Introduction by the Author: This story is the genesis of what makes me a writer and why I write the way I do. I was inspired by Lanterns on the Levee, and North Toward Home. Both were written by local authors, both wrote of a world in transit. This story is true, I know because I lived it. Pulling this tales from the dark recesses of my mind took courage, and several bottles of spirits. I hope this would the first story in a trilogy of three genesis works. I hope you will find this story enjoyable. Also I would like to add that this chapter one, a second chapter followed by a third and a short epilogue will soon hopefully follow the publication of this one.
In two thousand and seven I was a sophomore at Yazoo County High School. A tiny school that was no more than a collection of eight or nine buildings on a hilltop that had been pushed off and leveled off some ten or so years ago. The world was different then, so much has changed that I find myself lost for words. It was in the autumn of the year, the leaves on the trees had turned from green to orange and yellow. The mornings were cool and the afternoons hot. The kudzu that covered much of the hills and hollows and creek bottoms was still its pleasant ivy green.
That year stands out to me because it was the year our school won the state championship in football and it was the year I first joined AOTK, then a small, but thriving site tucked away in the corners of the internet. I was underage at the time, as most of us were. I had been aware of my spanking kink for quite some time having discovered that summer the works of Lurking Dragon and many other famous writers that have slipped under the shadow of time. I had read all of the Lurking Dragon stories over the course of two to three weeks, between attending church services at St. George Episcopal Church and Saturday nights at a local hangout called The “The Waycafe”. Why it was called that, I have no idea. That local hangout like so many other things I knew as a youth has slipped under the fog of time.
Anyway, homecoming at Yazoo County was like a protestant version of Mardi Gras. We had different days theme days all leading up to the big homecoming game on Friday. Now, I've never been a big fan of football. I've never read a football score, I could not to save the life of me tell you the positions of the players. But homecoming day was like one massive party, and parties are a good thing. Now like I said, each day had a theme, if I can recall correctly, Monday was casual, meaning we could wear jeans and a t- shirt instead of our normal uniforms. Tuesday was sports, meaning we could wear something sport related. Wednesday was camouflage day.
Thursday was something, I can't recall to save the life of me and Friday was the day we've all been looking for. Friday was costume day. Now, before I go on, I feel I should tell you a little more about myself. I hung out with the geeks of the school. My peers were the computer geeks, the anime nerds, the comic book and manga collectors, the emos and the Gothic kids. The kind that brought all their casual clothing from Hot Topic and Hot Topic only.
And so with Friday's special theme being costumes, we all agreed that we should cosplay as our favorite anime character. The anime selection at that time was kind of limited. I remember most of us only followed what was popular. The anime that were really popular at the time, If I can recall correctly were Bleach, Naruto and One Piece those were the really popular ones with my group. I myself consider myself a bit more sophisticated because I'd seen such anime's as Gundam Wing, Burn Up W, Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura, .Hack and many others. I did not limit my anime viewing to what was popular. At that time my favorite manga series was Mahoromatic and my second favorite was Chibi Vampires both feature strong female leads and both featured maids. And so the idea struck me, why not become an demure maid for the day.
But I wanted more than that. I wanted to pass as a demure maid. And not just a guy who had put on a maid dress in hopes of getting some comic relief going as was common. In the early two to late two thousands most anime only pictured crossdressing as a meaning of comic relief. The word “Trap” was common and thrown around with all the casual usage of dollar bills at a strip club. Times have changed and for the better. But returning to the story, I wanted to do more than just pass.
I wanted to enter into the headspace and live there for a day. And so with that in mind, I decided to surrender myself and yield to my effeminacy. I considered myself something of a sissy, my looks were androgyny at best. I had always worn my hair long, longer than most boys were allowed too. It was long enough to pull into a low ponytail or two pigtails. My face is soft and almost void of facial hair. My voice too was soft and gentle. At afar people often mistook me for a girl.
Neither my mom or dad seemed to care. And neither seemed concerned about what I did. My dad was a man's man, who hunted, fished, smoked, drank and when he spoke his voice seemed to fill the room. Since I neither hunted, and only fished when the mood took me, I think he had written me off and had adopted my cousin Ben as the son whom he wished to have had. That is not to say he mistreated me, in his own way he was proud of my grades, of my eloquent style of speaking and my reserve manner. And often invited me to weigh in when talking business with his brother, my uncle.
My mother thought of me as an odd goose who never concerned herself with me. I was different and that all she knew. She did not understand me, but she did love me. And that all that mattered. Returning to the story now.
I wanted to do more than pass. I wanted to enter completely into the headspace. And so one bright Saturday morning, the Saturday before homecoming was to take place, I hitched a ride to “The Metro '' the largest enclosed mall in that fable city of dreams Jackson. Now when somebody from Mississippi mentions ``The Metro” nine times out of ten their refer to the Metro Mall. At that time, the Metro Mall was the largest enclosed shopping mall in Mississippi with over a million and a quarter enclosed square feet of shopping space. The mall has since, like all things I knew and loved, passed away. But at one time it was the best.
I remember The Metro that bright Saturday morning. It was still early and the mall was just coming to life. The whole mall smelled of freshly brewed coffee and hot pastries. The merchants were just starting to open up their shops. And already people were starting to flood in. I had two goals that day, the first one was to secure a costume, the second one was too secure a set of matching panties, bra and hosiery, the third one was too secure hosiery, and then shoes.
I had in my old, brown leather pocketbook, six one hundred dollars bills and a collection of coins. My phone was fully charged. It was ten o' clock in the morning and my mom had just dropped me off by the front door. My mom was going to spend the day visiting my sister, my aunt who lived in South Jackson at the time.
It must have been a comical sight. Me stumbling into the mall, totally out of my elements. The flood gates soon broke open and the concourse of the mall was soon filled with people. My “Yazoo '' accent made trade hard. I talk with a gentle, rolling of the tongue, a classic southern accent. One that is slow, rich and steady. And my tone of voice was often no more than a whisper. The people of Jackson spoke with a rapid fire accent. They seemed to spit their words out and pitch them to you. I often had to write down what I wanted to say, even then my English too flowery and too descriptive. It made for good writing and storytelling, and was a damn curse when it came to trade and business.
My first stop was to acquire a set of bra, and matching panties and some hosiery. I could have gone with the big chain department stores, like Belk's, JCPenney and McGray's but again putting myself into the female mindset I decided that Victoria Secret's would be something a teenage girl would select and so stumbling, unsure of myself I wandered.
I browsed the racks for a few minutes, and finally a young woman, who's name plate read “Karen C. Manager.” walked up to me and wanted to know if I needed any help. Blushing I told her of my plight and what I wanted. She was stunned at first but then decided to help me. She also informed me that today they were having a sale, buy two matching bra and panties set and get another one free. Seemed like a good deal, a steal almost, and though I only needed one set I decided having two back-up sets would not be a bad idea.
What happened then? Oh she measured me, wrote down my bra size and made suggestions. I followed her suggestions and before I left that store I not only had brought three sets of matching panties and bra's but also acquired a bottle of lotion free of charge and a tote bag. My nerves were jangled to say the least and so with my newly acquired treasures in hand, I decided to get a coffee.
Well deserved coffee and a sweet roll. To this day I'm still amazed at the cost of a simple cup of coffee and one hard as a stone sweet roll. It was then just eleven in the morning and the mall was really coming to life. Most of the mall stores did not open till ten in the morning. Something that amazed me, I was a country boy, I rose well before the sun and by ten my workday was halfway over. But as I sat there, looking at the people who passed me by, A certain zest for living bubbled up from deep inside me.
I finished my coffee and my hard as stone sweet roll and once more resumed my shopping spree. I felt like Alice, who had followed the white rabbit and had fallen down the rabbit hole. My faith in myself restored a little by the coffee, that was not really coffee, but coffee flavored water and the bite or two of the hard as stone sweet roll, had allowed me to think a little clearer. I soon ventured into the local Belk's and in the way only youth can, made my way toward the clearance rack and without thinking, picked up a simple, light cotton dress that was blue and trimmed in white. I added a pair of simple wedge heels to the lot. I then rushed off to the check out. The clerk behind the desk was a middle aged woman. She rang my order up, took my money and handed me a bill of sale without even blinking. A sale was a sale to this hard bitten retail clerk.
Now before I go on. I should say something. I was something of an avoid reader and browser of the internet. A year or so I had run across the term “Crossplay” the term was used to describe those who chose to cosplay as somebody of a different gender. With that key in my pocket I started to read up on the tricks of the trade, including how to hide different body parts. Or how to camouflage them.
Armed with that knowledge. I started to collect the items I thought I might need. In the end I decided on a dancer belt. I could wear a pair of my newly bought french cut panties over them and it would flatten me enough. And so I picked up one and a small make-up kit and finally a cheap purse from markdown. And once more I went to the same flea bitten, fish eyed retail clerk, who this time gave me a look that made the hair on my arms stand up. For a minute I thought she wanted to say something and I froze up.
But thankfully she stopped and said nothing.
Gathering up my stuff, I started to walk quickly toward the nearest bathroom. Once there I scanned the area, found an empty stall and bolted into it. I locked the bolt behind me and stood there, gathering my thoughts, my courage and my drive. I felt almost like Julius Caesar standing before the little Rubicon. Now I had dressed in girl's clothing before. I started when I was twelve. A story I will tell another time if their demand. But that had always been in private. This would be public, and with the noon hour drawing near, the mall was crammed full of people. I believe ten thousand souls all told must have been crammed into that space. I closed my eyes and started to pray. I don't remember what I prayed, or whom I prayed too. Jesus? The Holy Spirit? Buddha? Maiden, Mother and Crone? I guess I prayed to anyone who would listen. It has long since amused me, that at that very moment a pantheon of gods and goddess sat around a circle and listened to my prayer and cast lots among them to see who would come to my aid.
But somebody did and they found the heart to give me courage. And with that newfound courage. I slipped off my socks, my shoes, my jeans, my shirt, then my undershirt and finally my boxers. I slipped on the dancer belt, the newly brought French cut panties, the dress and finally I slipped on the shoes. I packed my old stuff into one of the bags and walked out of the stall. I did my face and put my wallet, phone and other loose odds and ends into the purse. And with that my mall trip started in earnest.
What happened then, I really don't know. But it was like a mental switch had been flipped inside my head. I started to notice small things, I had to slow my pace, I had to take care of how I sat. Girls learn from each other, they learn from Mothers, aunts, cousins and their peers. They have years to perfect their skill sets, I had only one afternoon, and no teachers.
But I managed somehow. I found the costume I wanted, an anime maid one that was red and white and had a square neckline. Trying it on I noticed the helm was a bit too short and would ride up if I bent down too far. That did not seem like a problem at the time. It would later though. Without giving it a second thought, I snatched it up and brought it.
And so with all my major objectives in hand. I floated for the rest of the afternoon. Doing my best to squeeze in as much girl practice as I could in those fleeting hours. And here the first part of the story comes to an end.
Introduction by the Author: This is the second chapter of “Genesis of a Cosplayer”. Again I would like to express my most profound thanks to two well known Mississippian authors. The First one being William A. Percy who wrote Lanterns on the Levee. The second one is William W. Morris who wrote North Toward Home. You took me from beyond the realm of fiction and planted me firmly in the coffee colored soil of my native land. This chapter continues the story started in chapter one. Again writing this story took a lot of effort. I had to force my mind to remember things that have been locked away for so many years.
Autumn in Mississippi is a bag of mixed nuts. It can be freezing cold some mornings and later that day, normally around afternoon it would be hot as hell. That Friday morning was no different. I remember rising a few hours earlier than I would. I took a nice hot bath, shaved my legs, shaved my face, washed and conditioned my hair. I slipped on the dancing belt and the pair of french cut white panties. Then I slipped on my normal school trousers and white button down shirt.
I then swallowed two cups of strong Community Coffee, swallowed a runny egg, a piece of toast and some sausage and I was out the door. We lived on the cusp of Yazoo City, and the drive to school normally took fifteen or so minutes each morning. This morning, because traffic was light and a fog had settled in, I made it to school in ten minutes. Just as they were about to open the doors for the morning.
I remember having to pause for a moment before the gates of the school. U.S. Route 49 passes right by the school, and there is something mystic about that road. When you stand on it, you feel a pull deep within your heart. It was like standing in the middle of an invisible vortex. The further you went down the highway the more you felt that pull. What was that pull, to go to Jackson, the city of lights. To throw all your cares away for the day and do some retail theory at either the Metro Center or the North Park. To breath in the cultured air.
I pushed these thoughts far from my head. Another time maybe, and so gathering up my courage and my school threw open the doors of the old car my mom and dad had given me for a early birthday gift and of course, I gathered up the bags that housed my costume and change of shoes and all the other small bits and pieces that went along with it.
Somehow I balanced all of this in my two, twig like arms and with a fluttering heart I pushed open the doors of the school. Silents, you could have heard a pen drop in the hallway. The air smelled of floor wax hung in the air. I think they just stripped and waxed the floors last night. I mean it was homecoming and our football team was for once on a winning streak. Historical speaking this would be the only winning streak our team would have till they once more reclaimed the state championship in 2020. Thirteen years of broken dreams and defeats, there is something poetic about that.
Anyway, I quickly rushed off to the nearest bathroom. I then changed into the maid outfit. Did my face, did something with my hair. As in I took my time, brushed it out and put it in two pigtails and tied two matching red ribbons around the bundles of hair. And then I stepped out into the hallway. The hallway had quickly filled with people, all of the student body it seemed had dressed in colorful outfits and costumes. It was a bedlam of noises, a maelstrom of chatter, of music being played and whoops and yells. It was like a little anime convention. Cameras flashed and students with IDs that read Year Book/ Panther Printing Press rushed up and down the hallway taking pictures.
A moment later a girl around my age brushed into me, she wore a big smile on her face as she peered toward me.
“Oh darling!” Her southern accent was clearly heard through her words. It was good to hear the ring of a southern accent. It brought me home, home to my father's village, a place where I spent most of my childhood. My Father was born in Jackson but reared in a tiny little village of Scarborough's Landing. I myself was a Scarborough, and had spent many lazy, summer afternoons running up and down the vine and holly covered banks of the Sunflower River, or fishing for catfish in Silver Creek or watching the flatbed railroad cars laden heavy with square bales of cotton roll into the sunset.
“You looking adorable!” She said blushing. “You one of them girly boys, anyway mind if I get your picture for the yearbook sugar?” She said holding up her camera.
I nodded my head and struck a pose. I tried to pose like those anime girls. You know the ones that look modest, and coy all the time. Something that just screams Kawaii is the Japanese word for cute. And I think it worked because she gushed how adorable my pose was and how cute my pigtails were and she even admired my make-up. It felt good, in an oddball way.
I thought today would be perfect. My first foray into the world of costuming and crossdressing. A rite of passage if you will. I remember I had a dozen pictures taken before the bell rung and the school day started. Now most of the teachers were okay with my costume. The younger ones. Young as the ink on their degrees was still wet found my costume cute and a few even wanted to take a picture with me. I remember much to the amusement of my teachers I shouted “Ohayo Gozaimasu” At the top of my lungs when I entered their classrooms.
Everything was going well until I entered her classroom. Mrs. Finch was a steely eyed woman with short gray hair and stoop back. She hated everything modern and every time she opened her mouth drops of venom shot from her tongue. She had a crude and cruel sense of humor and proudly boasted that she belonged to the local chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. She was a firm believer in the Lost Cause ideology and held fast to the belief of white supremacy. Nobody in the school liked her, and we all feared her. She passed on now, either to Heaven or to Hell, its not for me to judge. Her only redeeming virtue was she hated all equality.
I knew I was in trouble the moment she locked eyes with me. I took a deep breath and peered into her eyes, and for a brief moment I thought I was peering into the deepest pits of hell. There was something sinister about the way she was looking at me. I could tell she wanted to say something, something cruel and crude as was her style. But for once she kept her forked tongue in that cave she called a mouth. Not breaking character I offered her a curtsy and once more I greeted her with the same greeting I'd given all my teachers that morning.
“Ohayo Gozaimasu.” I said much to the amusement to my peers.
I would never forget the changes that came over her. Her face turned scarlet and her eyes became wide as dinner plates. Her breathing increased and a hushed silence fell over the room. She held out her hands and made a notion with them a vague notion that she wanted to wrap those tiny fingers around my neck and wrangle the life out of me. I could hear her brain starting to freeze up. And if this was a popular Saturday morning cartoon. Clouds of black smoke would be pillowing out from her ears. I had poked the bull it seemed.
“Get out!” She shouted as she pointed toward the door of the classroom.
“Doushite?” I said once more using my limited knowledge and understanding of Japanese to play the part of a humble, and confused maid.
“My grandfather fought the Japanese! They blew off his shins!” She bellowed at the top of her lungs. “They bombed our ships! They sank our ships! And they did horrible things! Get out!” She shouted again. She was shaking with fury now. “Go stand in the hallway!” A stun silence had fallen over the classroom.
I gotta say I stood there, rooted in place. I was confused, amused and concerned at her sudden outburst. But after a minute it dawned on me, and once more I dropped a quick curtsy and once more drew on my limited understanding of Japanese I said.
“Hai Sensei!” And with that I turned toward the hallway. But then an idea dropped into my head. And I had an idea, I should have discarded that idea the moment it popped into my head. I really should have, because there was no way it could have helped anything. In fact, with the advantage of more than a dozen years hindsight that little smart ass remark might have been what pushed me over the edge. I was already standing close to it. But there was a good chance I could have pulled myself away from the cliff if I'd just kept my mouth shut.
“Oh Sensei?” I said turning around and folding my hands in the center of my lap.
Mrs. Flinch looked up and shot daggers toward me. Again I had this feeling, a very uneasy feeling that she wanted to reach out with those sickly fingers of hers and wrap them around my neck and squeeze till my face turned blue and then purple and finally sweet death took me. Instead she arched an eyebrow and in a sharp, almost yelling tone of voice said.
“Yes?”
“Can I please have two buckets to hold?” I asked. I was feeling cheeky and then I decided to add. “Because in Japan. When somebody is sent into the hallway, they are normally given like two buckets of water to hold. It's a classic anime gag.”
“Get out!” She roared! And her voice filled the room and shook the window panes. I flinched at the roar of her voice and without thinking I bolted to the door and slammed the door shut. I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that my day had gone from skipping among to the clouds to crawling on the earth. A deep blush colored my cheeks as I waited outside the door. I say I waited all of seven minutes before out of the corner of my eye I spotted the outline of one of the coaches. My dad, overly cynical, called Yazoo County High School a “Coach school” because everybody seemed to be a coach of some kind.
I'll give you a quick example, our Spanish teacher was a coach, he coached track and softball. The math teacher, he coached basketball. Our P.E teacher coached we'll P.E. Our principal was a former coach. And still wanted to be called such. Every time I called him “Sir” he always frowned and barked at me. The History teacher was of course a coach. Our Science teacher was the coach, and you get the point. The coach that was looming toward me, was a huge fellow.
He stood six foot tall, had the neck as big a Boston butt and had a square shaped head. His blonde hair was also cut back in a crew cut. He always smelt of Old Spice, a popular brand of men’s aftershave. His hands I remember were the size of hams, his arms the size of barrels, his fingers the size of sausages. His voice sounded more like a bull horn. And he hated me, he really did. He was always ragging me about something. My hair, my looks, heck even he thought my asthma was nothing more than me being lazy.
“Scarborough.” He said as he peered toward me. His voice was hard as a knife. “What in the name of God are you wearing?!” He said, shaking his head. “Christ Almighty. I knew you were odd. But, damn boy, you look like something from the cover of one of those Japanese comic books you're always reading. Jesus Christ.”
I said nothing. I did not trust myself.
“What in the name of God..” He paused. “Do you read the Bible boy? Don't you know what the Bible says about crossdressing?” He asked. “Deuteronomy 22.5 clearly says. 'A woman shall not wear a man's garment, nor shall a man put on a woman's cloak, for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God.' Now I don't know what that Catholic Church of yours teaches. But I hold to the true teaching of God as taught by Brother Holmes at Center Ridge Baptist Church.” He said, shaking his head.
I wanted to say something. I wanted to bring up the fact that the whole school knew he was cheating on his wife who was lying at home, dying of breast cancer. More than once we've walked by his classroom and heard him grunting and swearing as he banged the every living daylights of the Guidance Counselor who also went to Center Ridge Baptist Church. But I thought better of it. I was in enough trouble. But then I had a change of mind. And I was not Catholic, I was a mixture of Methodist and Episcopal and at best a tepid Christian. I was more a pagan than anything.
“Cat got your tongue?” He said, peering toward me.
Once more I was silent as the grave.
“Fine, you and I are going to have a little one on one talk in my office. Mrs. Finch said you were cursing her in Japanese or something.” And with that he reached up and took me by the ear. My eyes flashed open as I felt his strong fingers pinch my earlobe. And before I could catch myself, I found myself being dragged down the hallway toward the side office.
Introduction by the Author: This is the third chapter of “Genesis: Homecoming” this will conclude the main story and as promised a short epilogue will follow. As I've pondered these reflection. I've discovered memories that are as rich as the coffee grind colored soil of my native home. I'm sure other “Genesis” works beside the three I promise would soon follow. I personally would like to thank each and every one of you who has stuck it out with me as I probe these hidden conclaves of the human soul.
It took only five minutes for the hulk of a man to drag me to the side office. He had a firm grip on my earlobe and his claw like fingers made any feeble attempt at resistance near impossible. My mother did not raise a fool and I knew I had been beaten. Mercifully though he released me once we reached the office. The office was small, and reminded me more of a closet than anything. It was two rooms to the office and three sets of doors.
You had to pass through the first door to enter into the waiting room. The first door blocked out the noise, of the hallway and provided a bit of privacy, most of the time if you were pulled into the office they would pull you into the first room for a scolding and then let you go. Normally they would give you several scolding before ushering you into the second room. The second room was the room of doom and gloom. I called the room “Golgotha '' that an Aramaic word for “Skull” and if they pulled you into that second room, there was no turning back. You were being dragged to Calvary and the only thing that awaited you down was your own crucifixion as in having your bottom blistered with a paddle.
Now as I passed through that second door, I started to babble. I soon though regained my better senses and had the clarity of mind to recite the Lord's Prayer, being of Anglo-Catholic rearing I had been taught from the cradle the Lord's Prayer in Latin and made to pray it before bed each night. My Episcopalian Grandmother, fearing my Baptist Mother might taint me, had commanded me to learn that instead of the “Now-I-Lay-Me-Down-To-Sleep” prayer.
She had also commanded that I learn to pray the rosary, take Holy Communion twice a week, go to confession at least once a week if not more. And demanded that I read at least a dozen chapters of the New King James Bible. She wanted an Episcopalian priest in the family and she was going to mold me into one. She never did though. She too at the writing of this has passed on. I'm sure she rolled over once in her grave for six years after her passing. I left the Episcopal Church for the Roman Catholic church and have since then considered myself an papist. Anyway back to the story.
I was guided into the second room. Once we were their coach turned around, pushed the door closed and leveled his eyes at me. “Okay Scarborough. You know what's going to happen. I'm going to give you a few minutes to collect your thoughts. Say a prayer, reflect and you know think about what you did. Then I'm going to.” He paused at this part of his speech. He then reached down and picked up a massive wooden paddle. The paddle was long enough to cover both of my bottom cheeks. It was a good inch and a half thick and had tiny air holes drilled into it. It also had been sanded down till it was smooth.
“Then I'm going to have you bend over. You're going to place your hands on this desk here.” He tapped the polished surface of the desk with the tip of the paddle. “You're going to keep your hands on the desk too. And then I'm going to give you five licks. You're going to count them licks. I want you to count them out in a loud clear voice. Do you understand me? Not that weak, barely a mumble voice. A good strong voice.. a man's voice.”
And this point I wanted to slap him right across the face and punch him in the balls.
“If you take your hands off the desk, we start back over. You don't count a lick, it's repeated. And before you get on your soapbox and start yapping remember that we can discipline you in any manner we see fit here. We're not some timid third rate school and the Bible clearly says. 'He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him disciplines him promptly' that's what the Bible says about spanking. And God wrote the Bible and if God wrote it, and God made us, then it must be good and it must be the truth.” He paused.
“So Scarborough, do you have an understanding?” He offered his hand for a shake.
I wanted to yell, I wanted to curse, I wanted to punch, scream and tell the man where he could stick that paddle. And by that I meant he could bend over, grease it up real good and stick it right up his tight asshole. But I did not. I forced myself to remember that I was a demure maid. I'm going to keep character even if it kills me and it might just kill me before the day was over and done.
“Of course.” I dropped a quick curtsy and batted my eyelashes at the meathead. His face turned purple and then a ruby red and for a moment I thought he was going to start foaming at the mouth. I wish he did, because then I could have called him rabid and had the local animal control office come around and put him asleep. I don't think any one of my friends would have missed him. Only the dim witted baseball players whose solo aspiration in life was to become the Babe Ruth.
“Pray Boy.” His thick accent gave the 'B' a hard cutting edge. “Before I decided to beat you within an inch of your life.” He said as he turned away to collect his thoughts.
I don't know what he was expecting. But I did pray, I kneeled down and folded my hands and then turned my face toward the heavens. Then looking as pious as a Catholic schoolgirl about to make her first confession and take her first communion I started to chant in a soft southern tone of voice A voice that was unsuited for anything beside bellowing out field hollers. A voice that had not been trained by nuns or monks, one that would never sing the High Mass. But one rich and full of beauty. In that voice, strained as it was, I started to pray.
“Pater noster, qui est caelis: Sanctificetur nomen tunn; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie et dimittimus nobis debitoribus nostris, Amen.” And with that I stood up and with all the grace of a queen I walked over and placed my hands down upon the surface of the desk and then I drew in a deep breath. This was not how I expected my day to go.
The meat head made no comment. I doubt the beauty of Latin would move his stone cold heart. Then what could expect from a hard boiled Southern Baptist, one that has never heart the sweet strains of the Pater Noster sung in the hollow halls of St. Mary's Catholic Church, been moved by The Stations of the Cross to confession and felt the joys of receiving Holy communion and knowing if you were to leave the church then and there and get struck by a passing car and killed that your soul will fly straight into the arms of Jesus and Mary? I did not expect mercy, I was all he hated, my southern accent tainted from reading “The Hobbit” and “Lord of the Rings” and the British Editions of the “Harry Potter” books.
I was all he hated, a sissy, a geek and here I was bent over his desk, my bottom raised and on display. I was the perfect target for him to vent his frustration on. And so I drew a deep breath and waited and waited and then it happened. I felt the paddle being pressed into my bottom. I sensed it being drawn back and a second later, I felt it come flying in. The long piece of wood struck both bottom cheeks with enough force to knock me forward.
“One sir!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs. It stung like fire, there was nothing down their blocking the paddle. Just a thin pair of French cut panties and thin pieces of cloth. I did not have to wait long before once more he drew that paddle back. I could hear him gripping the handle. And then it happened, the second blow, one that brought me right down to my knees. I could feel my breath passing through lungs, the pain traveled in waves and flooded through my body. And for long fleeting moments I started to think.
How many spanking stories had I read that summer? Thousands, I had searched the web from one dark corner to another that summer, millions of words, countless hours, and how often had those stories awoken something deep within, a lust that was almost primitive. A savage lust, and now here I was, living and breathing in a scene that could have been lifted from those very same pages. And I did not feel any enjoyment, only pain and misery.
“Two Sir!” I counted out the second blow that once more pushed me forward. My voice was starting to strain now. Tears threaten to spill out from the corner of my eyes. It would have been poetic justice if they had started to drip, but not yet, not yet that would come later. But then my mind started to wander. I started to think longer and harder on those spanking stories I had read last summer. My mind conjured up scenes just like this one, scenes I had savored and enjoyed. But what enjoyment I could squeeze from this unfolding drama had dashed the pain, the cold edge of reality was starting to sink in.
I had been so lost in my musing that when the third blow came, I did not bellow it out. And I was rewarded with three more quick strikes of the paddle in quick succession. Too quickly, too much, my senses were being overpowered, my mental defenses started to cave in. It took every ounce of self control I could muster in my frail willow body frame to keep my hands firmly planted on the wooden surface of that desk.
“Picking up where you dropped the ball.” That's all he said.
“Three sir!” A few seconds later “Four sir!” and finally “Five sir!” The last three had been quick and savage, With no time to waste the homeroom period was almost over. I think I had maybe at best fifteen minutes to collect my books, do my face and get back to my next class. My bottom was on fire, it was sore and no doubt a bit bruised.
“Okay Scarborough.. You're done.” He said in a rough tone of voice. I heard the door open. “Now I want you to go and apologies to Mrs. Flinch. Tell her you're sorry. Then I want you to get your books and get to your next class. And I don't want to see you in this office again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir?” I said blushing. My voice was meek and was starting to tremble.
“Good man.” He said, smirking as he held out his hand. I took it and he tried to crush it as he squeezed it. “Now,” He was smirking. “Don't you have something to do young lady?” I could tell he threw the last part in as a joke. I hated the bastard then more than ever.
“Yes sir.” I nodded my head and exited the office.
I was humbled, broken and sore as I made my way down the hallway. It took a few moments for me to reach the classroom. I had to stop and take a pee in the boys bathroom first. The paddling had almost pushed me to the edge. Once I had finished peeing, I washed my face, my make-up was all but ruined, tears had indeed sprung my eyes and caused it to run.
I remember scrubbing my face with the near freezing water, the boys bathroom did not have hot water, we had only damn near freezing water and it always smelled like an outhouse. Nine times out of ten the toilet paper roll was empty. As I looked into the mirror I noticed my hair needed to be brushed out, the paddling had frizzed my pigtails. I also oddly enough felt naked without my make-up on. My brush and make-up kit was in my backpack and my backpack along with my pads, pens and books happened to be in Mrs. Flinch's room. And so I did the best I could do with just water. It took me five hard minutes of scrubbing to get all the make-up off and to wet my hair down enough so it would look nice and neat.
Then, a little restored, I started toward my final doom. I had to face Mrs. Flinch. My bottom burning inched my bottom down the hallway. Till at last I stood before the door. I then paused and peered once more toward the heavens. And before I could catch myself, I felt a prayer escaping my lips. This was the second time today I had prayed. I would never forget how my words seemed to fill that hallway. I remember as my mouth formed each syllable my very soul seemed to shake and every fiber of my being seemed shutter and the pain seemed to just lift from my shoulders.
“Hail holy queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee we do cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us.” I prayed softly. I did not have the clarity of mine to pray in Latin. Though it was one of the handful of prayers I had learned to pray in Latin, most to please my grandmother.
With my prayer said. I took a deep breath and walked into the room. The room became silent and all eyes shifted their attention toward me. I could feel their eyes zooming in on me. Slowly I moved toward the desk. The woman was sitting down behind the desk, in a way that reminded me of an overgrown bullfrog sitting on a lily pad.
Slowly she lifted her eyes from her book, I noticed she was reading the King James version of the Bible. No doubt searching for a verse she could fashion into a dagger. She loved doing that, reading the Bible and finding that one verse she could twist around and fashion into a dagger that she could use at a moment's notice to stab somebody like me in the back. I've often wondered when she passed if all those sins were brought before her. I guess one day I'll have the chance to ask her.
“Yes?” She said putting her Bible down and peering up at me.
“Please accept my deepest apologies.” I said taking a deep breath. “What I said was wrong and was in poor taste. I'm sorry.” It was a lie, I was not sorry, I had no idea why I had been forced to apologize. It was just something that was required of me. Something forced upon me by the powers above.
“I do not accept your apology.” She said in an airy tone of voice. “I do not approve of boys prancing around in frocks. I do not approve of people watching those Japanese cartoons. I do not approve of any of this” She paused. “You may go, get your books and go. I want you to stand in the hallway for the last few minutes of class.”
“Yes ma'am.” I said biting down on my tongue.
The End.
Epilogue
What happened then? Well I went about my day as normal. I was sore for the rest of the day, sitting was a pain in the neck, but after a few hours the pain started to fade away and once more I felt myself being swept up in the celebration. But something happened, something strange. Something deep inside me was starting to break the surface. Later that night, around midnight, I decided to roll the dice. I went to Myspace, the forerunner of Facebook and made an account. Now, I already had a Myspace account, but this one would be different. This one would host all the pictures I had taken that were over homecoming. And so, gathering up my courage I closed my eyes and made the account. The name selected or made up on the spot was “Heather Sarah Scarborough'' and it's a name I quickly took for my own.