(gap: 2s) There is a certain charm to the recollections of one’s childhood, particularly when viewed through the gentle haze of nostalgia. My own memories of discipline are not marked by the sharp sting of corporal punishment, but rather by its curious absence. My parents, you see, were not given to smacking, and until I began school, I was quite convinced that all households were conducted in much the same manner.
It was not long before I made the acquaintance of a boy named David. Our friendship blossomed swiftly, and it was during our visits to one another’s homes that the differences between our mothers became most apparent. My own mother was not unkind, but she was reserved, her affections measured and never effusive.
David’s mother, by contrast, was a veritable whirlwind of warmth and good humour. Her laughter rang out, hearty and unrestrained, and she was forever bestowing affectionate pats and hugs upon us. It was quite impossible to pass her by without receiving a gentle ruffle of the hair or a playful tap.
I cannot say with certainty whence my fascination with the idea of being spanked arose, but it was there, quietly persistent. I had never, to my knowledge, been smacked, and one afternoon, as David and I played in his kitchen, the subject of dinosaurs arose—no doubt inspired by our recent lessons at school.
David, ever the inquisitive soul, asked his mother if dinosaurs had roamed the earth when she was a little girl. She laughed heartily and assured us that she was not quite so ancient.
As we made our way past her to return to our games, David made some further remark. In a trice, his mother seized him, spun him round, and, with a flourish worthy of a pantomime, placed him squarely across her ample lap. The whole scene unfolded with the brisk efficiency of a well-rehearsed comedy, and yet, to my young eyes, it was as momentous as a royal pageant. David, caught entirely off guard, let out a yelp of surprise, his legs flailing in the air in a most undignified fashion. His mother, her eyes twinkling with mischief, adjusted his position with the practised ease of one who had performed this ritual many times before. She smoothed the seat of his shorts with a theatrical flourish, as if preparing a canvas for some important work, and then, with a conspiratorial wink in my direction, raised her hand.
“I am not too old to smack your bottom, young man!” she declared, her voice ringing with mock severity. What followed was a series of smacks—four or five, I counted—each delivered with a crisp, resounding report that echoed about the kitchen like the crack of a starter’s pistol at sports day. The sound was sharp, yet not unkind, and David’s protests were more for show than from any real distress. His mother’s hand rose and fell with a rhythm that was almost musical, and with each playful smack, David wriggled and kicked, his indignation mingling with laughter. The whole affair was conducted with such good humour that it seemed less a punishment than a sort of boisterous game, a performance for the benefit of both audience and participant.
She laughed again, reaching out to give him a couple more light swats as he scrambled to his feet and dashed for the back door. “That will teach you, you cheeky thing!” she called after him, her voice brimming with affection. The kitchen, which only moments before had been the scene of such high drama, now rang with laughter and the fading sound of David’s retreating footsteps.
The entire episode was over in a moment, but the image of David’s mother administering those smacks was indelibly etched in my mind. The sight was memorable, but the sound—a mother’s hand meeting a pair of taut shorts—was, to my ears, quite remarkable. It was a sound that seemed to encapsulate all the mysteries of childhood discipline: brisk, decisive, and yet curiously comforting.
Naturally, I longed for similar treatment, but David’s mother merely shooed us both out of the kitchen, clapping her hands in good-natured dismissal. We spent the remainder of the afternoon at play, and I found myself developing a rather innocent admiration for David’s mother, who seemed to possess the secret to a world both more lively and more affectionate than my own.
Upon returning home, I recounted the entire incident to my own mother, certain that she would follow suit. I even asked her, with a hopeful grin, whether she too had seen dinosaurs in her youth, fully expecting her to draw me across her knee. Yet, thirty years later, I am still waiting.
My mother made some light remark about age and dinosaurs, but there was no playful smacking for me. I was crushed by disappointment, unable to comprehend why, after what I considered a most obvious invitation, she had not obliged. My disappointment soon gave way to a sense of exclusion. Had I not been so eager to experience a spanking, it would have mattered little. But to me, it mattered a great deal.
In time, I recovered from my initial chagrin. Though I visited David’s home on many occasions thereafter, I never again witnessed a spanking, though David assured me they were not uncommon. I recall questioning him about them—did they sting, were they always over the knee, and so forth. The details are now hazy, but I do remember that none were truly painful or intended as punishment. I remained quietly envious, unable to understand why I could not join in the fun.
Matters took a more distressing turn when my mother’s friend, who had twin boys, came to visit. By this time, I was well aware of my own peculiar interest, thanks to David’s mother.
The twins and their mother were in our sitting room, and a playful scuffle ensued. Their mother hugged one of the boys and growled in mock ferocity. The wireless was on, and something in the programme seemed to inspire her playful attack. The boy giggled and squirmed, and soon his brother joined in. It was all perfectly natural.
The twins were soon overwhelming their mother, and the room was filled with laughter and squeals. I watched from the armchair, reflecting that I could not recall ever having played in such a manner with my own mother.
My mother entered from the kitchen, and the twins’ mother called for assistance. My mother tickled one of the boys, who rolled away, giggling. The twins’ mother then managed to subdue the first twin, who ended up face down across her lap on the sofa. My heart began to race.
With evident delight, the twins’ mother declared, “Now you are in trouble!” and gave his clothed bottom a few playful pats. It was, to my mind, the very essence of innocent fun between mother and son—precisely what I so wished for myself. What happened next, however, wounded me deeply and left a lasting impression.
The other twin implored my mother, “Do that to me! Do that to me!” pointing at his brother. To my astonishment, she did. She sat at the other end of the sofa, opened her arms, and invited the boy to lie across her knee. I watched in disbelief as she carefully positioned him just so.
Once settled, the two boys shrieked with laughter as they were smacked in unison. These were clearly playful smacks, delivered over shorts, but the sound of two little bottoms being smacked filled the room.
I was rendered speechless, utterly absorbed in the spectacle before me. Once again, I was mere feet from an over-the-knee smacking, this time a double. I was both elated and wounded. To see my own mother playfully smack another boy’s bottom was a sharp pang indeed.
There was some light-hearted banter between the two mothers as they continued, but I recall only one sentence, which has remained with me ever since. In response to her friend, my mother said, “Only too happy to help!” It seemed she was quite content to smack another boy’s bottom, but not mine.
There was, however, a final twist to the tale, one I have never forgotten, nor, if I am honest, quite forgiven.
The twins wriggled and the one across his mother’s knee managed to escape. He then insisted on swapping places. My mother released the boy across her knees, opened her arms once more, and welcomed the other twin with a broad smile.
The other boy returned to his mother,
