Spanking Shakespeare Read Online Free

predisposition to bowel movements all conspired against me, and when I introduced him, I said, “This is Doody.”
    All the kids started to laugh, and I realized how funny it sounded. “This is Doody!” I screamed.
    The teacher grew very red and shouted for quiet. Then she fixed me with a stern look and said, “Shakespeare, go sit in the corner. We do not make fun of other people’s names. How would you like it if people teased you because of your name?”
    I don’t remember exactly what went through my mind as I sat in a little chair in the corner staring at the wall, but I feel certain that some of my earliest ideas about the lack of fairness and justice in the world were beginning to take shape. Before the year was out, these ideas would be dramatically reinforced.
    Sally Hill was the most precocious five-year-old in my kindergarten class. She had been reading books since age three, could spell words like elephant and bumblebee, ate sushi with chopsticks at lunch, and, most astounding, had begun to experiment with sarcasm. If someone said something stupid, she would say, “That’s so brilliant.” If someone brought an orange peel or a scribbled-on piece of construction paper for show-and-tell, she would nod her head and say, “I wish I had one of those.” Most of the kids thought she was being nice, but I knew better.
    Sally and I had known each other all our lives. Our families lived close to each other, and our parents were friends. We had spent time at each other’s houses, played together, and watched each other grow into the five-year-olds we had become. I loved spending time with Sally because she always came up with ideas that were much more imaginative than anything I could come up with on my own. I suppose she enjoyed spending time with me because she could set all the rules, devise all the games, and use me or discard me as she saw fit.
    Most of Sally’s games involved elaborate role-playing. Her favorite was one in which she played a teacher and I played a student who could never do anything right. (When I asked her how to play my part, she said to act like I did at school.) Sally was very strict. Each time we played, she would yell at me and tell me I would not get any snack that day. Sometimes she would make me sit in the corner facing the wall. When I told her I didn’t want to play anymore, she would tell me that I had been very good and give me a sticker, and I would allow myself to be sucked into another round of verbal and emotional abuse.
    One day Sally said she had a new game she wanted to play. The rules were simple. I would pull down my pants and show her mine, and then she would pull down her pants and show me hers. Even at age five, I knew exactly what she was talking about, and I also knew it was something we were not supposed to do. At the same time, I was curious to see what she had and what it looked like and to ask her how it worked. I stood there frozen, not sure what to do or say.
    “Come on,” she said impatiently. “We don’t have much time.” Obviously she knew we were doing something wrong, too, and while this might have been a major turn-on in later years, it was horribly unsettling to my five-year-old self.
    “I don’t think we should,” I said nervously.
    I had always done whatever Sally told me to do, so this refusal, however weak, was new to both of us. We stood there in my bedroom looking at each other.
    “We’ll do it at the same time,” she finally said. “Ready, set, go.” And just like that I found myself unbuttoning my pants, unzipping my zipper, pulling down my pants, and pulling down my underwear. The whole thing should have lasted fewer than ten seconds, and for Sally it did. Before I could get a good look at whatever she had, she was already back in her clothes, acting as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, as I tried to pull my underwear back up, I lost my balance and fell. I struggled to stand and dress myself at the same time, lost my