Daily Excerpt #Milk Fight

                         Milk Fight

 

     Robert White and Nathan Small could have easily been placed in the senior section, but an extra place or two was made in the junior section.

     White and Small were almost always together. In the junior section they were the two biggest, the two strongest, usually laughing, joking, and playing together. Their play quickly turned into bouts of who is the best. Number one. They were friends. They were rivals. Each would vie to out do the other. Each would try to out perform the other. Nate Small was colored; Robert White was white.

     Because they were rivals and friends, they sat at the head of the table, right next to Brothers table. Almost in the center of the dining room. They were that close to the power. It was part of the prestige of being the biggest and the best. Because it was a continuing of who is number one: the best--a fight broke out. And with it, racism came into the open.

     Upon the table where they and four other boys sat, were two bottles of milk, a quart and a pint. Small and White would share that pint bottle of milk three times a day. It was part of being cool. The pint bottle was more exclusive than the common quart bottle from which the four other students at the table shared.

     It so happened that one of the students from that table went home for funeral services. A death in the family.

     With one student missing from the table, that pint bottle of milk became more exclusive. It would belong to number one! The biggest. The best. The strongest. That would be whoever grabbed that pint bottle of milk first could have it all to himself. The remaining students at the table would have to take their drink, pouring from the more common quart bottle.

     To add to the situation at that time, there was only one Brother supervisor presiding--Brother Elexsis.

     The situation went down to: . . . Brother would say Grace. We students would answer Amen. Then protocol had it that we wait for Brother to sit; then we students would sit. We would wait for Brother to start eating; then we students would start to eat. Brother Elexsis would have to make a move for one of his eating utensils--a knife, a fork, or perhaps to take a drink from his glass.

     So it was during the sitting down, when one hundred students would be taking their seats, that Robert White and Nathan Small would reach for that lone pint bottle of milk. The quickest would sit-reach-grab-and-slide that exclusive bottle and place it in front of his place setting; all done it one smooth fluid motion.

     Propriety called for not reaching for food or drink while one is standing. So the contest consisted of; not only who was the strongest, but also the quickest.

     It was not much new to either of the two--Small or White. It was just another contest. (They had had contests before. They wrestled each other in the gym. They grunted and groaned, cried out in mock pain. They half joked as they grabbed and twisted, throwing each other around. Slamming each other on the floor mat laid out on the gymnasium floor. It was colored against white. But they were friends, and allowances were made. Brother Elexsis would sometimes warn the two, trying to modify the roughhousing.)

     This contest was about who could quickly be seated and grab that bottle of milk first. It happened three times a day; breakfast, lunch and dinner. The contest had no starting bell or whistle. The line up was opposite sides of the table. The two contestants faced each other and the contest started within the silence that followed the prayer of Grace. The last words: " . . . through Christ our Lord. Amen."

     Quickly the two students would sit. Two hands would grab for that pint bottle of milk. One hand colored. One hand white. One hand would go for the lower portion of the bottle. At the same time the opponents hand would grab the neck of the bottle. There would be a brief tug-of-war. One hand would pull and twist; the opponent would counter with his grasp. It was all done silently and had to have been done quickly, because Brother has not given the mandatory signal to begin eating and talking. That was the glitch. That was the hold-up. And was during those days, that sometimes Brother Elexsis would give a downward glance of disproval from his elevated position, from his elevated table.

     This contest between Nate Small and Robert White took place right under the nose of Brother Elexsis. Right next to his table, and Brother Elexsis would be ready to quietly consume his meal and at the same time overlook a roomful of one hundred students.

     But never mind that. This is a contest of who is the best. The most exclusive. For the white boy it is a contest of wresting his opponents dark hand away from the white bottle of milk. For the colored student it is a contest of respectability, equality, fraternity, all within this white boy school of religiosity.

     For a few days it had been a quick slight of hand, but the longer the student who was away on temporary leave, the more the contest between Robert White and Nate Small became more than a game. Their fragile friendship was being tested to the limit. I noticed when Small had won the prize, he offered some to his opponent. White refused the offering. An affront to Small.

     The grabbing that bottle of milk became a serious contest. The two students would almost throw their chairs back, slam down into their seat and grab for that bottle. One day it came to a head: The colored boy wins. He wrests the prize from the grip of the white boy. He is equal to the white boy; but, Robert White breaks the rules. He strikes at his rival from across the table. With closed fist, he hits Nate Small flush on the face. It is a solid blow. It was thrown as Mr. White was half seated. The contest has turned from rival, fellow student, to a striking affront before the assembled junior section of one hundred boys.

     Not all saw the blow struck. I did. I was waiting, watching. I had seen the scenario brewing for the past few days. The contest had seesawed one way and then the other. There were various glances of warning from Brother Elexsis. It was building to this. This strike, this blow. This was the start of the cafeteria fight. The milk fight.

     From across the table Robert White threw the first blow; a right hand, hitting Nate Small flush on the side of his face.

     Deliberately, Nate Small sets aside his newly won bottle of milk. He stands up and walks around the table to where Mr. White is seated. He does this casually, nonchalant, as if he is on a Sunday stroll. His arms are loose, his facial expression is non descript; but, he is quite serious.

     Robert White just about stands up as Nate Small approaches. He is almost in that half standing, half seated position; that same position that he took that swing and hit Nate Small with.

     Nate Small explodes throwing a powerful round house punch and it hits White flush on face.

     White is stunned for a moment, a split second; then, chairs are pushed aside. White comes out swinging. He lets loose with a straight right followed with a left.

     Nate Small takes that and answers with a hook, and another hook.

     White takes those punches and answers with more of his own.

     It is fast, furious and powerful. The fight of fights for the championship of the junior section. It is for number one.

     White unleashes a right, a left, and a right.

     Small takes that and hits back with a hook, a hook, and a hook.

     They move to center floor. White is a stand up fighter. He is throwing straight rights and lefts.

     Small fights out of a semi crouch. He's a hooker. Left hook, right hook. He is throwing powerful hooks, one right after the other. Both fighters are equal in their determination. Both are strong, giving and taking. The dining tables to the left and right mark out of bounds.

     Small moves in throwing powerful shots: hook, hook.

     White takes them and answers with powerful shots of his own; straight right, straight left, straight right.

     It is hard fought. Both throwing heavy punches. Punches that land. It is for who is the biggest and the best. For who is number one. 

     They are toe to toe, swinging it out.

     Brother Elexsis has jumped up from his seat. He runs to where the fighters are and tries to get between them. He can't. He grabs and pulls on one then the other trying to stop the fight. At long last he manages to maneouver between the two and the fight stops.

     Then White throws a punch over the shoulder of Brother Elexsis. First White threw a punch over the table, using the table as a barrier, now he has thrown a punch over the shoulder of Brother Elexsis, using Brother as a shield. This blow over the shoulder of Brother hits Small in the face and Small resumes fighting. He powers past Brother Elexsis pushing him aside. It looks like Brother Elexsis gets an elbow in his face.

     Brother grabs Nate Small and is tries to stop him. He can't, so he starts to kick at Nate. Brother Elexsis has Nate Small by the shirt collar and kicks at him. He kicks the leg of Nate Small. Kicks at the leg of that colored boy. Brother Elexsis kicks, kicks, and kicks. Brother Elexsis, the white religious Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus is kicking at the colored boy.

     It doesn't stop Nate Small. It is another affront within this white boy school, this white man's world. Hook, hook, he swings at Robert White and scores.

     White gives ground and answers with punches of his own. Right hand. Left hand.

     The fight stops. They've wound down. The slugfest has stopped of its own accord.

     Draw! Draw! I surmise, or could give Small the split decision

     There is still and air of tension.

     "You both have D's." Brother Elexsis angrily tells them.

     It's after the fact. Anticlimactic. They have D's for bad conduct: fighting. It ends the friendly rivalry relationship between White and Small. There is no more friendship.

     In the rec hall a few days later: I question Robert White. Nate Small is standing nearby, within hearing distance. I say to White, "I thought you were friends."

     "That nigger?" He says to me, and he lets his voice carry to the ears of Nate Small.

     Small winces. It is a finality. Small, it had appeared could have been open to reparations. It was like he was ready to carry on. To forgive and forget. White wanted none of it. He said the word, nigger. That was it. No more wrestling, no more games. It was over. Whatever friendship there was, ended.

     Nate Small left school. As I saw it, he didn't want any more racist white boys and those white Brother's of the Sacred Heart of Jesus kicking at him. And his father backed him up. Yes, his father, a colored man, backed his son up in his decision to leave the bastard school of Mount Saint Charles Academy. I had seen the two, father and son. His father had come to school a weekend or so later and conversed with his son. I saw them talking. It was decision time. Could it have been: Fuck this bastard white boy school, or some other such unspoken words.

     Goddamn! My bastard father wouldn't think of such a thing. Backing me up. Goddamn! So who's the nigger now white boy? Why it's me! David Emmanuel Faria, that's who. Goddamn.

 

Daily Excerpt #1

This took place at Mount Saint Charles Academy which is located in the city of Woonsocket Rhode Island. Date: 1954 about the month of September 





 

                           The Whipping

 

     At that moment, from out of the stairway landing, Brother Claver, the Director of Mount Saint Charles, came running. To me, at this Catholic institution, he will be the pervert of perverts. The bastard of bastards. He stopped in mid hall, looked left and right. He saw us and quickly walked to us, slowing as he approached.

     I got up and felt light on my feet.

     With a red face, Brother Charles spoke rapidly in French. There was no hesitation. No smiling stupidly. No silent interludes. He pointed to the classroom and then to me. With much animation he communicated to Brother Director, all in French. The little I could make out was a word or two. He mentioned, mon frere, my brother Gilbert. Then Brother Charles stopped talking.

     Brother Claver turned to me and asked sternly, "And what do you have to say for yourself?"

     I looked at the black robed two; with their crucifixes, their blackness from head to toe, their comradeship.

     "There's nothing to do," I told Brother Claver.

     "What do you mean, there's nothing to do! There's a class going on in there!" he said in angered disbelief.

     He didn't say: We've spent days, weeks, trying to place a Brother before this class. First we have an embarrassing situation with one of us Brothers grabbing at young boys. Then we have student laughter at the queer Brothers we place before you in the class. Finally we find a moron who is dumb but clean. And you are to upset all this! . . . You! . . . You! . . . You're that boy with the boorish father who shouted at me, yelling in my face. Telling me, prompting me, "He's standing right out there in the hall! Go and ask him?" And so here you are, aren't you? You're standing right here in the hall. Now, isn't that a coincidence. How convenient. You little bastard. And you wanted to enter my office? And your father shouting in my face! Shouting in my face! Of course I'll show you. Not the inside of my office. I'll show you. The gall! The unmitigated gall! And you wanting me to listen to what you have to say. You can say absolutely nothing that would make any difference. Absolutely nothing. Shouting in my face. Imagine!

     So it is a continuation of our face off from a scant few weeks before. But now, without my father at my side, there is not much to say. Or much I could do. He wouldn't listen before. He won't listen now.

     "There's nothing to do," I repeat, telling him in my eighth grade naive school boy way.

     And, it was true. We weren't allowed to read or write. No books on the desk. There was nothing to do but sit and listen to the ramblings of an incompetent. A moron. But, nothing I could say would make any difference to this pervert of perverts. This bastard. This sadomasochistic pervert Jesuit bastard of Christ Jesus.

     Now it is Brother Claver’s turn. Before him is a student with bad conduct. A student in need of punishment. A student that needs to be punished and disciplined; so he will obey the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Yes. But not here. I was to be punished in private.

     Not fully understanding my position, I slowly shook my head to the negative. No. There's not a class going on. Brother Charles doesn't know how to teach class. He's incompetent. He's not a teacher.

     But this fixated Jesuit bastard, Frere Claver, has his mind made up.

     "We're wasting time here. Come with me." He says with cold anger. And Brother Charles goes back inside his classroom. I follow Brother Director downstairs.

     In the main hallway we stop at a doorway where he unlocks a door and we enter. It is a small storage utility room. The floor is waxed and polished and through a window, the morning sunlight shines. Part of the yard outside can be seen. The room is located on the first floor, east side, between the junior section and the chapel. In one corner of the room is a mop and a pail.

     "Wait here," says Brother Claver and he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

     Thinking this may be my punishment--to wait in this small room alone--I relax and bide my time.

 

     So, the door re-opened and Brother Claver came back into the little utility room. The room with nothing but a pail, a mop and me; with a window showing part of the back yard. Brother Claver closed the door behind him, and he quietly locked it with his key. He turned to me and commanded, "Get on Your Knees!"

     Get on my knees!? What for? And I balked. I raised up on my toes, coming almost face to face with him: the old man. Brother Director slipped his hand beneath his black robe and slid out a dark brown leather strap. It was about eighteen inches long. It was a barber’s strop, used for sharpening straight edged razors. But this leather strop had half inch serrations cut into the end. Small stubby bobs of leather. More to hurt young boys.

     He wants me to get on my knees so he can whip me with that strap!!!

     I can fight him.

     I can block every blow. I can counter every move that he can make. He's old. I can outlast him.

     "Get on your knees! . . . or, I shall strike you till you fall to your knees!" He said it so convincingly. So commandingly. Like he said it with all the authority of the Church and Brotherhood. He said it like angered Moses coming back down from the mountain. He said it like any evangelist speaking about sin and sinners! Fall to your knees! Repent!

     If I fight him, I will be expelled from school! I will be forced to run away. And he will call the police. The police will hunt me down. I will be caught and put in a police car. Then I will be brought back here to the school. He will call my father. Dad will come to the school. He will be angered and he will take me home. There he will hit me. He may even slap me in my face. Perhaps again and again. And after all that, I will be forced to go to a reform school. And I will have a record.

     In that second. In that ever so brief time frame. The question was posed: This school? Or, a reform school? I have to choose. Should I kneel before this vile old man and be beaten with a leather strap? Taking my punishment now? Or, should I stand. Block his blows, then wait to be expelled? I will most likely be beaten by Dad and then sent to a reform school. I have to choose. If I take the beating now; it will be over! But, to get on my knees! Damn! If I run away. Where can I go? I have nowhere to go.

     Because I had nowhere to go I chose the punishment to be given. Slowly I knelt. I knelt in front of that old perverted bastard of Jesus. I put both knees on the floor. I knelt before that pervert religious Jesuit bastard. That sick bastard of Christ Jesus. Goddamn that bastard religion. It was most degrading to me. Much more so than when I was whipped at Westall by the bitch principal. And there again I believed it was my father who had given permission for me to be whipped! My own Goddamn bastard father! Jesus Fucking Christ!

     "Hold out your hand!" commanded Frere Claver, "If you move, I will start over from the beginning."

     I carefully listened to his words. This was no time to make mistakes. I must hold out my right hand, and not move it. If I move my hand, he will start over. And that, I didn't want to happen.

     He measured with the strap, holding it over my hand, holding it right front of my eyes, inches from my face. Oh! He wants me to see the strap before I feel it. He did it so deliberately. He had his arm outstretched, straight and stiff for dramatic effect. Slowly he raised his arm. He raised the strap in front of my eyes with a straight and stiff arm . . . like he was a Nazi. It was that straight stiff arm of a Nazi when they saluted Hitler; but this was a salute to Jesus. A salute to Jesus by a Jesuit. And with the straight stiff arm in an ever raising salute, on the end was his hand holding the object of dominance: a leather strap. So slowly he lifted it up and higher and higher till he was holding it over his head. He held it there and waited. He wanted to see if I was going to move.

     I didn't. I braced myself for the oncoming blow. And I thought once more, trying to imprint the words; If I move, he will start over!

     Frere Claver struck downward. He struck down with that same stiff straight arm, not having it bend at the elbow. It was for dramatic effect. I did notice.

     I watched the leather strap flash down. It flashed in front of my eyes. And it slammed into my outstretched hand. I barely heard the noise of the leather hitting my hand. Immediately! Very intense pain shot up my forearm to my elbow! I cringed. I wanted to double over. I wanted to cradle my hand. I wanted to blow soft air upon my injured hand. I wanted to move and push cool air upon my hurt hand. No! I must not move! He will start over, from the beginning!

     Despite the pain and shock, I didn't move. Do not move! Do not move! In a reflexive motion, my hand tried to close claw like. Something like a shell fish being thrown into a pot of boiling water. I tried to stop any minute movement of my hand. At the same time I thought, Do not move! Do not cry out! He will start over!  

     Brother Director watched me. He carefully observed how I reacted. Whether he took any perverse enjoyment from my pain--I wasn't thinking of that. But I did notice his careful cold calculating observation. I would notice that during this punishment. He could not say anything. I had not moved. I did not cry out. So, he could not start over. I had one lash on the hand, and thought I had four to go.

     Frere Claver redoubled his effort. He measured once again placing the strap in front of my face. Using the same tactic, he used that Nazi straight arm and lifted it, with his hand holding the strap. He lifted it before my eyes. Slowly and deliberately he lifted it. He lifted the whipping strap, and this time, to gain more power in his downswing, he also lifted up upon his toes. His black polished shoes flexed and I braced myself for the next oncoming blow. Once more I thought: Do not move! He will start over!

     Viciously he struck down again, and the leather strap blazed into my hand. Firing my skin. Again I cringed in pain. My body wanted to move concave. I wanted to cradle my injured hand. To gently sooth it. To hold it close to me. To hold it close to my stomach. Now my hand was burning. My arm tried to pull inward but I blocked the impulse. So much did I want to cradle my hand and protect it. I must not! Do not move. He will start over. Slowly and carefully I thought: Do not move! Do not move! And thinking so, my hand stayed there. Obediently. Waiting to be punished. A quietness came upon me. And the pain diminished. It was something I had not experienced before. Then, I looked straight ahead. I didn't take notice of Frere Claver, his leather strap and his Nazi stiff arm. I didn't look at him. I wouldn't look at him or when he would hit me. I was in a strange double place. I was there, but I wasn't there. It was like someone else was being punished. The outstretched hand didn't belong to me. The arm held aloft, like it was not mine. It was like a slow motion play of life. Surreal. There was a delay. An un-connectedness. Time slowed. I knew what was happening, but seemingly it receded from harsh reality. It was a diminishing of time and place, and the pain diminished.

     As for Brother Claver, he had been defeated twice. This young boy had not cried out. He had not pleaded or begged for mercy. It seemed to increase the anger within him. The bastard Jesuit wanted the young boy to cry for mercy. In the name of Jesus, cry. Beg for mercy. In the name of the Blessed Virgin Mary, plead for mercy. Beg for forgiveness. In the name of all the Saints and Jesus Crucified, beg for mercy. Beg for mercy and forgiveness. Yes, the bastard Jesuit wanted a begging, babbling, sobbing, tearful young boy, kneeling before him slobbering out his heart. That is that what he wanted, wasn't it? He wanted to hear cries for mercy and forgiveness. He wanted total power over the young boy. He wanted the whipping to culminate in a babbling plea of tears, sobs, and promises of obedience. Yes it was uncontrollable babbling he wanted. Then he would lord it over the poor young penitent.

     But I had defeated him twice.

     Jesuit Claver measured again with the leather device. I watched him slowly lift the strap before my face with that same deliberate Nazi straight arm of his . . . Stop!

     And I caught myself. I will not watch him lift the strap before me. My eyes will not follow the lifting of the leather strap in front of my face. I will not watch. I will not watch him when he is about to strike me. I will not watch any more. And quietly, just as before, as if in a play of slow motion, I regained a disassociation and looked straight ahead. I became transfixed and stared blankly before me. It was enough. I could see the strap, that second, that instant before it would hit my hand. Within that split second I would brace for the pain: only minutely.

      Frere Claver saw me not watching, not paying attention to my punishment. He saw me not watching the movement of his hand, and he tried to break my concentration. He stopped the upward movement of the strap and moved it back down to my eye level. He held it before my eyes. As if; look boy! Look at the strap that is going to hit you! But I did not pay attention to him. I stayed transfixed. Not moving. I was told not to move.

     Then Frere Claver did something that boiled a hatred within me. It was a hatred that would set me against the Brothers of Jesus. What he did was . . . He jiggled the strap up and down in front of my eyes. Six inches from my eyes! He was trying to break my concentration. He did it to make me react. He wanted me to react to the punishment he was going to give. So he jiggled the strap before my eyes. And me in a kneeling position; in front of that perverted bastard of Christ. He jiggled that strap! Its short cut tasseled ends bounced minutely in front of me. Up and down. Up and down. It was done as a fisherman would do; jiggling a bait, or a boy toying with a goldfish in a bowl. That vile dirty bastard. Bastard of Christ; Queer of Christ.

     For a split second I looked up at him. From my kneeling position, I looked up at that vile perverted bastard of Christ Jesus with an anger pervading my entire being. Yes, he must have saw the hatred within me. How I hated that pervert bastard standing over me. How I hated the bastard school I was attending. These bastards of the Society of Jesus. This Goddamn bastard religion. My father; he's a bastard too. He, with the slobbering tears of a drunk, placed me within this bastard school. So this is what it is to deal with these adults. These bastards. They with their little talk--and my father was shown a report card stating that he was a man amongst men. (Duped drunk is what I would think.) Goddamn bastards.

     The feeling of contempt and hatred overwhelmed me. It focused on Frere Claver. I despised everything about him; his black robe, his bastard Crucifix, everything he wore and everything he represented, I hated. All of it. I hate all the bastard black robed Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The hatred extended to my father who sent me to this bastard school. The drunken bastard. He giving permission for me to be beaten. He was a drunken bastard.

     All of that within a split second, for it was only a split second that I had looked up at the black robed Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy. Then, catching myself once more, I looked straight ahead. I was resigned to my punishment. I transfixed my hand, mentally locking into position. It was an outstretched hand that was waiting for the punishment to come--then it will be over. Finished.

     Frere Claver did not toy with me further. He lifted the strap, waited a moment, measured, then he struck downward upon my outstretched hand. He struck downward with such force that his upper body overextended in an exaggerated off balance movement.

His upper torso, shoulders and head, bend downward, toward me, and the lower portion of his body, his rump, moved backward, away from me. It was like a bow, only his right arm, still straight arm, was pointing in a forty-five degree angle, almost touching the floor.

     The leather strap slashed into my hand and the pain erased all my thoughts of hatred in an instant. Only the pain in my hand I felt.

     Three lashes!

     Four lashes!

     Five lashes!

     Silently I counted every lash.

     The body movement of Frere Claver was one of doubling over and straightening up again; but, with the added touch of his arm swinging a leather strap.

     I didn't look at my hand. I looked straight ahead. I saw the pelvic movement of Frere Claver rocking back and forth with the motion of the punishment he was giving me. Brother's pelvic movement back and forth was in tempo with the punishment. In time with the leather strap moving up and down. Like a giant metronome! Attached to an angered Jesuit! It was a timed movement. Synchronized. The strap slashing down upon my out stretched hand and then up again. The pelvic movement of Frere Claver moving in and out, toward my face. I was kneeling before him. It was as if he wanted to sodomize me. Like he was getting a blow job. A dry blow job. It was a face-fuck. A dry Face-Fuck! Frere Claver continued, sadistically he whipped up and down upon my hand with his leather strap.

     He didn't stop at five, but raised the leather strap once more over his head. Inwardly I cringed and braced myself for more punishment, believing he was going to strike me ten times on each hand. Ten times! I'll have to endure it. I am not to move.

     I saw the leather strap hitting an outstretched hand. It seemed it didn't belong to me anymore. The hand that was outstretched was not my hand. It was detached. Supported in midair. Weightless. Somehow I could will it to remain suspended, immobile. The pain was reduced; and, it gave me a minute feeling of control.

     The whole scenario seemed to be a dream like sequence; the hand outstretched, the leather strap slamming down, the black robe, the pelvic thrusts toward my face, and above all, was the crucifix of Jesus swinging above, hung around the neck of Jesuit Claver when he bent down in his over swings. It was like slow motion. The pain became null. The hand shuddered slightly by the leather strap hitting it, but the pain was muted. 

     He stopped!

     Abruptly, Brother Claver stopped on the count of seven blows. (Praise be the seven Sacraments! Damn the seven deadly sins. Damn the seven Devils.) Frere Claver dropped his hand to his side. The whipping arm and hand with the leather strap. He dropped it to his side. I wondered why he had not struck me ten times; but, this was a Catholic school, so I did not understand. I remained motionless. I am not to move. Do not move. Wait. Do not move one inch. So I waited. I was waiting for instructions. Am I to lower my right hand and hold out my left? Is he to strike my other hand seven times?

     Frere Claver didn't say anything. He was immobile. Silent. It was like he was defeated.

     I waited and didn't look at him. Not just then. I stared straight ahead. One second went by. Two seconds. Three. Very long seconds they were. I was waiting for instructions. 

     Then I made a fatal mistake. Very minutely, from out of the corner of my eye--and I saw his hand by his side, holding the leather strap--very minutely, it was such a small movement. Just the movement of my eye, looking up at him. Me in my kneeling position; my subservient, submissive, obedient position. Minutely, small as it had been, I moved my eyes a fraction of an inch, barely in the time it takes to blink an eye. I glanced up. My look went up; from seeing his hand at his side, holding the strap motionless, I glanced up. And, with a look of question upon my face--oh yes, it must be my soft brown eyes, or, perhaps it was my youthful pubescent boyish look of innocence. It was a questioning look I gave Frere Claver: like, Is it over? Am I to hold out my other hand?

     But too late! It was done. In that instant when I looked up at Bastard Frere Claver of the Society of Jesus, in that one fleeting instant, I saw him defeated. He was momentarily undecided on what to do next. That pervert bastard Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy. He had been defeated by a junior grade student. A mere boy who would not cry or move.

     It was too late! He saw me looking at him, and he knew that I saw his failure. It enraged him to a new height of sadomasochistic angered violence. His face contorted in rage! That was then I knew it was too late. My glance, my innocent look, my boyish pubescence, all rolled into one; it enraged him. And his face contorted in anger.

     It enraged Frere Claver to a new level of fury. A new degree of evil. A vile, sick, perverted, bastard evil. An evil that seethed beneath all the prayers and Communion Bread, beneath all the bloody bastard Crucifixes and candles within the bastard chapel of that bastard school.

     Frere Claver went into an uncontrollable rage striking at my hand repeatedly. In a fury of hatred, rage, anger and resentment that would transfer to me and last all my lifetime. He struck and my outstretched hand with his leather strap.

     Seven!

     Eight!

     Nine lashes!

     He whipped down with the strap. His pelvis was now undulating back and forth. In and out. In and out. Before my face with every blow his pelvis moved in and out. It is an obscene, grotesque, homosexual movement. Like he was wanting to face-fuck me. To get a blow job. The bastard Jesuit of Jesus was moving his pelvis back and forth. In and out. At the same time he was whipping the Seven Devils out of me. Or trying. He was lashing at my hand with that leather strap. All the while, his face was a contortion of rage. Face-fuck. Arm up, pull pelvis back, whip down with the leather strap; in other words, Face-fuck and whip! Face-fuck and whip!

     My hand went numb on the eighth blow. I felt no physical pain as he struck my hand for the ninth time. I became alarmed. I had no feeling in my right hand! He is going to damage my hand! Jesus Christ Almighty. Goddamn! He is going to damage my hand! Goddamn!

     I looked as the leather strap continued to strike my outstretched hand. There was no feeling! Nothing! Frere Claver continued whipping in his maddened frenzy, whipping my hand with the leather strap and wanting to shove his pelvis into my face. One after the other. One after the other. Whipping down then up with his are; then his pelvic movement: face-fuck. Whipping down then up with his arm; then another pelvic face-fuck.

     Ten!

     He's going to damage my hand! I cannot feel with my hand!

     Eleven!

     Twelve! He stops.

     It was so quick, so sudden that he stopped. Twelve lashes! I braced for the punishment due to my left hand. The bastard doesn't hesitate this time. I don't have to wait, look up, or see his perverted contorted face of rage. I didn't have to see the bloody bastard Crucifix of Jesus that he carried proudly about him, hanging by a black cord about his neck.

     "Now hold up the other hand," he told me.

     Ever so slowly. Deliberately. In a detached movement, I moved my right hand down, and lifted my left hand. Placing it outstretched, palm up, before him. I braced myself and willed my hand to remain where it was, knowing it would be whipped twelve times.

     Praise bloody Jesus. Goddamn. Praise the bloody bastard Cross of Jesus. The crucifixion. There was no more waiting. No more teasing. No more jiggling the strap up and down in front of my face. In front of my eyes. The bastard of Christ, Frere Claver, didn't hesitate for a second. He got on with it and started once more with a full force of anger and hatred and his contorted face of rage. A frenzied face-fuck whipping.

     I transfixed myself, trying to see nothing. All the while the black robed Jesuit with the crucifix was before me, undulating his pelvis vilely into my face in a sick perverted homosexual movement. A movement that suggested repressed sex and frustration that fed his anger. And at the same time, the leather strap moved up and down, up and down, striking at my outstretched hand. The body of Frere Claver moved in and out, in and out. Face fuck. Face fuck. Back and forth. In and out. It was a sick perverted play of sadism. And that bloody bastard Crucifix! That bloody bastard Crucifix he wore--all the time, my hand was receiving pain, all the time, his pelvis was moving back and forth, that bloody bastard crucifix was swinging ever so gently above, looped around the neck of Frere Claver, the crucifix swinging idly. Face-fuck. Face-fuck. His pelvis moved toward my face. Away from my face. Face fuck! Face fuck! In and out. In and out, his pelvis moved. A sick perverted dry fuck in the face between a young boy starting puberty and an aged perverted decrepit old man. Jesus Fucking Christ! The crucifix swinging mildly above. Face-fuck. A sexually repressed celibate bastard of Christ Jesus. Of the Society of Jesus. It was to be a minor part of a curse that would follow me throughout my lifetime, causing me resentment and hatred to the bastard Society of Jesus, their bastard religion, and their bastard God.

     Ten!

     Eleven!

     Twelve lashes!

     Both hands! Done! Finished! It should be over.

     Frere Claver, finished punishing me, turned away, not looking at me, he said in a tight, high pitched voice, "You obey- . . . " The goddamn words stuck in his throat. The perverted goddamn bastard, he must have had an orgasm! The sick perverted bastard mush have cum. He must have had a cream. ". . . -the Brothers." So his words are, “You obey . . . . . . . . . . the Brothers.”

     He completed the sentence in higher voice register and the words were barely audible.

     "Yes Brother," I high pitched squeaked meekly in return.

     I am to obey the Brothers of the Society of Jesus. Goddamn and curse their filthy bastard school. Goddamn and curse the dirty drunken bastard of a father that I have.

     He unlocked the door and I followed him out of the small utility room and went to the recreation hall to wait for the rest of the students. They would be coming downstairs for lunch in fifteen minutes.

     My hands were red and stinging, so I went to the wash basins at the far end of the rec hall and placed them under the faucet, turning the cold water on to full. Slowly I started to feel pins and needles, then heat, lots of heat. That vile perverted black hearted crucifix sucking bastard. I will later refer to the whipping as 'The Frenetic Face Fucking From Frere Claver'. It's so French, so Mount Saint Charles.

 

“Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Church.”

 

“Goddamn and curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Eucharist.”

 

“Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.”

 
        

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