I was getting dressed a few mornings back and I grabbed my belt. I grabbed it by it's ends, with the buckle and the holes touching. It dropped down by my side. Suddenly, I was in a room getting beat by my father. It was so clear, it was as if I was 9 or 10 years old all over again. My thighs felt the pressure of being pressed up against the end of my bed. I saw him. Standing there with his belt, held in the way mine was seconds earlier. His fat, sweaty face looking down at mine. Hell, it was so real, I could even smell his breath.
The entire episode lasted all of 15 to 20 seconds, but it felt like an hour. When I realized I was standing in my bedroom, an adult, and completely safe, I started shaking. I haven't seen my father in five years, and, since having these nightmares and flashbacks, I don't think the time will ever come where I will want to again.
I think I have said some of this before, I don't know. My dad's weapon of choice was his belt. He reminded me of a baseball player in a lot of ways. My mom would use whatever was handy. A wooden spoon, a switch, a ping pong paddle. My dad's belt was like his favorite bat. He was faithful to it.
When I was younger, I would get "whipped" while clothed, and, if I was lucky, with pants on instead of shorts. As time went on, my dad realized that the clothing cushioned the blow, so to speak. I was also able to tense up my ass muscles without him noticing. That made the spanking hurt less. As a consequence, all spankings were done bare assed from that point on.
My ass became his field of dreams, and let's just say he swung for the fences. He had a way of swinging the belt much like the way a ball player would swing at a pitch. He used two hands, one holding the belt together at the buckle, the other stretching it out straight at the end. He would then take a step forward and swing. The fucker actually would swing at me like he had a baseball bat in his hands. Occasionally, he would get a little too close and I would get part of a belt buckle or a fist across my backside. If I tried to stop him, or if I tensed up, or put my hands behind my ass to block the whacks, I would get more. So, I took the buckle and fist hits.
I got beat this way until I was 14 or 15, until my ass was hairier than my dad's and it became embarrassing for him to whip me bare assed. My dad was 5'10". By then I was well over 6' tall. At that point, it came to shoving matches and threats of punches. I think he punched me once, but I punched him back. By that time, the whole "Honor your father and mother" stuff had long gone out the window.
I don't know what caused my parents, but mostly my dad, to whip us like he did. I know he was beaten by his dad. Believe me, I'm not trying to make excuses for him. He had always felt that we thought we were better than he was. He dropped out of school shortly after the sixth grade and wasn't an educated man by any means. He had provided for us simply because he was a hard worker. In a way, he was right. All my life, I had never respected him, and, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't beat the respect into me. Now, no matter how hard I try, my brain won't let me forget that fat ignorant fucker. So, I guess he got the last laugh after all.
0 comments:
Post a Comment