Juvenile Delinquents old enough to know better

People are shocked that "adult children" could be whipped like younger ones

They seem utterly offended that Michael Fay could be flogged, then expelled for "merely" trying to sell drugs. Or that certain Arab regimes, whether officially or otherwise, have administered corporal punishment to Westerners who defy their morals.

Yet not many years ago, such methods were routinely used in Western countries, often (if what we hear is right) with fairly benign after-effects

[Dear Lord, in the Name of the Lion of the Tribe of Jesus, and the root of David, the bright and morning star, I ask that you guide my pen and my thoughts, only in the way of love, to bring glory to your Son, and to the Shekhinah spirit and presence and glory of your holy name, that you might be glorified and honored in all things, present and future and past, to recall and bring to remembrance that which you alone can touch, that you might receive praise in all things, through the narrative of our feeble feeling. You are the our Father our King, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, world without end, Amen. And also, please, help us that we do justice in our efforts to give expression to the church's theory of the cathartic, cleansing "expiation" from the operative aspects of the private place. How else shall God judge the world? Romans 3:7]

Those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end

I certainly knew better. I really had no one to blame but blame I did. I blamed my young wife, I blamed my parents, I suppose I blamed the authorities, the church, and God. frankly I had no excuse because I knew what would happen. Yet for whatever reason I returned like a dog to my folly. I was a Nabal husband who deprived his wife of her needs.

Her only stipulation was that God would come first in our marriage, and in her life. Even then I was jealous, angry, and churlish. I should have been horsewhipped form day one, but the wheels of justice grind slowly. She only asked that I show a better attitude toward authority, and that I give up my subtle racism (which alas, was not really hidden).

True, she had been deeply committed to integration and to civil rights, and to the teaching of Martin Luther King. She was inspired by David Wilkerson's 'Cross and the Switchblade." She was "turned on" by Eldridge Cleaver's 'Soul on Ice.' God gave her a special desire for them, both passion and compassion. So for her there was nothing out of synch with the principle that God humbles the proud but lifts the lowly. That's what she was all about, ministering to the ones beat down by society, and swept into the dustbin by history. God gave her a deep love for black men, for urban "youth" -- not merely mentoring and tutoring, but also serendipity, showing them a woman's affection and a woman's touch.

I was an arrogant white boy. Very soon she basically told me that my bubble needed to be popped. Eventually, the church itself agreed. I was already circumventing justice through the faith-based tough love, and it was only natural to segway into a full fledged discipline contract, what we call the Soul Clinic. I knew about spankings, but I reasoned they were for other husbands, not me. The fact is, my crimes only accumulated, despite my "promises." I subjected my wife to emotional abuse, constantly accusing her of intercourse with the black guys she dated.

I was summoned by my shepherding team. They confronted me with disrespecting my wife and failing to satisfy her. They asked me about various comments, my repeated racially tinged remarks, my accusing her (in effect) of dressing like a slut. My coming between her and God, and trying to make her feel constrained on her dates. (She felt "stifled" in her relationship with me.) Additionally they asked me about my "ogling" and gawking at her high heel shoes.

I knew better than to argue, but even still I threw up lame retorts. One of the elders reminded me condescendingly that intercourse merely means conversation, and isn't it time I allow her full liberty to have carnal conversation with the boyz she is called to help? I interrupted and made a boastful comment that "the trouble with her Negroes is they take one look at a sexy white woman and SPRONG! out pops a huge Negro erection."

Suddenly there was total silence. No one spoke. The judges (shepherding team) looked at each other. It seemed like an eternity but I tried to fix the damage, stammering "I - I - what I mean is - when my wife ..."

The senior shepherd asks my wife how it made her feel when she heard something like that. She said, "This is what I mean. Emotionally, he rapes me. He tortures me. He's a racist. He is disgusting."

Well, I soon agreed to a harsher phase. I would be "spanked" (flogged?). I was deemed a Nabal husband, a fool. The way it worked, you stretched out horizontal, your bare buns high in the air. then they spanked you (they used a razor strap). You were not supposed to fight your licks. Because my wife was the victim, she sat directly in front of me. I "voluntarily" agreed to the whole thing. The only safeword belonged to the victim observer, my wife.

Before the beatings commenced, she would be sitting direct in front of me. And I could smell the perfume of her fancy pointy-toe church pumps that she wore for her "dates" (the guys she mentored). They stressed to me I had no right to disrespect her, that she wore her stylish (sexy) clothes to show joy. To be a blessing. (Isaiah 60:1)

Well, needless to say, our marriage was put on hold. They assured me it was a "trial divorce" and that until I could accept my licks, that is, without fighting, or wincing (etc) that my wife completely OUTROOFED me. She became a woman of valor, a flirty fisher. Nothing wrong with winning them over (love bombing, you lavish them with affection and attention.) You see, many of them have been beat down, history has robbed them of self-worth, their natural pride and masculinity. So she reached out to them, made them feel good about themselves. So while her marriage to me was indefinitely terminated. And my genitals were forbidden all content with her (the exception being I was allowed to get on my knees, thankfully, and kiss her) -- she now began more than ever to spread her wings & fly (spiritual wifery) with her several black consorts. Nothing can be wrong that feels so perfect. (We're talking G-spot perfect. Big O, multi-orgasmic perfect.)

No longer did she try especially hard to protect my feelings, or hide me from (for one thing) the contempt she had for me. I found it very difficult to convince myself she was not fucking around, and I deserved every bit of it. Her serendipity, her canoodling, her social times. It was no longer a secret. Without shame, there was rapport building, there was dancing and drinking and making out which apparently got very intense, fluid bonding.

In a strange way I realized this was what I deserved. That I asked for it. I needed it. She became more beautiful to me, each time. Like she said, I seemed to "listen" better with my ass than I did with my ears. It was basically true. Like the psalm said, The plowers plowed up on my back or buttocks. The scourgers tore the flesh as ploughmen furrow a field. But it got through to me. It broke through my crust of pride and resistance.

After it was over, I lay there, sexually pulsating, lethargic, and oppressed. But you know, the funny thing was. It worked. I truly did become more obedient and accepted my lickings submissively.

The story of David struck home, like a sword piercing me to the core. I was a Nabal, a fool. David means love, and she found love with her black lovers. Nabal deserved punishment. A "fool" by his actions cries out to be flogged.

Every strapping concluded with a required apology to my wife. I was supposed to kiss her pumps (hadn't I - after all - insulted them?) It began to sink in. I began to realize they were right. I sensed it was true, I deserved every bit of it. The more I accepted and received (and 'owned') the whalloppings, the quicker I healed. I sensed that jealousy is weakness near as pathological as childish clinginess ' exclusivity. I did not own her, she belonged to God (not me.)

Gradually, my praise became heartfelt. More than ever, my lipservice and oral worship was real. I was glad she shone her light in the "Dark."

As I said, I certainly knew better. I said to the shepherds, "But I am married. I am too old to be treated like a delinquent punk." Their response was, "You are married. All the more you should know better than to behave like a delinquent punk. The verse they were referring to is Luke 12:47. this parable refers specifically to someone who knows better, an adult. In Greek the verb is to flay, to skin alive. The Hebrew method was to have the errant one lay prone before the judge (in this case we might suggest the parent, that is, the mother). In Greek the verb is to flay, to skin alive. According to the obvious moral of the metaphor, we might assume that often the skin would be broken.

If you know better, you are worthy of MANY stripes, or lashes. (not just a few.) And I knew better.

It was not the fault of my upbringing.

Even then I had a problem of rudeness, or staring. My mother wore sky high stiletto heels to honor the Lord. There was no excuse for my disrespect, for copping ogles. There was no excuse for it even once, but I was a habitual offender.

See, when I pulled one of my usual stunts, ie. copping ogles at her pumps, I could count on a CERTAIN spanking from mother. Those events were just the usual bare ass (standing) variety with a switch or an electric cord or doubled belt, always with the britches down. She would wail away, and we would go round and round, my rudeness and ogling was not tolerated. Round and round we would go, Clicketty – click de click. Even then I was an eyeball 'rapist.' I would shoot 'slimy looks' at women, and I always paid for it, seemed like.

If you saw her in those sleek high heel church shoes, you could pretty certain look forward to a whipping in the works, you'd be gyrating, kicking, begging, sobbing.

As a younger boy, when I was small , my mother would pull my britches and underwear down, and then grabbing my elbow we’d go round and round, spanking me. A little dance that went on and on. It was our little counter clockwise jig, and she used the switch or doubled belt or electric cord or short length of cable.

"Get your hands out of the way," she would holler. "Stop twisting." I tried real hard to be a good kid but she didn’t think I was trying – at least not hard enough. She would wear nylons and spike heels, it was like I knew ... I knew .... a whipping would be for sure. So I got in a lot of trouble.

"What did I tell you?" she would yell, all the while whipping my ass till it swelled up with blisters and welts. She would be screaming, "What is your problem. I said hold still." Or she would demand why I always did this, I must like getting whipped. I would often apologize. I would be huffing, ouching and saying, "I'm sorry ... I'm sorry."

I would be doing The Spanky Dance, daring not to rub my scalded ass, which constituted "fighting my licks." I knew better than to resist or to try to refuse. Then, out came the dowel. My hands would get the dowel, front and back.

That's how it happened. Like I somehow made it happen. I always made it worse, by resisting, or evading, or pushing her buttons.

Without thinking I reached back to protect or shield my bottom, begging her to stop. It hurt so bad that I kept putting my hand up to block the next blow. Suddenly she got fed up with me and stopped. Mom stood up and went over to the wall, her heels clittering, then grabbing a wooden dowel about three feet long. She made me kneel before her, and hold up my hands.

Mom says, "You know better and you WILL NOT fight your licks. You promised you would not fight, yet you have lied. Now hold out your hand. I am going to give you twenty five strokes on each hand. do you understand?"

I was unable to think. I moaned, but it came out like "Ohh no."

"What did you say!" she shrieked. "Did you just say No? Did you?"

"N-n-no,"

"Ah- ha!!! So you lied as well!!! Now hold your hand up. Hold it up, do you hear. Your punishment will be increased to thirty five strokes on each hand. Do you hear me?"

"y-y-y-usss ummmm" I whimpered. So after lathering my mouth, for my lie, she prepared to punish my hands.

"Further out. Higher. Higher."

"These naw'ty hands need to be heated up!"

Then taking her left hand she reached out and straightened my fingers. Then taking the dowel she lifted it high and held it poised in the air. At once she brought it down with a force that sent a burning pain into my palm. Then back and forth, back and forth. She was holding nothing back. She was FURIOUS! Her eyes glittered as she saw the effectiveness of her fury. Blindly I obeyed her. I had to obey no matter what.

The pain in my hands was so intense I could not have believed it possible. My hands were being beaten into a kind of fiery numbness. She began to beat my hands even more rapidly! Long before this torture reached its climax, I was making strange animal sounds, incoherent with repressed agony, holding my hands before me like a dog, crazy with a total abandonment to the pain. It was over and my hands were throbbing, I must never resist my beatings. I must never ever interfere with my beatings.

My hands became swollen, but in a way I was actually happy. It's easier to keep your hands out of the way if they've been whipped first. By the time she got out the FX flex cable, I was more willing to truly accept and submit without question.

But what a difference it made the next week -- my behavior. Always, for sure, every whipping transformed me, tamed me -- for a few days. A week or so. I become docile, obedient, sweet, passive. I became submissive to my mother.

Copping ogles was a BIG no-no in our home. A guaranteed beating -- very severe. For some reason, the sight of an attractive woman in sexy high heels has a way of making me feel guilty. I don't know why. Inadvertently I began clenching my butt cheeks. Maybe a premonition -- a certain kind of apprehension. A foreboding. Something about the no-nonsense way she looked. My butt cheeks twitched at the the thought of my inevitable fate, it happened every time. I was possessed with a guilt, a dread. My sphincter, my little butt pucker - it tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed.

My guilty conscience. Like that saying about "mens rea" (a guilty mind). It was a Hebrews 10:27 kind of thing. I would get that queasy feeling, that 'certain fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation.' I think I knew I was in deep trouble. I got an uneasy feeling. Just looking at her, seeing her stand there. I felt guilt-ridden to the core. Maybe a premonition -- a certain kind of apprehension. A foreboding. Something about the no-nonsense way she looked. It felt like a big knot was in my stomach and I started get this sick feeling of fear. Then it got worse ....

"Who do you think you are, copping ogles like that? And right in church? Can't you control yourself!"

She was convinced I had been looking at porn.

I stammered, "Am I g-gonna get a whipping?"

(What do you think, you slimy punk.)

When I first saw my wife come in, my heart did a little jump, but I did my best not to show it. She sashayed in wearing a luscious Ida yellow dress, with white lace trim, that came to mid-calf, she had voluptuous coffee coloured stockings and the finishing touch, her church pumps -- they flashed and sparkled like magic.They were glossy black patent ultra-chic mirror-finish high-heel pumps all edged with gold trim piping. She had an air of imperturbable confidence and poise as her pumps clittered across the tile floor, her head held high. She appreciated their authority. She had little sympathy for my self-caused problems.

I blinked and stared as her stilettos made a resounding and sharply distinct clicketty- clicketty - clicketty click de click de clack.

I must have licked my lips. Her pumps were gleaming sparkly black patent pumps with five-inch needle thin heels. She was pure sophistication. Immediately I tried to fight my eyes, struggling not to be rude, not to "cop ogles" especially at her glittering gild edged pumps.

I swear it was like she was ten feet tall. I must have gasped. All that was strictly forbidden. I felt pervaded by a feeling of jealousy. Jealousy for the black men she seemed to adore, and cater to, and dress for. Jealous for everything they had that I did not. Jealous for their superiority and masculinity, their physicality and confidence. I was my own worst enemy.