San Diego Diary - 1940
2 Pledges
At the end of the alley the seamen encountered three fellas just as big and just as mean as them. Except that these fellas had armbands with SP in big orange letters. And batons. From what I was able to observe from the encounter, I figured Jack and Curls were going to spend some time in the brig.
Honestly, if I was rolling in dough I would have shelled out a couple of bucks to suck their dicks again. Anyway, there's plenty of guys who want to get their cock serviced for free, and some even pay queers. Not me though. I'm no prostitute. And I sure ain't rich! I get by. Fortunately Dad had some clubs from his golfing days so I was able to get on the roster at State without a big investment.
My pal and teammate Ed on the other hand comes from a wealthy family, like the other men who are in Greek letter fraternities on campus. His father is a bigwig in the military. Ed invited me to a kind of secret gathering at ___ fraternity on Saturday. I was a bit reluctant because the fraternity brothers are all pretty wealthy and can afford to be smartly dressed. I only had one jacket, and it was glaringly out of style, since I had inherited it from Dad along with his golf clubs. I guess Ed, who knew me well, had already taken this into consideration. He's a sensitive guy. Without alluding to my woeful duds, he explained that it was going to be a casual affair with only the brothers and pledges -- no suits, no blazers, no jackets. And stag -- no cookies.
Come Saturday I spruced up. You might even say I looked pretty swell in my spearpoint shirt I got for Christmas and my snazzy striped tie I bought at Marston's from my caddy earnings. I took a gander in the mirror. Not bad, I'd blow you, I said to my reflection. I was pretty excited. I'd never been inside a fraternity house before. I know some of the brothers though. One of them, Zack, is an Aztec defensive back who gets my pulse revving like a souped-up coupe every time I see him suit up for a game.
The frat house is set back from the street by a short path. It's one of those old rambling Victorian houses. Pretty much every day I went by it there were fraternity men on the wrap-around porch with a pitcher of lemonade they chilled in the icebox. I guess there might have been some gin mixed in. They were often loud and boisterous when I happened to pass by, either laughing raucously or arguing or just talking with unrestrained excitement. I bounded up the steps that led to the front door. And it just so happened Zack was the brother who answered when I rang! I held out my hand and he grasped it in a vice-like grip and shook it with three emphatic pumps, then motioned me in with a sweep of his arm. He took a swig of Schlitz and yelled over his shoulder, Ed your golf chum's here. The brothers had obviously already got started cracking open the liquor. They were yelling and whooping like red Injuns in a cowboy movie. The new hot swing record by the Playboys was blasting from a big console radio, the biggest one I've ever seen outside of a store, and turned up high. There was another sound too, a sharp smack followed by a loud cheer. Zack led me into the room where the action was happening. A crowd of fellas stood around a big fraternity brother in a blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held a two-foot long wooden paddle, and he was getting ready to swing it.
The frosh was face down, splay-legged on an overstuffed armchair. He was stripped down to his white briefs, tank top, and socks and shoes. The young gentleman's ass was the target of the paddle, and the whack I had heard was the paddle making contact. The big fella in the blue shirt held the paddle grip with both hands and planted his feet wide apart, like a batter ready to swing. He swirled it around in the air a few times to heighten the suspense and then brought it down with a mighty whack on the poor pledge's behind. Another big cheer from the crowd of brothers, all of them smiling broadly and swigging from beer bottles or flasks, clapping each other on the back to celebrate their superior masculine status. The frosh in underwear and shoes smiles and tries to laugh like it's all a lark, in a futile attempt to hide his humiliation. He puts on a brave front despite his sore ass.
The music was going crazy. The sax and the trumpets and bones swinging and blowing like mad and Tommy Duncan's singing Get with it! Ohhhhh Get with it!
Zack got close against me. He leaned into me and threw his bulky arm around my shoulders like we were best buddies. He had loosened his tie and his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. His body was like a darn radiator, the heat just came off him in a wave. He spoke loudly, his lips right up against my ear so I could hear him above the loud music and the cheering brothers. He was tight and feeling rowdy. He grinned ear to ear, boasting.
-- That pledge has got nineteen strokes so far. And I'm the one who's going to give him the last one. And there's one more freshman gonna get hazed after him.
He slung his arm around my neck, and with his other arm crossed in front of me, locked me in an embrace that was at once affectionate and aggressive. Then giving me a powerful hug that could have choked me if it had lasted more than half a second, he sauntered up to take the paddle and to deliver the last blow on the pledge's butt.
Now the radio is practically exploding with the Benny Goodman Band and Gene Krupa is pounding the heck out of those drums, whamming the tubs and whacking the skins like those paddle swats, and I still feel Zack the Radiator's warmth on me. Zack cracks the paddle on the kid's ass and the pledge squeezes his eyes and opens his mouth in an O and grabs the arm of the chair with both hands and pushes up in reaction to the pain. And the half-drunk brothers roar all the louder. He half falls off the chair and stands awkwardly, gingerly rubbing his sore ass. The men laugh now like it's all fun and games. And for them I guess it is. Thank my lucky stars I'm wearing briefs. Otherwise my stubborn hardon would be extremely visible in the pleat of my pants.
The frat men coalesce in a kind of pack like they're all sending mental telepathy messages to each other, and they guide the pledge to the fireplace. Blue Shirt fella commands the pledge to kneel facing the center of the room. He stands in front of him, facing his brothers, with his legs spread. He bends his knees and puts his hands on top of them so his ass almost shoved in the pledge's face and he looks straight ahead while the brothers crowd around, smirking and giving each other little shoves like they're on the football field joshing.
Blue Shirt commands the pledge to kiss his ass.
-- Kiss your pledge master's ass. Hands behind your back.
The frosh puckers and gives the pledge master's butt cheek a quick peck.
-- Did I tell you to stop kissing my ass, pledge?
-- SIR NO SIR
Blue Shirt sticks his butt out and the pledge leans forward and plants fast smooches all over the master's butt, not daring to stop until he's told. Well, he's not being told to stop. Blue Shirt smiles at the fellas, it's a smile that's not happy or friendly though, but gloating, like he just scored and wants them all to know it.
The radio was blasting The Playboys playing White Heat. It seemed like the slide guitar was twanging madly inside my head. The boisterous brothers hustled their next hazing victim to the overstuffed chair. They spread the frosh across it with his legs apart, his elbows on arm of the chair, waiting for the wallops. The kid looked back over his shoulder to see who would be his first tormentor. He looked more like a high school frosh than a college fella. Not because he was small, cause he wasn't. He was long, like he'd just had a growth spurt. But if you only saw his pale face and bright pink cheeks you might think he was about 13. His hair was as short as some of the military fellas and redder than Mickey Rooney's, and it stood straight up like he'd just been hit by lightning. The hair on his arms and legs was reddish and so fine that it was barely visible. His lips were parted and his eyebrows were raised in anticipation of the next paddle swing, making him look both alarmed and gleeful.
WHACK! The brothers cheer and playfully punch each other.
-- One! Thank you Sir, may I please have another?
The paddle was handed over to the next man. His pipe and his wire rim glasses gave him an almost scholarly look, but he had a muscular body of an athlete. He clenched the pipe in his teeth and grasped the handle with both hands, meeting the gaze and giddy smiles of his fellow Greeks with an unhurried masterful air.
WHACK! The brothers cheer, one of them shouts in a harsh half drunk tone, Yeah, get him good, Dave!
-- Two! Thank you Sir, may I please have another?
Ed asks me if we can talk in private later. Sure Ed, I say and he smiles. Even Ed's smile always has a bit of seriousness. He's a serious guy.
WHACK!
--Three! Thank you Sir, may I please have another?
Whooping and yelling, the fraternity brothers hauled out a wooden bench and set it up in front of the chair. Zack lunged toward me with a great smile and threw his arm around my neck again and held me in the crook of his arm. He thumped me on my chest with his other paw, meaning it to be a friendly pat. His eyes drooped slightly and he smelled of beer. He leaned against me and put his lips right up against my ear and spoke loudly, slurring some words. Again I felt the warmth radiating from his body.
-- Ed tells us you're aces at golf so we made a special arrangement just for you, buddy.
He tightened his arm muscles, increasing the pressure on my neck in a kind of hug that felt more like a wrestling hold
-- We got a bench for you so you can show off your golf swing on this freshman's ass.
His arm still around my neck, he half dragged me to the bench and handled me the paddle. I looked it over. Whoever carved it did a swell job. It was not thick slab, but a nice thin blade made for sharp rebounding smacks. The fraternity's letters were painted in black on one side. On the other side was a list of signatures of pledges who had undergone hazing in past years. At the end of the list were four blank lines. After tonight there wouldn't be any blank lines.
The redhead raised his butt to receive my hit, not in mock bravado, but playfully, and I saw his cock was at half mast in his briefs. I realized he was enjoying this, at least so far, so I figured he was fair game for a genuine swat. I placed the wood lightly on his rear end and rubbed it across the mounds. His ass was nicely filled-out and firm. I patted the full length of the paddle lightly across his behind, taking aim, drawing out the suspense. He looked over his shoulder at the big wood meeting his butt with excited anticipation, almost as if he was one of the men meting out the beating, instead of their target.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a frat man who stared unblinking at the paddle against the pledge's ass, unaware that his mouth was open and his hand was squeezing his crotch. Another fella in a letter sweater had his arm around his buddy. He studied the action intently with a malevolent smile and narrowed eyes.
I made like I was addressing the ball with a putter. I shuffled my butt side to side like the guys do before they get ready to sink it. I made a perfect arc swing and the wood went crack! on the pledge's ass. He drew in his breath sharply, his mouth in a silent oooo!, his eyes scrunched shut. And I followed through like I'd just teed off, twisting to the left and holding the paddle aloft. The frat men all applauded! I felt like Roger Kelly! One of the men stepped forward and snatched the pledge's briefs and pulled them down, exposing his ass, which was as red as his hair. He blushed all over, looking like a big strawberry. I stepped down from the bench and Zack was right there. He held out his hand for a handshake, gripped my hand and pumped emphatically three times, the last downward motion against the bulge in his trousers, where he held our interlocked hands.