The Lilies of the Field

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Out of the blue I got a call that was a “blast from the past”. It all started when four teen and preteen girls found a box while cleaning their church’s basement.

“The Lilies of the Field”

By, Running Bare

The end of last year, I got a surprise call from a complete stranger, Abby Daily. She was the mother of a thirteen-year-old girl who was a parishioner at my boyhood church. Apparently, her daughter and three other girls ages eleven, thirteen and fourteen volunteered to clean out some of the “junk” in the church basement. While doing so they came across a box of full color booklets summarizing the 1973 church picnic in the Crenshaw’s lakefront backyard.

After introducing herself, she followed with a tongue in cheek question. “Is your item of interest still such a prize-winning length?”

I was floored at the forwardness of such a question and the chuckle that accompanied it. Did I know this lady? Did I hear her correctly?

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you and a little boy named Glen, and another boy, Anthony, are in about ten different photos in the booklet. What’s interesting is the three of you are completely naked in all of them. The picture on page three is a close up of you boys. From the looks of things, the three of you are pretty aroused. One can’t help but notice, your penis is at least an inch or two longer than the other two little guys. What were you boys eleven or twelve? Neither of you has any hair down there. But of the three it looks like your circumcision was the cleanest.” Then she let out a little chuckle again and continued to comment.

That particular photo snapped right to the front of my visual memory as did the booklet it was in. To say it wasn’t initially embarrassing, even after all these years, would be a lie. Then my better angels whispered to me there was nothing to be ashamed of. Those photos were taken at the advent of my forced nudity experiences. It was the start of a practice that would continue throughout my entire pre and early teen period.

I responded to the woman somewhat defensively, “It was a different era, back then. The church secretary Mrs. Z took those photos. Reverend Blackburn and our parents were able to build the case against pre and early adolescent boys’ modesty concerns. Back then, boys had no ‘private’ body parts. Only girls had them. I think if you look through the booklet, you’ll see all of the girls were wearing bathing suits, and not one of the boys from birth to thirteen or so is wearing a stitch of clothing.”

“Oh, the girls and I noticed immediately that there was a gender bias. Actually, we found it both amusing and entertaining to page through it.”

She continued, “It took me a long time to track you down. The brochure just put your first names in the captions. I shared the booklet with Mr. and Mrs. Joliet. They’re in their late eighties so I figured they’d remember who you guys were. They remembered your mother’s concern over your body shyness and kind of chuckled at the memories of those days. I gave them a copy of the booklet. I figured they’d long lost theirs. It made their day. They remembered you, Anthony and Glen and watching the girls play with your penises.”

After expounding on the fact that her ten-year-old son could use a healthy dose of forced nudity, she projected that nowadays it’d probably get her arrested. That admission was followed by an offer to send me a few copies of the original. Which I appreciated. She also informed me that they were going to scan the entire brochure into a .pdf file and place it in the church’s online historical archive to make it available to anyone who was interested.

After all those years. the thought of those photos becoming available to the world sparked a flashback to the arousal I felt at my parentally-forced naked debut back in seventy-three. My boy parts were to become very public even if it was by a photo taken over forty years prior.

After hanging up, I wondered about Glen and Anthony. What had become of them? What would they feel about the revival of those days?

Then I took a long time recalling our youthful bashfulness. There was some resentment, but there was also a twist of arousal as I recalled how that period of my childhood developed.

I was almost eleven when Mom took me to meet with our pastor. Her problem was that I was so body shy she was concerned about my developing sexual orientation. At least, looking back I thought so. We sat in his office at the church and he appeared to be listening attentively and sympathetically as Mom outlined her concerns. I was embarrassed at her honesty and the fact that this guy was so interested.

What some theologian thought about such things is anybody’s guess. What qualified him to undertake psychological problems I now question. I suppose he felt competent enough to solve such problems having taken pastoral counseling classes. You know we could conjure up a “cure” through prayer. Yeah, okay.

She started with an appraisal of my physical attributes. She delicately explained her son (me) had an almost flawless physical presence right down to describing my penis. Who does that? I mean whose mother tells another person, especially a man of God, what her son’s package looks like? She did. And, he seemed to be reveling in the discussion.

She told him my penis was a bit longer than other boys my age, which was embarrassingly true. I say embarrassingly because having a notably longer appendage at my age was definitely an attention getter whenever I was exposed, even around my peers. They did take note and often teased me about it. Not to mention the drive for many, throughout my prepubescent years, to use it as an open invitation for both my male and female peers to practice playing doctor.

My parents were both of the opinion that all young boys should be asexual by nature, and exposing them completely nude whenever possible was a requirement to normal development. Dad used to speak frequently about how when he was a boy there was no hesitation about being naked in front of public audiences when he swam or participated in any aquatic activities. He and his friends apparently even tromped around in the woods nude just to appreciate the freedom it seemed to give them. What made it worse was he had actual photographs of his friends and him doing it.

I often wondered who took those black and white images of ten, twelve even post pubescent fourteen-year-olds as they climbed rocks, canoed, swam and literally hung out around campfires naked as the day they were born. Even more so, looking at them today, I have to acknowledge the global acceptance of the nudity by virtue of the fact they were able to actually get the film processed without question back then.

At the time of the pastoral session, color photography was the thing and commercial photo processing of such photos was still completely acceptable. Naked boys? No problem. No question. Into the drug store or photo processing center one day and back to you two or three days later.

At this point my readers are probably thinking I’m bullshitting them about that, but whoa unto them, I have the photos of my father and his cronies and the black and white and some full color renditions of me and my cronies to show for it. As I review them, I think how far we’ve come from actually processing the film and photos without any problem back then to making them at least on the verge of what would be considered child porn today.

I just raise the photo thing to illustrate the social changes from then to now. With that in mind, the technological advances of today with digital imaging have made such concerns moot.

Anyway, Reverend Blackburn continued to listen and alternately glimpsing at me with an almost raised eyebrow as my mother delineated her (and I’m sure my father’s) concerns. She explained how it was so bad I even shunned wearing short pants because I was embarrassed when people, usually her adult women friends, would acknowledge my “very muscular little boy legs”. But, for this occasion, I was forced to wear a pair of rather short shorts rather than my long jeans, I think to illustrate her point to our spiritual leader. He did, by the way, take a moment to fleetingly compliment my legs. As I remember it, the comment was something of the nature of “very athletic and well developed—nothing to be ashamed of”.

That acknowledgement just made matters worse in my mind confirming that people were examining my body and making value judgements. It didn’t help their argument.

It went on. Mom explained how both she and Dad were concerned about me being naked at places like the Y and how I had problems even at scouting events where nudity was called for. Not to mention me locking the bathroom door, which had already been outlawed by them. I do remember her saying, “My husband says Jack has trouble with changing into his bathing suit and showering in the locker room at the community pool. I mean they’re all males. What’s his problem? What’s he going to do next year when he as to change and shower for gym classes at school?”

What came down in that “spiritual” guidance session was an attempt for the Reverend, who was unquestionably on the side of my parents, to remind us both of the lilies of the field thing. It was his attempt to tie the whole thing about my body into some biblical passage. I wrote it off that that’s just what religious leaders do. He reminded me that Jesus said even Solomon in all his fine robes wasn’t near as beautiful as the nakedness of what God created.

Yeah, but I wasn’t a damned flower. Flowers couldn’t feel the embarrassment because of comments about what made them different. My inch longer than average, circumcised appendage wasn’t a flower petal and nobody got emotionally hurt when the flowers were picked for exhibition in some vase.

His response? When those flowers are picked for the vase it’s so people can enjoy them collectively. There wasn’t anyone singling out one of the flowers over the others. That’s where I got him. I explained, that in my case, part of the problem was being singled out over my noticeably longer penis. To which he, and I don’t want you to miss this, insisted was God’s gift to me. Now whether he was talking about the penis itself or the size of it, I’m still not sure.

He twisted the passage further when I questioned why boys shouldn’t be embarrassed to openly display their “petals” but grown men were allowed modesty. His answer did make some sense. He said, even the lily has its peak moments and then the petals begin to lose their luster. People only seem to see the beauty in the fullness of its bloom. When the petals begin to dry up, they aren’t the same “spectacular array”. Even at my age, I couldn’t counter that reasoning.

What came out of that meeting I want to say was meant to be a challenge to me. But, buried within his advice was the ordination of my parents allowing them to make me present myself in naked form whenever they felt it might help me overcome my shyness. Mom did get the underlying message. At that point, my life suddenly took a rather drastic turn.

The following weeks my parents eased me into various levels of heightened exposure. They tried to make it a cooperative thing by dropping suggestions at times for increasing my exposure. Sometimes more subtly than others.

“It’s pretty hot outside, why don’t you take off your shirt and go out and play?” Fine for the beach, but too much exposure for the neighborhood. Sure, one or two other boys might have their upper torsos exposed but not the majority of them.

There were times the outside temperature dipped as low as forty degrees and Mom would say, “Why don’t you put on some shorts for school? You’ll be more comfortable in shorts.” More comfortable? Did they forget my hesitancy to take me shirt off at home? Much less having any cognizance of the ambient temperature.

That last one went from “Why don’t you?” to “Put on the shorts I laid out for you and you’ll wear them to school. I don’t want to hear a word about it.” They always seemed to be quite a bit shorter than the ones other boys wore, at least those who wore them to school.

The real shocker came as my parents became more emboldened. We had an above ground pool my brother, sisters and I used to cool off in. It was one of those vinyl lined, three-foot deep twenty-foot across pools. My seven-year-old brother had no problem being naked as he played even when my sisters and their friends were visiting. And, yes, the girls did notice and feel his penis as often as they wanted without any complaint from him or adults that might be present. The kid was not even embarrassed by the frequent hard-ons that occurred after having been fondled by one of the girls. It was almost sport to them to fondle the kid until he was stiff. He didn’t seem to mind.

The Pastor’s influence did surface when the girls played tag in the pool with Timmy. After the dinner table discussion of the lilies of the field reference, my sisters revised the water tag game they’d play by telling visiting kids, both boys and girls, when they tagged Timmy they had to “pick his lily” which meant yank his penis or the tag didn’t count. Now, I’m not sure whether my parents were aware of new rules, but they couldn’t help but overhear neighborhood participants being questioned as to whether their tags were valid or not. Mom and Dad had to know.

Actually, on the few times I can remember my brother complaining about being touched, Mom’s reaction was to pass it off with “keep your hands to yourselves” or “leave your brother alone”. Never, that I can remember, was there an out and out prohibition from feeling his package.

I, on the other hand, usually wore a t-shirt while swimming and never would give in to the maternal mandate to remove it or especially the suggestion to swim naked. That wasn’t even a remote option and she knew it. I’d forgo swimming altogether if skinny dipping was required.

That all changed after that visit with the pastor. As my mother put it, “Roger, you are one of my lilies and I’m going to put you in the vase so everyone can enjoy you.” In short, “You will go out there and you will be naked!”

Initial objections and refusals were met with the business end of a leather belt usually by Mom but sometimes by Dad under her direction. Today when the family gets together and reminisces, we joke about how her pure white lily had become more of a peppermint lily (white with red stripes) on those initial confrontations.

I, and apparently many others, still question as to why was it that only the boys were “lilies”? Seems to me the vase could have contained some female lilies as well. Why were our sisters and their friends exempt? For that matter, why were most of the other visiting males exempt? Were Timmy and I the only lilies in the neighborhood?

I do feel people like seeing naked young boys running around freely. Hell, even I do. Today such behavior, though given lip service as being unacceptable, usually is secretly thought of as “cute” at the very least, and, I’m firmly convinced, stimulates observers’ eroticism. I’m also convinced attempts to communicate repulsion during such exhibitions are merely performances to fend off the guilt the observer feels about enjoying the situation.

Turns out, in my case, over the following few weeks, more and more of the neighborhood boys were to become lilies and my mother’s gospel was preached. But still, never girls, only boys. The girls were definitely under the modesty renditions of the Old Testament and required to follow that different code. Such was life back then.

All this theological justification and the overriding psychological and sociological consideration of the developing boy and nudity apparently inspired a sermon from Reverend Blackburn. He took to the pulpit to preach about the lilies of the field and the human body. In particular, young boys’ bodies and how they were to be put on display. But then he tried to make the argument that girls’ bodies were to be cherished so much they were to be kept covered.

He suggested God’s design was solid indication of the difference. Boys’ genitalia were front and center and not hidden. Girls, on the other hand, were located on their bodies in such a way to afford them privacy.

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. I still held onto my premise that girls are lilies too. But, what did I know?

Fast forward to the annual church bar-b-que held at a well-to-do parishioner’s waterfront home on Lake Tomahawk. In years before all the boy-girl nakedness turmoil, we’d show up for a day of fishing, swimming, waterskiing, and picnicking. There were occasionally some nude little guys five years old and under romping around, but not many. Yes, they were the topic of remarks about cuteness. Yes, they were often accosted by the girls anxious to answer the question about what a penis felt like. And when such behavior was observed, after the adult chuckle about it, some mother would calmly correct, “Honey, don’t touch him there. That’s not nice.”

But this year, 1973, was different. I’m not convinced my mother wasn’t the ring-leader, but this eleven-year-old boy was about to be completely caught off guard.

I was reminded we were going to the church picnic and told to get into the car. Dad was wearing his bathing suit as were Mom and my sisters. I was still in short pants I’d attended the church service in. In a panic I reminded my parents I still had to change. To my surprise, Mom ushered me out the door with, “You’ll have to change in the car. We’re running late and Dad and I are supposed to be on the setup committee. We’ve got to get the tables and chairs setup. Get in the car, we’re leaving!”

Apprehensively, I got in the car. Off we went.

We arrived at the house of our hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw, and parked on the spacious front lawn. I was told to get my “dress” clothes off. I sat there watching as Dad and my sister disappeared around the house to the backyard. Silly me, I anticipated the order would result in being tossed a towel to cover my lap during the change session and a bathing suit to replace those “dress” shorts. Neither item was thrown to me as they usually were in such circumstances. Mom, was busy pilfering around the back of the station wagon. Patiently, I waited finally asking for a towel and my suit.

Imagine my shock when Mom responded with, “You’re going to be my lily in the vase today.”

I was told that after the service that Sunday, she and a bunch of other boys’ mothers, spoke of putting the sermon to action. I wasn’t to be the only naked boy at the picnic. There were several others within a year or two of my age who would be joining me. Like that would make a difference. Truth be told, I didn’t care if every male, young and old, was to be nude, this “lily” wasn’t going to be among them. Only problem was the “vase” was out and I couldn’t find a way to avoid it.

I do remember thinking I could bail out of the car and just run the fourteen miles back home. That would definitely earn a meeting with Dad’s belt. It’d also be met with teasing and tormenting from not only my sister and her friends but other boys who attended my church. I could only imagine the chastisement from the Reverend. But who cares? It beats showing all in front of a mass audience for the day.

The impending discussion with Mom was as expected. It started out as she calmly rationalized how I needed to get over the modesty thing. That boys all had the same “equipment down there” and everyone knew what it looked like. And I should be proud of my body. Not to mention, the reiteration of Blackburn’s sermon and chat in his office. She also reassured me I wouldn’t be the only naked “little boy” attending that day.

I was desperate and still in the state of shock as I countered her explanation. The frustration was choking me up and I could feel tears welling up as I argued. I guess I’d come to the conclusion she wasn’t going to change her mind no matter how I fought the predicament. My next move was to negotiate.

I offered to stay naked at home for a day instead. In the back of my head, I plotted to just stay in my room. At least it wouldn’t be like romping around naked in front of a massive audience. Her response to that deal was riveting. She said, after that day, I’d be doing that a lot anyway and this experience would make future expositions easier.

Frustrated that both arguments and negotiating weren’t working, my next move was out and out refusal. Only problem was I never won a refusal. That made both parents even more adamant I’d do what I was told. This often ended in a painful outcome.

Just as I was beginning the crying plea, my eye caught sight of Anthony Martovich. He was a fourth grader at my school. The sight of him gave full credibility to my mother’s statement that I wouldn’t be alone. Even carrying that Styrofoam cooler strategically in front of his items of interest, it was very evident he was totally naked. Like me, his face was reddened by embarrassment and tears were rolling down his cheeks. He was quick stepping and avoiding looking back at his wooden spoon carrying mother. His little five-year-old brother was clueless as he walked behind the pack fully exposing his tight little package.

Mom took advantage pointing out how Tony wasn’t afraid. I guess she thought I couldn’t call “bullshit” to that. I wanted to direct her attention to his face and how the damned cooler was being used as a shield as he traversed the lawn.

I’d still not made any move to comply with the parental directive. Instead I offered the option to stay in the car for the afternoon. That suggestion was flatly denied and followed by a direct order to get my clothes off and go to the backyard. No more rationalizing, no more discussion of any kind, she just told me she’d get Dad to handle it. I think we all know what that meant.

I unbuttoned my white go-to-meeting shirt slowly to hint at compliance and delay any possibility of summoning my father. It was evident I was stalling as she used the “get a move on” prod. Leaning forward I slipped the shirt over my shoulders and off. Sitting there bare above the waist, a double whammy followed. Karen, my sister, approached and told Mom that Dad had sent her to ask if she needed his help. And Glen Carlson, a classmate of mine, with total panic showing on his face, was being herded totally naked to the backyard. Both hands were cupping his boyhood as he clumsily strode toward the festivities. Over his begging his parents for a swimsuit, I clearly heard his two sisters giggling as they followed him and his parents.

Mom handed Karen a box of goodies and told her to take them to the buffet table and tell Dad if we weren’t there in ten minutes he should come and get us. Salt in that wound? “Tell him I brought one of his belts.” Again, we all know what that meant.

I unbuckled my belt and pulled it from the shorts. Pouting quietly, I threw it to the floor of the car. The button to my shorts gave me a bit of trouble but after coming loose, I unzipped them. I could feel my erect appendage pressing firmly against the cotton of my briefs. That bulbous glans was very sensitive to the stimulation of the fabric. It felt good but not good enough to change my preoccupation with the situational discomfort.

Raising my ass off the seat, I wiggled the khaki shorts down and off each leg. Mom had long since opened the door to my left and was holding her hand out to retrieve them. Her directive to get my underpants off was countered by my reaction—an attempted a delay tactic. Why? I don’t know. Never worked before, but maybe, just maybe, this time. I was reminded that my father would soon be there, if we didn’t hurry.

I had nothing left but the briefs. I attempted to negotiate a compromise. I’d just wear the briefs all day. Mom again told me I was going to be naked. It was apparent my delay tactics were making her more pissed. Facing the inevitable, I put my thumbs on either hip, raised my ass, and pushed them down to my ankles. My balls and a big portion of my stiff penis were sandwiched between my thighs as I handed the underwear to my waiting mother. She and I stared at the now bluish red glans as it peeked out at us.

She quickly informed me I had to carry some towels to the backyard as she pulled my arm to help me out of the car. Naturally, as the warmth of the sun evened out around my naked body, especially my mid-section, I had a feeling of freedom mixed with embarrassment. No one was about in the area, but I found myself anticipating turning the corner of the house as I entered the backyard festivities. I didn’t like that imagined eventuality at all.

When the imagined met the reality that day, I became more convinced I was truly “arrayed like Solomon”. My naked entrance to the public beach area turned many heads. I tried to hide my embarrassment by keeping my eyes forward and faking the attitude that I always ran around nude. Frankly, I couldn’t help but desire to rush my plan to hit the towel on the lakefront frontside down as quickly as possible. I reasoned asses were less interesting as everyone had one. In retrospect, Mom’s suggestion that every little boy had a penis and scrotum wasn’t far from the same fact. Well, probably 50 percent of the same view. Only my penis was just a little bit longer than most boys my age and it was often brought to my attention by females, but even more embarrassingly by other boys. So, thinking about everyone has one thing wasn’t going to work for my frontal presentation.

As I lay, face down on the towel, under the obvious stares of other lake goers, I cupped my stiffy so as to position it under my pubis. I felt safe from the assessments of others. Didn’t last long. Mom decided she needed my help, not Karen’s, setting up the buffet table. No other kid was asked to do such things—only me. I know now it was a contrived situation designed to showcase my genitalia. I don’t even buy it was to help me become more comfortable with public nudity, no, it was specifically a bragging opportunity for Mom and probably Dad too.

Why do I think this? Because, my attempts to cover my almost five-inch stiffy from view were finally hampered by Mom’s order to “quit holding yourself”. For fear of drawing even more attention to my situation, I complied releasing my erection which immediately flopped parallel to the lawn. Needless to say, I was cognizant of the immediate shift of attention of the other moms from giddy smiles as they prepared the spread, to unhampered stares as my penis. Oh, they acted like they weren’t the least bit interested in some boy’s package, but they definitely were.

Even worse, I believe every girl over the age of six, stopped whatever they were doing and took in my showing. Two girls from the same grade at my school were pointing directly at me and giggling. You didn’t have to be a lip reader to know exactly what they were talking about. It wouldn’t be long before they both approached our vicinity for a close-up encounter.

When they did approach, they asked for me to play with them down by the lake. I don’t think “play with them” was what they had in mind. I’m fairly certain they wanted to “play with me”. I, predictably, said I was going to just stay up at the blanket. Mom had different ideas. “Roger, go play with the girls, they were nice enough to invite you. You’ll have more fun if you participate in some of the kid activities. Go on, now.”

Time to negotiate around her shooing me from the blanket, “I’d rather play with Glen and the other boys.”

Mrs. Zimmerman, the church secretary, was always taking photographs of church gatherings to post on the bulletin board in the vestibule. She wasn’t the least bit shy about ordering poses for those pictures. Why she’d avoid taking some frontal shots of one of the “lilies” actually was even beyond me. Hell, I was eleven and a boy and even I would have taken some if it was another kid. Problem was during the whole day she actually followed me around. Why me? There were at least a dozen other boys who were forced to stay naked. Maybe it was that only two of us—Anthony and me-- were over the age of ten. There were four who represented the preschool – first grade age and Glen who was at least nine or ten.

Mrs. Z took a hell of a lot more photos of Anthony, Glen and me than she did of the little guys. And, I mean a hell of a lot more. The little boys were captured in candid photos. Their little peters stayed pretty calm throughout the day. They could have cared less about being exposed to anyone and everyone. In most of the images of the three of us we were posed almost always with the state of our penises fully captured.

Most embarrassing, at least to me, were the numerous presentations of we boys in proximity and interacting with the girls of the parish at that picnic. In almost all of them the girls are laughing at, pointing at, or staring at our penises and ball sacks. It is especially evident where the girls are our own age. There were even a few of girls manhandling our junk, with our parents’ blessing. They were invited by Mrs. Z to yank on, pinch, or pull us by our penises or cradle our balls for some of the photos. In others, girls and adults were playfully swatting our asses. Those made the nude waterskiing, swimming and land games seem blasé. Moms and dads looked on with levity. I guess that’s where the line “And, there was fun for all!” on the banner on the published summary summarizing the outing came from. Let me tell you, it wasn’t “fun for all” in my opinion.

And, while I’m thinking about it, who in the hell would agree to print that booklet (complete with photos) to begin with? Wouldn’t happen today. Guess they wouldn’t have to have it printed. They’d just make a .pdf (which I’ve done) of it with the we three older boys being the stars of the show, and set it up for free open download. Much wider distribution. It could have been worse!

In retrospect, I’m sure if the same outing occurred today, Mrs. Zimmerman would be clicking away on a Canon or Nikon getting a digital presentation of a lot more photos. You can bet they’d be posted online and she’d make sure all parishioners would be informed as to their whereabouts ready for downloading. I guess I should be thankful the cost of processing and printing back then limited the number of images that were to be made available. Certainly, distribution was more difficult and costly back then. They were far less likely to be distributed at school than they would be today.

I have to agree with Abby’s parting shots, “It’s too bad we can’t go back to those days. My son, Ian, could use a strong dose of forced nudity.”

(End of File)