Seventh Grade 2

By Childe Harold

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Copyright 2019 by Childe Harold, all rights reserved

Seventh Grade Part 2
By Childe Harold
 
Barryport High School
Barryport, Wisconsin
May 20, 1968 4:00 PM
 
He went through the heavy oaken door; the locker room had the familiar smell of soap and chlorine. He should have been elated; it was the last day of the school year, but his thoughts only confused and annoyed him.
 
Seventh grade had been a shock. In elementary school, there had only been two hundred kids, one room for each grade, and one teacher taught all the subjects for that grade. In junior high, there was a home room, where you checked in first thing, then you went from room to room, with different teachers teaching different subjects.
 
There was Harley Niles, the tall, blonde math teacher, who seemed cold and distant as an asteroid; Evelyn Hatcher, the speech teacher, a near double for Margaret Hamilton (the wicked witch in Wizard of Oz), but who was a nice, decent, caring person and a good teacher; then there was Phyllis Mark, the beautiful English teacher with a penchant for short skirts that displayed her stunning legs, and on whom every boy in the school had a crush; Gerald West, the history teacher who looked about as stern as recruiting poster, but whose good and bad jokes kept the class awake and interested.
 
Then lunch, where he spent his time ogling girls, and ruminating on the futility of it.
 
An hour of study hall, where he spent half his time reading Bradbury and Arthur Clarke, instead of the assigned readings.
 
The last hour was gym on Monday, taught by John Price, whom he detested. He was tall, muscled, a strict disciplinarian who seemed to be more concerned with making sure his students knew how to stand at attention than anything else. He had the air of a drill instructor about him, and was almost universally disliked. Tuesday was health class, taught by him or the school nurse, a voluptuous black woman named Barbara Gentry. Wednesday and Thursday were more study halls, when he did the actual assigned reading, and Friday was swimming.
 
Swimming. As he approached his locker, he looked at the computer card. It said Seventh Period Swimming Mrs. Anderson. He sighed. He was in the right place.
 
The first swim class last year had nearly killed him. He had gone in the locker room, heart in his throat, stripped, feeling every hair on his body stand up, and turned around to see Miss Boone, two feet away.
 
“Hands, Mr. Halverston,” she said, looking stern and pointing down. “They're to be behind you or at your side at all times!”
 
He put his hands down, apologized and almost ran to the safety of the shower room, where he tried to hide behind another boy.
 
As instructed by Karen, Nancy's eyes hadn't been off his genitals. These boys had to become accustomed to nudity, and staring at their dicks was the best way to get them to accept the inevitability of two women supervising their bare butts.
 
He took a shower, soaping and rinsing, the warm water at least comforting. He walked through the trough, giggling like the rest of them—it tickled his “boy parts”. He lined up next to the pool door, his stomach roiling at what would come next. No one looked down, all eyes were kept straight forward; a few boys talked with each other, but most were silent, and all kept at least a foot distance from each other. The sound of the showers seemed loud in his ears.
 
Nancy, on her way to the pool, noticed them, spread apart, staring ahead, talking in whispers. Obviously something would have to be done to break down the barriers between them. She ruminated over it.
 
The door opened, the first boy went through. Bart was fourth in line, and he could see Miss Boone over the shoulder of the boys in front of him. Three more went through, then, breathing hard, he stood stark naked in front of her, hands behind his neck, and turned all the way around. She motioned him on, and he walked, painfully aware of his nudity and his dick flapping around, to where the other three boys were lined up next to the wall. Mrs. Anderson was their, whistle around her neck, perusing a clipboard held under neath those fine breasts.
 
He looked around, and felt nauseous. He had never before felt so naked and vulnerable. The pool, housed in a huge building, with bright lights bearing down, exposed every bit of him. Blue ripples of light played off the walls, and the surface of the pool was perfectly still. The air was warm and humid and intensely scented of chlorine. A voice in his head kept screaming You're naked! You're naked! You're naked! He closed his eyes to shut it out.
 
Mrs. Anderson motioned to Nancy to stop after the tenth boy. She stood in front of the line of them, and said in a commanding voice, “Ok, boys, turn around, bend over and spread your cheeks.” She had tried not to smile, but just couldn't help it. This was one of her favorite things, especially with new boys; she had no desire to inspect their assholes, but the knowledge that she could command them to do this, and that they had to obey, sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. The humiliation has to be exquisite, she thought. And she loved every second of it.
 
Oh God, he thought, but somehow managed to turn around and bend over, pulling his butt cheeks apart. He felt bile in his throat, and his right leg was quivering. Through his legs, he could see the bottom part of a pair of shapely female legs advancing down the line, and when positioned right behind him, he felt hands on his, pulling them farther apart. “A little wider, please Mr. Halverston,” she said. He almost choked, but finally felt one of those hands squeeze his sack, and her voice, husky and appealing even now, said, “Ok, we're done.”
 
He stood up and went to stand with the other boys in a line near next to the pool.
 
Karen caught a look at him. He was blushing from head to foot; his face was red, ears also, even his butt was pink. He was breathing hard and his whole body was goose pimples. She smiled to herself.
 
When all the boys had been inspected and lined up, Karen began the roll call.
 
Clipboard in hand, she stood in front of each boy. He was to respond with an affirmation when she called his name. She had a technique for this. She stood in front of each boy, made eye contact, called his name, then let her eyes travel down the length of his entire body, pausing at his genitals, displaying no emotion. She marked his name, then moved to the next one.
 
It was just part of the process of accustoming them to group nudity and two female observers. Eventually, they'd come to accept it, but their had to be shock therapy first. Most boys looked straight ahead, their eyes never wavering as she called their names. Some stared at her boobs. It was a guilty pleasure, but she had to admit she enjoyed that. Especially when she caught their hands twitching with the desire to squeeze her breasts. You still have it, she told herself. She looked down at her boobs, Looking good, girls! Christ, these are twelve year old boys, Anderson. What are you thinking?
 
Bart had had to close his eyes, and when she stood in front of him, he said, “Here,” without opening them. She took him by the arm and commanded him to open his eyes. He did so, and that stunningly pretty face locked eyes with him.
 
“Open your eyes, Mr. Halverston. It's all real, not a bad dream. Your are nude, and two women are watching you.” She smiled, gently touched his cheek, and said, “You'll get used to it.” The touch had been kind, gentle; the words were harsh. Some of the boys laughed.
 
Finishing the roll call, and completing the attendance sheet, she realized there had only been two or three stiffies in the group, at least as far as she could tell. Their equipment was so small, it was hard to distinguish between soft and hard.
 
Miss Boone took the attendance sheet, went through a door at the end of pool and attached it to a clip. There was a door beyond that which led to the hallway. In between was a sheet of frosted glass. A few minutes later, most of the boy's experienced a moment of terror when they realized a girl had come through the door and collected the sheet! They calmed down when they realized the frosted glass would have prevented her from seeing anything.
 
He'd somehow made it through that first class without passing out. He did what the rest of them did—eyes straight ahead, never down; stare at the teacher, their faces, not their bodies. Bart couldn't stop ogling Mrs. Anderson's face; he thought it was the most beautiful face he'd ever seen. He wanted her to think of him as something more than just a boy; yet, here he was, naked, all of his inadequacies on display for her casual inspection. He felt small, sad, insignificant and humiliated.
 
At home that night, he was emotionally exhausted; he curled up in bed, cried a bit, then fell asleep. His parents knew something was wrong, but attributed it to the change of schools.
 
The second class was the same as the first, but now he had at least the benefit one experience, so it was slightly less difficult. After the roll call, when they crowded around the portable black board as Karen drew strokes on it, he would linger at the rear, looking at her over other boy's shoulders. He only saw her face, so locked on to it he heard nothing she said.
 
The third session was when it got weird. Karen spoke to them after roll call. She told them they were going to begin evaluations this session. The past two weeks had been going over the basics of the strokes themselves, but now they would have to be tested to see who needed to learn what. During this period, she said, it would be necessary for her to touch their “boy parts”, as she kept calling them, and that they should not be embarrassed by this or what happens afterward. Bart didn't know what she meant, and some of the other boys looked equally confused.
 
She blew the whistle, and they all jumped in. Bart had quickly come to understood the appeal of nude swimming—the water was cool, silky, caressing against his bare flesh.
 
First, they were to practice the strokes. Holding on to the sides with their arms, on their stomachs, the basic kick. This wasn't too bad. All the women saw were bare butts. But then, they had to flip over and do it stomachs up. Karen and Nancy walked down the line, observing. Next, they had to hook their feet on the sides, and on their stomachs, try the crawl stroke. Again, all they could see were bare butts. Walking the line, observing, finally satisfied, Karen blew her whistle and told the boys to congregate at the shallow end of the pool
 
Surrounded by the boys, Karen explained the float test. In order to pass, each boy must float for sixty seconds, thirty each on his stomach and back. Karen would support the boy until he had begun to float, then Nancy would time it; at the end of thirty seconds, he'd flip over and do the other side.
 
She put her arms out underwater, and motioned to Tim Snell. He came forward, she told him just to fall into her arms. He did, and as she began to lift him up, Bart noticed a shocked look on his face, followed by a goofy grin. When his bare butt protruded from the water, Karen withdrew her arms and Nancy started the watch. Thirty seconds later, she told Tim to roll over; he did so, and started to sink. Karen's hands went beneath his back and his butt, lifting him up. The watch started again. Bart noticed Tim's willy was sticking up stiffly out of the water! After thirty seconds, she told him to stand up, and go wait on the deck.
 
She motioned to Bart next. He came forward, fell into her arms, and felt one hand on his chest, the other grabbed his dick! She pushed up, cradling his balls as well as she did, until his butt came out of the water. She took her hands away, and he started to sink. She grabbed his package again and pushed up. This time, Bart managed to remember he was supposed to float. He thought his eyes would pop out of his skull!! She'd grabbed his dick and his balls! His whole body went rigid with shock. It felt good, he had to admit, but it was embarrassing. Eventually, she told him to turn over. He flipped over, slightly sinking, and her hands went to his back and his butt, her thumb between his legs and her fingers splayed out, one almost entering his butt; she pushed him up until his dick stuck up out of the water. He could only see the ceiling, but he glanced down at his dick, and it seemed longer than normal, and it was only a foot from her face! Finally, she signaled him to stop, and he went up on deck, standing next to Tim, both of the staring down at their extended wieners, confused.
 
Karen reveled in this. There was nothing sexual about it; it was about power. She loved the blank faced, deer-in-the-headlights looks when she grabbed their manhoods. Boyhoods, actually. And when those little wieners stuck straight up only a foot or so from her face, she couldn't entirely suppress the glee. That Halverston kid, she remembered. With his package only a foot away, she couldn't help but see he had a really full pouch. At twelve, he had balls nearly as big as a full grown man!
 
It took half an hour to complete, and when done, Karen looked up at the line of nude boys. As usual, all were hard, and most looked confused. She blew the whistle for free swim, the last ten minutes of class, and they all disappeared in a splash of white foam.
 
Bart liked the free swim, and he'd used the time to try to figure out what had happened. That's what she had meant by touching the boy parts. It was nice; it was incredible, if a bit shocking. It seemed as though some invisible barrier had been crossed—an adult woman had touched his willy!! But then everyone saw him sticking out of the water. What the hell was that? Why had his dick done that?
 
He shoved the memories away, and slammed his locker door. He walked naked to the showers, went through the trough, and lined up at the door. He slumped against the wall, feeling helpless, resigned.
 
He had always been a straight A student, and he still was, in every subject but gym. He had no muscle mass, no sense of coordination, no “competitive spirit”, as that jackass Price had called it. He played the game just to play the game; he didn't care if he won or not. He knew he'd get a C in gym, but wasn't sure about swimming. It seemed easy enough; being naked was the hard part. Since the two were graded separately, but averaged for for a grade in PE, he might be ok if he got a good swimming grade.
 
He'd really been both angered and depressed when he found out the girls got to wear suits! And all their teachers were the same sex. This was way beyond unfair. He felt as though he were being punished for having a dick.
 
Then, there were the nightmares. In one version, he was standing poolside, nude, hands on his head as Mrs. Anderson berated him for being a “ninety seven pound weakling”. In another, he was bent over, cheeks spread, looking at the other side of the pool. He could see Mrs. Anderson's legs next to him, and across the pool, every girl in school! They were all pointing at him, laughing, giggling. He would always wake up in a cold sweat. One day, he'd have to find out what a “ninety seven pound weakling” really was.
 
The door opened, and his heart beat went up. The rush of warm, chlorinated air hit his naked, wet flesh. He went through, faced Miss Boone, who looked him up and down as he turned around. Then, he went and took his place next to the other boys in front of Mrs. Anderson. She stood there, cradling her clipboard in front of those gorgeous boobs, waiting. He looked at her, at her face, that face that made him feel things, powerful, overwhelming feelings he couldn't even name. He felt a tingling in his dick, looked down and saw it was sticking out straight! What is going on? he thought. What is that?
 
At the command, his heart racing, stomach churning, he dutifully bent over and spread his butt cheeks, the cool air in the crack of his ass reinforcing his vulnerability. In a few seconds, he felt her tug his sack, and he got up and walked over to the line of naked boys formed at the side of the pool, feeling strange as his stiff dick wiggled about like a conductor's wand.
 
Karen saw him out of the corner of her eye. So, the kid with the big balls finally has real hard on, she thought. We're making progress.
 
He stood at the edge of the pool, eyes rigidly ahead, never looking down, the way he always did. A peculiar pattern of light on the water got his attention, and he looked down. It was only then that he realized the kid next to him was sticking out, too, only his was longer. He looked at his face, only to realize he'd been staring back at Bart's dick!
 
“I know, man,” he said. “She does that to me, too.” He smiled a knowing smile. Bart wondered what it was the kid knew that he didn't. His name was Jim Bennett, a tall, good looking kid with a chiseled face. He was popular with the girls, and a Big Man on Campus, Bart realized in more than one sense.
 
Mrs. Anderson started the roll call.
 
Maybe, Bart thought, what he'd read was true, that you can adjust to anything. There were periods, perhaps no more than twenty minutes at a time, when he would forget he was nude. But then, something, an errant breeze on his ass, a splash of water striking his skin, flesh to flesh, bumping into another boy, something would remind him he was stark naked with a group of boys and two adult women, one of whom was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Then his ass would pucker again; his flesh would turn to goose pimples, and his stomach would burn. In the water, it was no problem, in fact, it was fun. But on deck, exposed, there was no escaping it.
 
Mrs. Anderson stopped in front of him. She swept him from head to foot, pausing at his dick, noting he was still hard, and thinking this a good sign. He made the mistake of making eye contact and almost blanched at that face, the perfect face, with the smile that curled up only on one side, slightly wicked and tempting.
 
She knew he was embarrassed, hell, they all were, but he was the worst. Face flushed, slightly trembly, shivering, one leg quivering uncontrollably. She gently squeezed his arm, and tried to reassure him.
 
“It's ok, Bart. Nothing to be embarrassed about. It's perfectly normal for a young man to have an erection. Especially when he's nude in public,” she said, smiling slightly, then moving on to the next kid.
 
Erection, he thought. Is that what they call it when it sticks out?. He was surprised to feel it throbbing! He looked down and saw it jerk up a bit, then back down.
 
Finishing the roll call, she looked down the line from the other end. Eight hard ons, she thought. Good. Almost fifty percent. She'd expect that from the senior boys, but it was rare with boys this young; they were too scared even to get hard. Still, one of the reasons the boys were nude was so their physical development could be monitored, and at the end of the year, she saw they were growing quite well. Several had the first peach fuzz of pubic hair; their sacks were fuller, and some even had a few sprouts of hair; their cocks had lengthened noticeably, the three and four inch ones now five or so inches. One or two had facial hair.
 
Karen walked to the deep end of the pool, passing breezily through twenty naked boys, calling them to join her. She announced that since this was the last class of the year, there would be a thirty minute free swim period, but first they were going try diving. Not from the diving board, that came later, but from the pool deck.
 
She explained that the proper stance was bent over forward, arms out to the sides behind you, legs apart, knees bent. She demonstrated this from the side, rear and front. Bart saw her beautiful boobs when she did this from the front. He looked down, realized he was still erect, and that his dick had just throbbed again. Her nipples stuck out stiffly.
 
She stood up, weight on her left leg, hips seductively thrust to the side, and ordered the first four boys to assume the position. Bart, as usual, hung back, but as she went down the line, maneuvering each boy into the proper stance, he first snorted, the groaned inwardly. In that stance, from behind, butt cheeks separated, and you could look directly into the crack of each boy's ass; worse, your sack hung down, unprotected, like low hanging fruit ready for plucking!
 
She blew her whistle and four bare asses disappeared into the white foam. All he could see were those four assess swimming to the other end.
 
Mrs Anderson yelled at them to stay there and four more boys were ordered forward.
 
Bart knew it would be worse if he delayed, so he stepped forward and took his place, feeling as exposed as he did during the anal inspection. He could feel Mrs. Anderson's eyes on his ass and balls.
 
The whistle blew, and he hit the water, the cool, delicious, silky water, and swam to the other end of the pool, where he stood, waiting with the other boys. After two more sets of boys dived, the whistle for free swim was blown.
 
Everyone started splashing around, swimming where ever they wanted. A couple got up on deck and dived in from the sides. Bart swam to the side, and made his way to the other end, where Mrs. Anderson and Miss Boone stood at the side, looking over the pool.
 
He was right beneath her feet, staring up at her, transfixed. He followed her feet to her smooth calves, past her knees (even they were pretty!) to the even smoother, muscled thighs, to the red triangle between her legs. What was that vertical slit, anyway? He knew boys and girls were different, but he had no idea what was between their legs. Her hips, wide and womanly, tapered down to her flat stomach, then burst out at that stunning pair of tear shaped boobs. He was fascinated by them. They looked like two trophies she carried around on her chest.
 
Bart turned to watch her as she went to the deep end of the pool. Maybe he would see her in her wet suit as she got out and stretched, as he memorably recalled. She dove in, then disappeared. A few seconds passed, the suddenly, he was gasping for air, water in his mouth and nose; all he could see were bright colors, and all he knew was pain. Pain in capitol letters, bold face, underlined! He felt himself slipping under, when something grabbed him around his arm.
 
The next thing he could coherently remember was being on the deck, curled up in a fetal position, his hands wrapped around his balls. The universe had shrunk to his groin, which felt as though it were on fire and simultaneously crushed beneath a truck. He had to force himself to breath. He knew he was crying. His jaw was clenched shut. He could hear people talking, but couldn't concentrate sufficiently to hear them.
 
He thought he saw boys crowded around him, along with Mrs. Anderson and Miss Boone. One of them seemed to shoo them away, and he thought he heard something about “go home.”
 
Then there was another face over him. It seemed to be a black woman's face. He was able to recognize her—Barbara Gentry, the school nurse. She was older than the other women, thirty five to forty or so, but really gorgeous. She'd taught some of his health classes. She had dark brown eyes, a devastating, white toothed smile that crinkled her eyes, which seemed to sparkle all the time, an almost musical voice, and skin the color of coffee with cream. She was one of two black people on the school staff. Barryport in the sixties was white, very white-- you'd need bleach to get whiter.
 
She seemed to be leaning over him, her boobs right in front of his face. She wore a tan silken blouse, cut fairly low, that exposed them nicely. The were large, even larger than Mrs. Anderson's, and jiggled nicely when she moved.
 
Then there seemed to be two people supporting him, one under each arm. He was being walked/dragged to the locker room. Each step was agony, and they had to stop several times. Finally, he seemed to be staring at the ceiling from a vantage point on a table in the locker room.
 
The nurse moved his hand away from his genitals and forced his legs apart. She gently put an ice pack on his testicles. The initial shock was fading; now there was only pain. He didn't even care that he was naked and three women were crowded around him, carefully examining his package.
 
“This is why those assholes on the school board are wrong,” Miss Gentry said. “A naked male is much more vulnerable than a naked female. If you get smacked in the boob, it will hurt, but it won't kill you. It's possible to kill a man by kicking him in his balls. If he goes into shock, and it isn't treated, it could be fatal. Boys should not perform any kind of athletics nude. They should always wear a supporter with a rigid cup. I have no idea what this feels like, but every man I've asked says it's agonizing, excruciating pain. What happened, anyway?”
 
Looking like she might cry any minute, Mrs. Anderson explained, in a shaky voice, “I just dove off the end of the pool, and did a sharp right turn, heading for the side. My hands were straight out in front of me, and I suddenly collided with something soft and squishy. I'm afraid I might have made it worse when I reacted by grabbing onto his balls and trying to hold on. I was flustered; I didn't know I'd hit a boy. When I came up, Nancy was already dragging him to the ladder.”
 
Trembling, she walked over to where Bart, naked, his legs spread apart, lay on the table. She ran a cool, soft hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back, and said gently, “Bart, I am so terribly sorry. Please believe, I would never do anything to hurt any of my boys. I just made a mistake.” She seemed so sorry, he wanted to tell her it was alright, but couldn't get his mouth to work.
 
Miss Gentry carefully removed the ice pack from his balls, and very gently examined them.
 
“They look ok, no bruise, just a little reddening,” she observed.
 
Then, equally gently, she took his dick in his hand and slowly began pumping it.
 
Karen looked shocked, whispering, “What are you doing?”
 
“It's called masturbation. If he gets hard, that indicates no damage to the capillaries in his cock.”
 
All three women noted him stiffening in her hands.
 
“Ok, his hard on shows no damage to the cock itself, and his balls are still producing testosterone, he's not in shock, so I'd say he's ok, just needs to rest and recuperate a few days.”
 
Nancy seemed a bit shocked by Miss Gentry's language, but Karen knew her well enough to know she never minced words or used technical jargon except when needed.
 
Nancy asked Bart what type of car his mother drove; he managed to whisper and black 1968 Lincoln. She left to find his mother's car while the two other women tried to get him dressed, but it caused him to much pain, so they borrowed Karen's robe, wrapped it around him and walked him to the car.
 
They carefully put him in the back seat, where he curled up in a fetal position, not speaking.
 
Mrs. Anderson tearfully apologized to his mother, not explaining the specifics, just calling it a foolish mistake on her part. Miss Gentry assured her he would be ok, needing only a few days rest, cold packs and aspirin for the pain. She took down her phone number and promised to call two days later.
 
His mother, now frantic to give her wounded son home, drove off quickly.