Whippings

WHIPPINGS

JOHNNY WORLD SAT IN HIS SEAT in the auditorium between both of his dates, whose names he did not know. No matter: they didn't know his either. But they talked among themselves and made a happy threesome: telling stories, playing guessing games, poking each other in the ribs, and probing into the deeper meaning of things.
The auditorium was not quite full, a number of empty seats at the back. On weekends there were usually larger crowds--SRO--when more people could fit these get-togethers into their busy schedules.
At seven o'clock prompt the lights dimmed, and the audience quieted. Someone stood up and read off a name: Ove Mandarin. There was a rustle in the back, and a young woman walked formally to the front, stood in the center, and took off her shirt. Somebody approached and whipped her three times across the hands. Mandarin put her shirt back on and returned to her seat.
Next: Moon Rose Fertile. Another woman approached the front stage, removed her blouse, and received a switch on her left shoulder.
A man's name: Chatter Cider. When he reached center stage, he too removed his shirt and took two strokes of the whip to his abdomen.
The proceedings continued: names called, the removal of the upper clothing, the whippings: one, two, or three lashes. At the completion of each performance, the individual gave a tight, little yelp. One man was asked to take off his trousers so that he could receive the strap across the back of his legs.
The names seemed to be called in no recognizable order--neither alphabetically, nor by age, nor by intelligence or the severity of shame. Further, the placement of the blows varied even more than the number of strokes.
After perhaps thirty minutes, Johnny World turned to the date on his left and said, "It's been three weeks since my name's been called."
"That right?" She looked surprised. "How often do you come?"
"Two--sometimes three--times a week. You?"
"Just once. I can't find the time for more than that."
Johnny World's date on the right leaned over and said, "I wish you two wouldn't talk while it's going on. But for the record, I've been coming twice a week for three years now, but usually on weekends; this is different."
They turned their attention back to the front of the auditorium--and a good thing: The next man called--Earth From--after removing his shirt, was asked to take off his glasses. Having done so, he was punched in the nose. Earth then returned to his seat.
Johnny spoke in a whisper, "We're lucky tonight; you don't get to see that very often."
The evening continued; names advanced: Scorpio Calling, Lather Davis, Moby Grape, Mike Leavitt, Johnson Johnson, Ten-Thirty, Junko Nagasaki, Quade. . . . The audience sat attentively, fixed.
Johnny World checked his watch: five minutes to go. He shook his head. He turned in a whisper to his left and said, still shaking his head--knowingly--unknowingly, "They're not going to call me tonight."
"Me neither."
"Shhhhh," said the right date. And then she continued, "Do you prefer getting the whipping or watching it?"
"Never thought of it like that before," replied Johnny. He thought a moment. "But it's a good question." More thought. "Hard to say."
"Well, I like getting the whip," she said. "And I have a favorite place too: top of the shoulders, across the neck. Just a little bit of the back."
"I definitely like watching," said the date on the left, and then she added quickly--so that there would be no misunderstanding, "But the whipping's good too."
The names shot out now in rapid succession, as if they were trying to fit as many of the people in the crowd as possible into the remaining time. The places of the body as well: hands, wrists, small of the back, the ears, vertical along the spine, diagonal across the chest, top of the skull--all the places. All the good places. And then, just before they thought it was over for the night, the last name: "Johnny World."
Johnny stood up and walked formally to the front. He removed his shirt and stood for the audience, facing them with no expression, searching the big crowd for the familiar and the unfamiliar, the tame and the lame.
The date on the left leaned across the empty space where Johnny had been sitting and said, "I think he likes the whipping better."
"How can you tell?"
"Well," she began slowly, "I can't tell exactly; it's just a feeling I have."