes. I’ll toss them in the dryer for a while, then I’ll give you a ride home, Jack. I don’t think this is going to stop anytime soon."

Kenny led the way down the hall to his room, and I was right behind him. His father stood in the doorway as we both stripped down to our briefs. Even through our jeans, the brief deluge to which we’d been exposed had soaked through, so the white cotton was little shield to anything, except maybe our dignity. Not that they lasted long.

"Those too. C’mon now."

Shyly, Kenny and I skinned out of our shorts, then handed them to his father, who’d already tossed the towels onto Kenny’s twin bed. He’d turned his back to spare us some embarrassment and now pulled the door shut behind him. Kenny and I quickly grabbed towels, but it was obvious he’d already noticed my excited state.

The spring just after I’d turned twelve, I was already pubescent. It’s impossible for me to say how big my privates were, though they definitely weren’t a little boy’s anymore. I even already had a narrow bush of hair, though it was impressive only compared to other twelve year olds. Kenny, however, was only eleven, and he was very impressed. The fact that Little Jackie was standing up to see what was going on only seemed to heighten Kenny’s interest.

Slowly the two of us toweled down, and it became more and more obvious that Kenny was staring at me. That was actually a good thing, since it kept him from noticing how closely I was checking him out.

Kenny looked good. He wasn’t quite a little boy anymore, but was obviously a long way from really getting smacked with the puberty stick. I already knew he was in good shape, having seen him at practice and how well he did, but now I could see just how long his firm legs were. He often wore sleeveless tees to practice, showing off his firm arms, but now I could see that he had some real definition to his chest as well. His belly was flat, though he didn’t have much of a waist. His nice rear end had been obvious in the tight white pants that were part of our uniform—narrow, but well rounded to the back—but now I could see the creamy pale smoothness and the slight dimples, as well as the ‘V’ that formed at the small of his back, leading down to his crack.

As much as I liked his rear, it was the front side that most drew my interest in those days. Kenny’s balls were starting to dangle just a little, enough so you could tell there were two of them, but they’d barely started to swell at all. His peter was pretty short too. It was a bit thicker than a little boy’s, but still less than two inches, and half of that was the head. He had a loose circumcision, and the foreskin partially hid the little pink head. It was incredibly cute.

I’m not sure if I’d actually given in and started staring, but I suddenly realized that Kenny was getting hard. Then he cleared his throat.

"Jack?"

I jumped but looked up to find him looking at me.

"Your thing is huge…. Can I look at it?"

I followed his gaze, then commented, "You already are."

He blushed a bit, but managed to choke out, "I mean closer."

I nodded, and he stepped forward. After a minute, he ran his fingers through my thick, little bush of hair that was limited to just the lowest part of my belly. I shivered, but it was nothing compared to when he carefully reached down and took my balls in his hand. Then he reached up and ran a finger down the length of my shaft.

"It’s so hard… and hot," he commented.

I couldn’t believe the feelings. I wanted to feel him as well, so reached out and took his little shaft—which was much closer to three inches now than two—into my hand and gently squeezed. He gasped, then did the same for me.

I didn’t learn how to jerk off for a few more months, but I think it might have happened right then except we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Both of us grabbed towels and started carefully drying our fronts, as Mr. Sharp stuck his head in the door.

"Aren’t you boys dressed yet?"

"Jack doesn’t have any clothes, Dad," Kenny offered.

"Well, let him borrow a pair of your sweats. It shouldn’t take long for y’all’s stuff to dry."

With that, he left us alone, but the spell was broken. Blushing, Kenny walked to his dresser, pulled out a pair of briefs, and stepped into them (which just made that little backside look even nicer for my tastes). Then he turned and walked over to his closet. Pulling the door open, he reached up and took down a couple of pairs of sweats that were on the top shelf. I wasn’t watching that though because my attention had been grabbed by what was on the back of the door.

It was just a normal tie and belt rack. A couple of different ties hung doubled over some of the knobs, and a few belts hung by the buckles from most of them. What I was looking at though was neither belt nor tie.

"What’s that?" I asked.

Kenny followed where I was pointing, then blushed again.

"My spanker," he admitted in a slightly embarrassed voice. I’m actually a bit surprised he was even mildly embarrassed. Spanking was a fact of life back then, especially for boys. Then again, the general knowledge that you were spanked at times was one thing; specific knowledge, like you had just got it, or with what, was something else for most boys.

The spanker was unique looking, and with Kenny’s permission, I picked it up. It was leather, about the same color as the western belts that were (and still are) so popular around here, but it was completely undecorated, except the stitching. It was basically shaped like a paddle, about eighteen inches long, including the handle, which was about four inches. It was all one piece of leather, but the handle had been narrowed, then cut and rolled, making a round grip. It hung on the tie rack by a leather cord, which could also go around one’s wrist. It was wider than most belts, but not a lot wider—two inches or a little less—and thicker, but not as thick as if a belt were doubled up. Over all, it looked impressive and painful, but not horrible.

"What’s your dad spank you with?" Kenny asked, interrupting my examination and handing me a pair of sweats. I handed him the spanker to re-hang, then pulled on the sweats. They were very snug, but covered everything. As soon as Kenny was sure they were going to fit, he pulled on a clean pair of jeans.

"My dad and step-dad both use a belt."

"What’d they use on you when you were little?"

"They’ve always used a belt," I answered, then explained that my mom had only married my step-dad about the time I turned nine, and I hadn’t met my dad until I’d been ten. That always made other guys (at least the ones with a whole family) uncomfortable, and he lapsed into silence for a moment, so I picked up the thread.

"How’d you used to get spanked?"

"Mom never really spanked me. Dad only started using that last summer. I got in some pretty bad trouble, and Dad whipped me with his belt. The next day, me and him went to the craft store and bought some leather, and he made that. Before then, he just pulled my pants and shorts down and spanked me with his hand."

"Does he always use that now?"

"No. He still uses his hand some. I guess it depends how much trouble I’m in."

"He still makes you bare your butt when he’s gonna spank you?"

Kenny nodded.

"With his hand, or with that too?"

"Both." He paused. "You ever get it bare?"

"Yeah. Every time, I guess."

"I hate that."

"Me too. Hurts a lot worse that way."

"Yeah."

The conversation was slowing and becoming a bit uncomfortable, and when Kenny brought up baseball, I didn’t try to change it back. Instead, wanting my hard-on to go down, I wandered over to his window and looked outside. The rain was still coming down, but not as hard as it had been.

Kenny’s room was on the corner of the house. It was away from the street, but they were the first house on the block. The roads were perpendicular to the main street, and on the end of the blocks in that part of town, there were stores, which faced the main street. From Kenny’s room, there was a small strip of lawn, then a chain link fence, then the alley behind the stores, through which I often walked while going from the drug store to the used bookstore on my regular comic hunt.

The awkwardness fled, as Kenny and I talked about different subjects until his Dad brought my clothes back in. He waited in the hall while I dressed, and I kept my back turned until I had my own pants mostly in place. Mr. Sharp gave me a ride, but Kenny stayed home to help his mom with dinner.



Kenny attended a different elementary and was a year behind me in school, so we were only at the same schools four of the next six years. We never had any classes together, and so while we would say hello to each other if we passed in the hall, any friendship we might have had slowly faded to a dull memory, and I might not remember this at all, except for something that happened five or six months after that thunderstorm.



It was a beautiful mid-autumn day (which in Texas means the highs for the days were finally dropping below 80F). I had my backpack hanging from one shoulder and was counting my change, deciding if it was still worth stopping at the bookstore after spending a whole sixty cents on Avengers Annual #7 (but it guest-starred Captain Marvel and Warlock, with Thanos as the villain, so I had to have it).

Even if I couldn’t afford anything, I knew I was going to swing by the bookstore. I was in the alley behind the grocery store when a sound drew me to a stop. It had been a sharp, cracking sound—too muffled to be a car backfiring or a firecracker. I heard it again and was sure it was coming from inside a house, even though the slight echo effect could have been from the building I was standing behind. Then it repeated again. It wasn’t sharp enough for a hammer blow, and the sound didn’t seem to be repeating quickly enough for that anyway. It came again, and this time it was accompanied by a sound like a squeal or a yelp. Then I realized I was standing right next to the Sharp household—not far from Kenny’s bedroom window. I listened closely, and the muffled impact repeated itself several more times. Was I deluding myself, or could I really hear crying?

I thought about sneaking up to the window, but there was a fence, and I had an instinctive dread of being caught in a situation like that. Then, suddenly realizing what I had to do, I ran around the corner to the front door and knocked. Mrs. Sharp answered the door.

"Why, hello, Jack. How are you?"

"Just fine, Mrs. Sharp. I was just heading over to the bookstore and realized I hadn’t seen Kenny for a while. Thought I’d say hi. Is he around?"

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at me. "He’s here, Jack; but he’s busy right now. Why don’t you stop by after you go to the store, and maybe he’ll be free. Okay?"

"Sure," I agreed, though disappointed. The noise had been gone when she opened the door. If he was still getting whipped and I’d been able to hear it outside, it should have been louder standing in the door. Had I been mistaken?



I visited the bookstore but didn’t find anything, so I went back to Kenny’s house about fifteen minutes later. This time his dad opened the door, greeted me politely, then called Kenny to the door. A few seconds later, Kenny, fully dressed, came out.

Was he moving a bit stiffly? Were his eyes red? He didn’t seem upset by my visit. I was so scared of someone figuring out I was ‘into’ spanking that I was afraid to just come out and ask him, though I knew other guys would talk about it freely and had been asked about my spankings by different friends when they’d been sent home. I just couldn’t do it, though, and finally excused myself to head home after explaining that I’d just wanted to say ‘hello’.

Kenny smiled and shook hands as he told me goodbye. As we were looking in each other’s eyes, though he was smiling, I realized that the tips of his bangs were a little damp, like he’d just washed his face. Conclusive? No. Enough to give me some hot fantasies that night? Oh yeah!







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