On a happy note though, I must admit that I used to be a regular of sorts, nice, well-behaved, just about everybody’s image of the shy schoolboy next door. So, I welcome you guys to read my erotic story. In to my early teens, I was fair-complexioned and sported almost cherubic looks. However, while getting into high school, my academic credos wore off steadily, a deep decline, making me a laughing stock at times, among my friends and some teachers.
Being rudely marked as a bit of a dullard for my poor science and math was a bit of a worry. Even as the first year of high school inexorably wore on, my maths and science marks in class tests created visions of horror for me, my parents and for those around.
Well, in those days, with a typical middle-class setting, parents didn’t either care much about or simply couldn’t afford to put their children in expensive private schools. I belonged right there, at the bottom of the pyramid, where every rupee mattered, even in the purchase of schoolbooks, uniforms and the rest. Right from fifth grade, I was off to a neighborhood Government school. No car, no school van, not even in dreams for me.
Forget being driven in style, not even cycles, for most of us had to wait until the tenth grade even to lay hands on one. Father had declared that even footwear was a luxury in secondary and high school classes, citing the example of his own frugal lifestyle. So, every morning, along with three friends of mine, who were my neighbors, I used to trudge barefoot for around three kilometers to reach school and returned, during late afternoons.
That was childhood, at its best and worst forms. It happened in my eighth grade(when I WAS 18 YEARS OLD ) when even uniforms were rationed. It was the month of June, when schools reopen after a long vacation, bang on with the onset of the monsoon that lashes our part of the country. Along with opening and on getting to hear the joyous news of being promoted to the next class, happy parents along with happier kids carry out that last week dash of shopping and stitching.
We used to get the regulation pair of new uniforms stitched for us boys, blue shorts, and white shirts, along with the trademark black school umbrella. A welcome addition, sometimes, used to be the shiny aluminum school-box to keep those new texts and notebooks, carefully bound and wrapped in brown paper, neatly labeled with colorful cartoon characters.
Alas, poor me, that year, none of these happy events promised to shape up. When that darned ‘results day’ came around, a week ahead of reopening day, I felt the proverbial ‘butterflies in the stomach’ feeling. On having reached school a bit early.
I trooped in along with my three friends, to my familiar old classroom and sat along with two of them, on the front bench. Rajan uncle’s daughter, Mini, my next door neighbor, a sprightly and studious girl, occupied the front row for girls, to the left flank, and surveyed around her.
For me, she looked a picture of confidence that day, what with a triumphant glint in those shiny eyes that had the word “topper” writ all over, much to my discomfiture. Rajan, a bit naughty but slightly better off than me in studies, sat next to me, patient yet palpably tense. These two were my classmates and my neighbors, who walked along with me to school daily. But today, on this dreaded day of reckoning, everything looked and felt very different.
Sitting for a while in class, they suddenly appeared like strangers to me, with my mind almost in a muddle. As the much feared hour of reckoning drew near, the atmosphere inside the room grew electric. I felt my hands becoming increasingly clammy.
A cold sweat broke out and I felt my throat getting slightly dry. Our famed class teacher, Mr. Balasubramonia Iyer, sporting a stern, no-nonsense look, entered solemnly, armed with a sheaf of result sheets and what appeared to be a few multicolored folded papers, which he held in his left hand.
His right hand firmly clasped a deadly looking cane, that spelled ominous portent. As our Maths teacher, besides being the class head teacher, he seems to have firmly embraced the dictum ‘Spare the rod, spoil the math in the child’. In a whirlwind, I could instantly recall many an unpleasant encounter I had with this ramrod straight wooden object, a medieval instrument of torture.
In the past few months, particularly during end term, it had left its angry red marks, sometimes not only on the palm but also right where it shamefully mattered, my poor bum and my self-worth. Such close encounters of a different kind hit my pride or whatever precious little was left of it, besides dishing out a painful reminder that served only to increase my phobia for Math.
A few hushed, conspiratorial whispers and the buzz settled down, even as Mr. Iyer cleared his throat, and adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, in a measured pose. In a dramatic tone, he said that he was going to announce the annual results.
Then he proceeded to call out names of the students, in their order of merit. A faint tremor crept up my loins as soon as the names were called out one by one, with Mini being called as the second name. Rajan’s, after some thirty positions and I, could see his clenched fist and thumbs up signal, as he turned around to face me.
As the names winded on, with bated breath, I desperately hoped for my name to be called out.A flush on the cheeks and a sense of shame slowly descended on me. Suddenly I sensed, with a pleasant tingle of excitement, my member between the thighs stiffen and grow, matching my anxiety. I was wearing very short shorts, as I had outgrown it during the year.
It was a bit lose around the upper crotch and soon formed a visible bulge right in front. Instinctively, with a sweep of my left arm, I tried to cover my small ‘amount of shame’ even as I listened intently to the names being called out. Mr. Iyer proceeded to rattle along the list for almost 56 names before he abruptly finished and made a quick visual survey of the class.No trace of my name.
How I wished and prayed that there was a chasm that would open up for me and consume me whole! With his final gesture of putting down the sheaf, I realized, with a sense of deep shame and shock, that I had miserably failed in the eighth grade! How will I ever look at the faces of Mini and Rajan again? Both of them were now stealing painfully obvious glances in my direction.
My cheeks, I sensed, were now crimson in shame, with a little well of tears threatening to drop from my eye. Five hapless names remained pronounced as failed and condemned to repeat the eighth standard, with juniors. With a sense of panic, I realized now that worse was to come.
Mr. Iyer took out another sheet, from his sheaf, kept on the table and proceeded deliberately to call out our names, in a painfully slow monotone, after announcing, “now, the list of failed students. As soon as I call out your worthy names, you’ve to climb the bench”, in a voice laced with heavy sarcasm and scorn.
Sindhu, one of the really pretty girls in class those days, was called first, With a startle, I turned around to glance at her, through a well of tears. With a muffled sob, she was standing up. She was wearing the uniform, short green skirt that barely reached her knees and a cream top.
Mr. Iyer sharply instructed each one of us to mount the bench and stand upon it, in full view, an ultimately humiliating expose before the entire class. With a swish of her short skirt, Sindhu mounted the bench, in full view of the class. I could sense some sudden flutter and hear suppressed giggles among the other girls, including her friends, who sat around her.
And then, the abhorred moment of humiliation. As my name was called out, almost in a surreal slow motion, I started mounting the bench and looking down, saw with horror that my red-hot member had risen almost ramrod straight.
As I stood upon the bench, Rajan, sitting next, leaned sideways and stole a quick glance, up my trousers and suppressed a guffaw.I felt as though my hard dick would penetrate through my buttoned trousers, like a giant insect’s proboscis. Mr. Iyer, with measured gait, walked up to where I was standing and the murmurs as well as muffled laughter, died down.
In a quick gesture, he thrust a topi, a conical cap, made out of color paper and asked me to wear it. This ritual was over quickly, with five of us dotted in the class, wearing bright colored topis!And I stood helplessly on the desk, painted against the classroom, with the obscene projectile, that Iyer didn’t notice.Yet, we, the hapless five failures didn’t realize, what more was to come.
Like a calibrated second act of the drama, Mr. Iyer asked all my classmates who got promoted, to move to the new 9th standard classroom. All of them instantly rose and with some clamor and happy, cheerful noises left the room. Some noses were cringed and contempt registered in most glances that were cast at us.
All the time, with my left arm, I was pitifully trying to cover my small mound of shame that projected upfront. But it seemed to have developed a mind of its own and surged forth, every time, when I tried to pat it down, with furtive left-hand maneuvers of sliding into the pockets.
(To be contd in Part II)