Brewer's teenage boys were getting caught in the nude. More and more.
It was happening again and again.
They were being exposed stark naked, bare as boards, in their birthday suits...in front of stern disapproving mature ladies...or wickedly curious girls their own age. And they were getting to know the shivery, helpless, panicky feeling on being caught nude in front of fully-dressed females.
There were Johnny Marcello and his classmates subject to full nude medical examinations by Dr Ida Speight- and with the principal's secretary, Miss Assam, forcing her way into the room to get a good stare at the crouching naked fellas, and girls finding every excuse to burst in. Can you imagine how those 18 year old males felt? All their secrets on display? Standing by the wall, lying on the table. Totally stripped off and females staring at them.
And the girls were getting bolder, encouraged by their teacher, Miss Ada Braithwaite, about tip-toeing into the all-nude boys' swim classes in the chlorine-scented basement pool. They were there to cheer from the bleachers when the line of stark naked boys trooped in, to watch the warm-ups while the boys' private parts flew and spun, stand gazing up at the groins of the swimmers poised on the blocks. But they were never happier than when they trapped a blushing boy seated, waiting his turn, and could crowd around him...looking intently at what he tried to shelter in his lap. Catching boys with raging erections was a treat, a privilege, something they giggled and gossiped about behind cupped hands the rest of the day.
And when the Girl Guides hit the woods around Brewer, with its idyllic streams and swim holes, they were intent on finding fellas engaged in that time-honored pastime: skinning dipping. And trapping them nude in the water. While the boys watched horrified the girls would seize their bundled clothes- dungarees, plaid shirts, boxer shorts- and blackmail them into climbing out and parading naked. A line of boys might even be forced to manipulate themselves to a collective splashy climax, emissions sploshing onto grass and rocks, girls applauding. Boys felt their knees wobble at the humiliation- hell, some of the mocking girls lived in their neighbourhood, sat by their side at church and school!
When boys joined Coach Compton by the forest-enclosed lake, protected- they thought- by the dense, scented pines and tangly undergrowth, their nude calisthenics and swimming was assumed to be unobserved. But these days a half dozen girls with binoculars peeped from the arrowwood and bayberry bushes, familiarising themselves with every knob and wrinkle, every pumping vein and burst of body hair, giggling at an involuntary erection, at a boy pissing, at the revelation when a fella bent over to scratch a toe and made his ass cheeks flare to reveal a twinkling, wrinkled, dime-sized circle. These were boys they knew!
Mothers met in Miss Reilly's ornate heritage house for afternoon tea and to discuss nude discipline of sons- this absolutely thrilling subject was really taking hold with Moms- while in the verduous garden youths worked off their criminal misdemeanours tending to lawn and plants, in a state of total nudity, straining to overhear the audacious language of the ladies inside, at once terrified and excited by their shamed condition. Their clothes had been peeled off on arrival, neatly piled in the lady's garage. Miss Reilly's uniformed Negro maids peeped from the porch, curious about what white boys looked like. Soon the boys, still disrobed, would help serve afternoon cocktails in the garden. In glorious states of erection.
And Miss Cuff's production, Cowgirls and Indian Braves, was about to be rehearsed for the first time with the boys wearing their brand new costumes. With what nimble-fingered delicacy Mrs Carruthers the dressmaker and her Negro maid Yuela had taken the measurements of each of the boys, naked and standing on a stool, flushed and trembling with shame. How they had stretched out the process, fussing with the tape, fingers trailing around waists and lingering in groins, pressing the tape measure into their lean young bodies, appearing not to be abashed when the anatomy of the boys responded to the idle tickling and attention in a time-honoured fashion. Then, Mrs Carruthers had the boys slip into the new, much-diminished loin cloths- tiny embroided chamois flaps dangling in front, too short to cover their penis heads or dangling testicles. And certainly not able to cover those erections!
How each boy- up on the stool with a rearing erection- had begged for a larger covering- "Please, Miss, please...it shows...it shows...everything!"- and even for return of a patch at the rear. "Gosh, Miss! There's nothing at the back! They can see all my...my...bottom!" No, these were requests not to be granted. Not by Mrs Carruthers or Yuela. The boys were sent home, to model their new petite costumes, without any rear flaps, for their Moms and sisters. Who were, in every last case, supremely interested in up-close inspections.
Right now a domestic inspection was about to happen in Rodney Ricketson's Buchanan Street home.
The 18 year old boy took a deep nervous breath.
He stood in the hallway, with its runner carpet, its side tables with flowers and the opaque light from the frosted glass of the front door. He stood still, about to turn into the living room where the hum of the bridge party could be heard. A ladies' bridge party. A dozen ladies.
The young man was tall, broad shouldered, obviously a swimmer. His red hair was oiled, and swept back in a fetching flat top.
He was naked, except for a small loin cloth, tiny really, dangling over his groin from a waist band. It covered very little. None of his blazing public hair, or of his low hanging scrotum, little of his wide-girthed penis, not a bit of its plum-shaped head. And apart from the flap, decorated in an Indian design, he wore only moccasins. And a head band with a single feather, ridiculous by any test.
His nerves shook his concave tummy. His nostrils twitched. His eyes blinked, as if to shut out the terrible reality.
Rodney had been told by his Mom to go to his room and change into his new Indian costume and model it for her bridge party. As she delivered this order her guests had stirred in their seats, quickened, flushed with prurient expectation. Their looks had swept over the youth, just in from his latest fitting with Mrs Carruthers. In fact he came in carrying his new costume in a brown paper bag.
His mother had ordered him to pull it out and hold in up so they could all admire it. Dolefully he had reached into the package and hauled it out.
There were shocked ohhs and ahhs.
"Hold it. Right up," his mother ordered.
He complied, party to his own impending humiliation.
"Oh my God! It's teensy weensy!"
The voice was Miss Reynolds'. She was 50 or so, wore a box hat with drooping flower, taught Presbyterian Sunday School at St Andrews, had never seen a naked male.
Indeed the flap was so absolutely tiny it would show...well, everything. Each of them thought this, with a tremor. A tremor of keen anticipation. Certainly Miss Reynolds was feeling strange stirrings. He was, she thought, a very fine looking young man.
Go and put it on and show us, his mother told him. This set off a purring sound from the females, a preparatory burble of self-pleasure. Mrs Harriet Hotspur, mother of six daughters, wedded for 30 years to the one man in her life- owner of parking lots and car yards and Rotarian of note- sighed with expectation. Rodney, she thought, was a very comely boy.
Rodney paused.
If he refused he knew his increasingly cruel Mom would implement a punishment long threatened: of having him spend evenings at home buck naked, with her and his sister and his female cousin who lived with them, even with female visitors calling, like that frightening Mrs Reilly. "Buck naked, all night!" she had threatened; and added, with blazing eyes, "in nothing but your birthday suit." Yes, naked even having dinner, doing the dishes, on the lounge watching Bonanza, bringing his homework for her to check. Without a stitch. Nude, and no doubt erect. In front of them.
He had slumped off to his room and changed.
In a few minutes he would present himself.
Before the middle aged ladies.
A dozen of them. Oh, and one girl, Milly Slink. Tall, gangly, flat chested Milly, in his year at Grover Cleveland High, who peered out through Coke bottle glasses and gave the impression of harbouring gamey breath. Right now she hovered behind her seated mother, dear old Mrs Mildred Slink, an ancient friend of his Mom's. The girl's magnified eyes had grown even wider when she saw him hold out the shockingly petite costume. She couldn't believe what was happening.
"Oh goodness, but he'll be so shy," had intervened Mrs Bev Bailey, looking Rodney over. "Don't put him through that, in front of us old dears! And young Milly here as well!"
Mrs Bailey's eyes lingered on Rodney's dungarees-covered midriff.
"Oh, we'll all see him and his friends soon enough, when the performances start," said his mother. "As for Milly, I'm sure she'll be sitting in the front row to watch the boys! So she might as well have a preview."
And Milly had blushed and her eyes had flickered down Rodney's figure, thinking of what the athletic fella would look like dressed in his teensy weensy Indian costume. She had heard about the costumes from other girls at school: they revealed all a boy's secrets. But not only that- they had the extra appeal: rendering a boy totally humiliated. She wanted to see young athletes like Rodney shamed to the marrow.
Milly wanted to see shy Rodney twisting with shame.
She loved the idea of males being humiliated in front of females like her.
Right now, he was hesitating frozen in the hall. He felt the air all over him, felt totally exposed. He knew his penis hung lower than the flap, his balls as well and all his pubic hair was displayed above the band. He had seen himself in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom closet. He felt his prick thickening. They would see it all, see his cock and balls and red pubic hair, but...he desperately did not want an erection. He did not want them to go home to their houses saying they had seen Rodney Ricketson with a hardon. A naughty boy, a filthy minded fella, with a stiff dick.
If he got stiff...hell, where would he look, standing there? How would he look any of them in the eye? With a boner thrusting up?
As he waited he was hearing his mother fill them in on Miss Cuff's new idea for the boys' costumes.
"She is a stickler for historical accuracy and looked up all the records. It seems the youngest braves spent most of the time virtually nude. Oh various kinds of flaps in front but more minimal than is realised. Just a token cover. And nothing behind. Absolutely nothing. Their bottoms entirely exposed. Soooo...after experimenting with the somewhat larger costumes she had Mrs Carruthers run up a new design."
"From what we just saw it must leave little to the imagination."
Old Mrs Morgan's voice quavered with expectation. The widow had not seen a naked male in decades.
"Well, it is realistic," said Mrs Glover. "That's now Indian boys got round. Their bottoms bare."
"Bottoms bare!"
This elderly voice- it may have been Mrs Slink's- seemed to relish the prospect of a bare male bottom.
Then a more cunning, confident voice entered. It was Miss Glome, whose tone carried a hint of heavy smoking. She fondled her pearls as she spoke.
