Issue 22, May/June 1991
2
“Fraternity Tradition Decreed it Was Open Season on Every Pledge’s Ass”
You asked me to write some more about my life in college with Eric. As I mentioned in my previous letter, I wanted desperately to become a concert pianist. However, instead of being allowed to apply to The Juilliard School or Curtis Institute, I was pressured by my father into entering the music school of his alma mater and pledging his fraternity which was populated largely by jocks. Even having been a varsity swimmer in high school and a member of the Lettermen’s Club, I had never before been forced to associate with such animals.
Eric, who had been assigned as my “big Brother,” was an ex-Marine and an incredibly well-disciplined man. He was also big, gorgeous, five years my senior, and totally intimidating. Having made the accidental discovery that I preferred to wear girls’ silk panties instead of boys’ underwear, Eric made me continue to wear them. He also let it be known to the entire fraternity that I was going to be his “slave girl,” not only during the pledge period, but for the next three years until he graduated. Worst of all, Eric made me appear in the halls and bathroom wearing only my panties, which led to endless harassment.
As if to prove the corporate masculinity of Alpha Chi (not its real name), Hell Week was everything its name implies. If there is one single picture which epitomizes my experience of Hell Week, it’s the one reproduced in Bound & Gagged, Volume 7, page 6 [Illustration by Leon, above].
Hell Week began with all pledges being ordered to appear in the game room after dinner wearing only underwear. After forming a straight line, each big brother tied his pledge’s wrists behind his back with a length of rope—except Eric, who preferred to use his Marine Corps handcuffs on me.
As our turns came, we were made to kneed while our heads were shorn bald with a pair of electric clippers. Beards or mustaches were also mercilessly hacked off in spite of any pleas to save them, no matter how impassioned. As soon as our haircuts were completed, our skivvies were stripped off and stuffed in our mouths and were secured by a piece of rag or a long tube sock tied around our heads. Another strip of cloth was used as a blindfold. We were then led downstairs to an unfinished room in the basement where our arms were stretched out and tied to an overhead beam. The next sensation was that of my ankles being kicked none too gently apart and tied to what I later discovered was a wooden bar about three feet wide with pieces of rope threaded through eyelets at both ends. After being spreadeagled in a standing position, naked and totally vulnerable, we were relieved of the remaining hair on our bodies, even the hair on our arms. Most of us on the swim team kept ourselves fairly hairless in an effort to increase our speed in the water. Nevertheless, I was suddenly aware that lather was being applied to my genitals and was warned to stand very still unless I preferred to spend the rest of my life as a eunuch.
Before the evening ended, large black dog collars were fastened around our necks which were to be worn the entire week. In addition to providing a constant source of public humiliation, our collars also proved convenient for leading us around on leashes or tethering us to upright posts or overhead beams. Our hands, when bound behind us, could be elevated out of the way simply by running some extra rope from our wrists to the D-ring in our collars, thereby giving free access to our asses for paddling, or whatever other insidious plans the actives had for us.
Prior to Hell Week, almost all paddling of pledges had been done by our big brothers, except for pledges who had to work off demerits providing their asses as targets for the “Batter Up” game, described in my previous letter (1). This system provided at least some semblance of control over the amount of punishment dished out to the pledges, although in reality, the control was more imaginary than actual. Not so, however, during Hell Week when fraternity tradition decreed that it was open season on every pledge’s ass. Even the special clothing we were made to wear encouraged our being beaten. Grey athletic T-shirts which didn’t quite reach our navels proclaimed our lowly status in fluorescent orange. On the front was silk-screened the Greek letters of our fraternity, under which, in large bold type, was the word “PLEDGE.” On the back was printed “THE BOARD OF EDUCATION MEETS HERE,” directly above a big arrow pointing straight down to our buttocks.
Although most of my fellow pledges had been made to wear scratchy burlap in their jockey shorts during at least part of the three month pledge period, special underwear was issued to all the pledges just for Hell Week. Unfortunately, the pledgemaster had seen an advertisement in some sleazy magazine for novelty briefs which were flyless and cut similar to Speedos. They were all-white except for a large black and red bull’s-eye printed in the middle of the seat. Also, like Speedos, these briefs were made of nylon tricot, opaque enough to be relatively modest when exposed to public view, yet thin enough not to offer the slightest protection to the poor pledge’s ass. I recall receiving perverse enjoyment listening to my brother pledges scream about being made to wear “fuckin’ goddamn panties.” For whatever similarities existed, I was deeply grateful. It served the bastards right for giving me a bad time about my undies.
These briefs were worn under a pair of plain white gym shorts, the elastic waist of which facilitated their being easily lowered prior to “assuming the position.” Worn with a pair of cowboy boots, which somehow had the uncanny effect of highlighting our hairless legs, our outfits can best be described as embarrassing. It was only the balmy climate of south Texas which permitted the wearing of such skimpy getups in midwinter without freezing our balls off—although I seriously doubt that anyone would have given a shit if we had!
Insult was added to injury in that we were beaten with the paddles we had been forced to make and decorate—all to the fraternity’s specifications, of course. In addition, our paddles had to be carried around with us all week and surrendered to any fraternity brother upon demand—anywhere, anytime. Upon handing the paddle to the active, we had to beg for our punishment saying, “Sir, I humbly request that you give me the discipline I need, as you see fit.” Upon hearing the order, “Very well pledge, prepare for punishment,” we were to respond by yelling, “Sir! Yes Sir!” immediately sliding our gym shorts down to our knees and pulling up our T-shirts so that the back came up over our heads inside out, creating an instant hood. Then, as we bent over grabbing our ankles, the bull’s-eye on our asses made a perfect target for the active wielding the paddle. After each resounding splat, we were to announce the count and then say, “Thank you, sir! May I please have another, sir?” What I found especially humiliating about this whole ludicrous ceremony was the thrill it gave the co-eds. It was bad enough to be getting your ass blistered in public wearing only a pair of thin nylon briefs, without having to endure all the mindless girlish giggling.
I spent the entire week ducking from one place to another in a desperate attempt to avoid being intercepted by an active. My luck held until Thursday afternoon, when I had to cross the campus to get to the music school for a piano lesson. Just as I was about to spring up the steps into the safety of the building, I got nailed by one of the two nastiest assholes in the frat who happened to be out for his afternoon run. By the time he had finished with me, I was absolutely in no condition to sit through an hour’s lesson on a hard piano bench hammering out Bach, Chopin, Debussy and endless scales and arpeggios.
The expression on my teacher’s face as I entered his studio was one of startled incredulity. After looking at my tear stained face, my bald head, my missing mustache, my chafed wrists, the dog collar and the message on my T-shirt, his reaction was one of barely controlled rage. In spite of my protests, he insisted that I slip down both my shorts and my bull’s-eye briefs so he could assess the damage to my ass. It was all I could do to talk him out of taking me directly to the Dean of Student Affair’s Office to report my fraternity’s sadistic treatment of its pledges. He relented only after I explained how pissed off my dad would be if he ever heard that his son was too big a sissy to endure a little hazing.
I cannot ever recall time moving as slowly as it did that week. This was especially true of the time spent in the frat house when we never knew what new horror was about to descend on us.
While in the house during Hell Week, pledges were to be naked except for our bull’s-eye briefs and dog collars. At meal times, we served as table waiters for the upperclassmen, after which we ate our food doggy style off dishes on the floor. Anyone caught using his hands immediately had them tied behind him.
The evenings as well as Saturday and Sunday, when not assigned to work details, were largely spent in strenuous physical activities such as games, races and endless physical exercises. Any losing pledge team or individual was usually punished by being made to run a gauntlet of actives wielding paddles.
Another delightful torture, to which we were subjected at least once daily, was to be lined up in a straight line, hands tied behind our backs, with our bull’s-eye briefs placed over our heads like hoods. Our big brothers would then position themselves behind us and milk our penises until we shot our semen across the cement floor. The two pledges to shoot either first or farthest would be declared the winners, while the rest would get the paddle. Unfortunately, several of my classmates were almost incapable of getting it up in front of a group of guys; an impediment which brought them considerable grief. Happily, this was never one of my problems. Usually, by the time Eric had me out of my briefs, I would be stiff as a board. Due perhaps to the amount of sexual activity in which Eric and I had engaged since the beginning of the school year, I was able to win the speed award almost every time. Actually, the only semi-happy memory I have of Hell Week comes from being dubbed “The Fastest Gun In the West.” The fact that I was rapidly falling in love with Eric, and found him physically intoxicating, undoubtedly helped, too. Had another guy’s hand been working my cock, I might not have fared nearly so well. However, Eric had the uncanny ability to play my penis like a virtuoso playing a vintage violin. As his well-greased right hand stroked my cock, he would hug me tightly around the middle with his left arm and then, at precisely the right moment, would jab the fingers of his left hand firmly into my lower abdomen just above the base of my penis, not only causing me to ejaculate virtually “on cue,” but magnifying the pleasurable sensation of my orgasm as well. Frankly, I think I was also beginning to be turned on by the funky odor of my own sweaty briefs which had been pulled down tightly over my face.
Incidentally, I quickly learned the hard way to keep myself in a totally passive role. Early in the week I had playfully groped Eric’s crotch through his 501s with my hands, which were tied behind me, only to have Eric stop cold, box my ears soundly, and send me crawling through the paddle line on my hands and knees without even having had the pleasure of an orgasm.
One of the paradoxes of this particular fraternity was its sexuality. Its public image was clearly ”super jock” and “super straight,” with gays usually being referred to as “those goddam queers.” The majority of the guys, including my big brother Eric, were making it with women at least occasionally. Yet, most of the pledges spent a fair amount of time being forced by the actives either to suck their cocks or be fucked by them—usually blindfolded, and often while tied up in one position or another. Occasionally, a dirty sock or a soiled pair of jockey shorts would even be used as a gag.
At the risk of over-psychologizing, this seemingly contradictory phenomenon may not be too surprising considering the activities in which the fraternity was engaging. Perhaps it would be asking too much of the actives not to get turned on sexually while putting naked, hunky young men through such paces as being tied, blindfolded, gagged, shaved and whipped as well as various forms of vigorous physical activity. This, given the fact that girls were not immediately available for sexual release, may explain part of the homoerotic response of the part of allegedly straight men.
On the other hand, I suppose one might be inclined to dismiss the participation of the pledges by saying that it was simply the price we had to pay if we wished to join the fraternity. However, this could be an over simplification in cases like mine, in which I quickly discovered that along with the humiliation and pain of being paddled and/or tied up, also came powerful sexual stimulation and gratification.
Perhaps, however, I may be forgiven if I tend to be somewhat suspicious of all the macho, queer-bashing bullshit on the part of the actives, and suggest that a lot of these guys had a component in their sexuality they were unwilling to face. I had already come to terms with the fact that I was gay and proud of it, but these guys would be telling you how straight they were while humping your ass or fucking your face. Whatever the cause of this fascinating paradox, the one unwritten rule of the house was that all cocks were always to be covered by rubbers prior to insertion in any orifice, male or female and, to facilitate compliance, fish bowls stocked with rubbers were placed in all the bathrooms.
I cannot imagine any of my fellow pledges being happier than I was on the night of our formal initiation into the fraternity. My ass still tingled, my wrists were sore, all my muscles ached and I was completely exhausted. Nevertheless, I had survived! I had also accomplished something which would cause my father to be proud of me. Best of all, even Eric had a slight, if crooked smile on his face as he fastened the pin to my sweater.
Later, that evening, as we were getting ready to hit the sack, Eric grabbed me unexpectedly from behind and, while squeezing my penis and testicles through my thin panties, whispered in my ear: “Don’t you go getting any fancy ideas just because you’re not a pledge anymore. You’re still my fucking slavegirl. Your pretty little ass is mine, and don’t you forget it!” Then, while continuing to hold me in a hammerlock, he kissed my neck so hard that he raised a hickey, causing me to wear turtlenecks for several days instead of my usual T-shirts
That night, Eric took my cock into his mouth for the first time and gently made love to it until I shot off like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Afterward, he allowed me to fall asleep curled up in his arms. Eric is not a man of very many words, nor is he normally into “vanilla sex.” I was well aware that the strict discipline, physical training and heavier sexual stuff would resume shortly. Yet that night Eric was strangely sensitive to my need to heal from the trauma of Hell Week—both physical and psychological. I believe this was also his way of telling me that he cared and that, in his own way, he was proud of me.
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