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Monday evening after we had eaten supper and the sun was beginning to set I was sitting on a rocker on our large front porch. Mom was in the kitchen finishing up the dishes and my father had taken little brother upstairs for a bath. Shortly afterward Dad came out on the porch carrying a Christmas card box. As soon as I spotted the box I had a wrenching feeling in my gut. Dad had found it way in the back of my top desk drawer under a pile of notebook papers. The box still contained several unused Christmas cards; however, underneath I had hidden dozens of pictures of boys and men wearing shorts.

Viewing the pictures while I pleasured myself I fantasized what it would be like if the males captured in the images were there with me. Did they enjoy the cool freedom and sexual stimulation from wearing their loose baggy shorts as I did. How many would really enjoy playing with and busting toy balloons? These precious pictures were my equivalent of the porno pics that turned on more normally oriented youth.

In those days shorts for other than the five and younger set were definitely not 'in' and finding pictures of boys or men modeling the kinds of shorts I liked to see and wear was very difficult. Because sales of knee pants were so low they were rarely advertised even in catalogs like Sears; and then they often were not modeled.

Actually the bulk of my collection was Boy Scouts in summer garb that I gleaned from my Boys Life magazines. Even this was slim pickings because the scouts couldn't get boys to wear shorts- no way, no how. Spring and summer issues ran with half page adds with the tag line "He men wear shorts" and a picture of Indian Ghurka soldiers astride motorcycles or other husky males wearing shorts engaged in other perceived manly pursuits.

Dad walked over with the box. Then he stated matter of factly that he had warned me that he was going to conduct a thorough search of the house and barn, including my room, and if he found any of my toys he would confiscate and destroy them. I had taken my father very seriously regarding his threat and I could kick myself for completely forgetting about my picture stash. Since the interaction with Dave and Mike, not to mention recently Linda, I hadn't made use of the pictures and I never gave them a thought. But now there they were in dad's hand. I figured the pictures as well as all my sexually stimulating short pants were headed for the incinerator as a minimum.

Dad removed the box lid as he continued, "I really don't think it would be any too good if your step mom or brother saw these, do you? I think we should go behind the barn and get rid of them right now, don't you agree?"

Hell no! But what was I going to say? 'Gee dad, looking at all these kids and guys in their sexy shorts really gets me turned on so I get more enjoyment from shooting my load. I need them to help me whack off'.

My father was no dummy and he already knew this. And yes, having someone else find the pictures would be very embarrassing; so all I could do was nod in agreement. Dad handed me the box and my balls began to ache as we headed out around behind the barn to our incinerator. At least at this point we only had the pictures with us. There was a bare patch of gravel in front of the heavy welded steel incinerator where he had me spread the pictures out over about a four square foot area. Then he handed me his lighter.

I flicked the lighter to life and applied the flame to the edges of several of the pictures along the one edge of the spread out pile. The flames quickly raced across the thin paper devouring the images that could still be discerned in the curled ash residue. It only took thirty seconds or so for the flames to march across the pile of paper and destroy all my sexually stimulating artwork.

As the flames were doing their destructive work dad asked, "Watching your sex pictures burn turns you on, doesn't it boy?" Man that was sure enough an affirmative. My dick was at full attention in the confines of my shorts.

As the flames were finishing off the last of the pictures dad commented, "These pictures make it clear that short pants are a fetish for you just like your rubber balloons. I think it's also pretty obvious that you have a sexual attraction for boys as well. I don't like it and it's not doing you any good mentally; but I will accept your unnatural attraction to balloons and short pants. I will not, however, accept your being homosexual. If I ever discover that you have made sexual advances to your step brother I can assure you that you will wish that you never were born. And I had better not find out that you have been having any gang bangs with your buddies Dave and Mike either. I hope to hell that being around Linda will get your sex juices flowing in the manner God intended."

I just looked at dad. What else could I offer after his stinging edict. Apparently realizing the implications of his last statement Dad suddenly added, "I don't mean by that that you should go out and get Linda knocked up now, understand?"

"Yes dad. I am well aware of my responsibilities," I responded.

I figured it wouldn't hurt to add, "Even though being with her and seeing her in her sexy shorts makes it really hard to resist."

"Oh so she cane make it hard for you, huh," Dad chided.

"Uh, yah," I replied.

That was a true statement, but where was the blush of embarrassment I when I really needed it? I hoped I had 'redded up' a little to make my statement truly convincing. No question Linda really turned me on, but it was what she did with balloons and with me that was primarily responsible; not her body and associated hardware.

As dad kicked the ash to extinguish any lingering sparks and destroy the remnants of the images he said, "So you really don't need pictures like these any more, right?"

I explained to dad that I hadn't used them to any extent in over a year which is why I had forgotten about them rather than moving them to a more secure hiding place. Dad bought my explanation and seemed pleased that perhaps I had outgrown my need for such visual aids.

I was hoping our 'quality time' session was over so I could scurry up to my room and relieve the immense pressure that had built up in my lower extremities; but father didn't seem to be in any hurry to get back to the house. I sensed he had other issues that probably involved flames and my fetishes. After a couple of minutes of idle talk regarding my relationship with Linda Dad again raised the issue  regarding my sexual attraction to short pants.

Dad looked me and I could tell he was trying to compose his thoughts. Finally he said, "You know you really do look good when you wear shorts, and I like to see you in them; but it's not normal for others to see boys your age wearing short pants. They make you appear at the least immature and a sissy, and worse from a sexual standpoint, well ah, um... queer."

Dad let his pronouncement sink in and then he went on, "You seem to be willing to take the verbal comments and risk the physical abuse to pursue your childish fashion statement. Also you have demonstrated you can stand up like a man and fight, fairly effectively I understand, if someone does attack you; but as you pointed out Sunday (when we hiked up to the mountain and he made me leave my balloons out in the open so the sun could destroy them) there are activities for which shorts are not well suited. So although the smart thing to do, and what I strongly suggest, is that you put every last pair of your shorts, gym, scout, whatever, even the sexy leather ones you have, in the incinerator."

Oh gawd! I thought my balls were going to explode. This was the second time in less than a week he had made this suggestion. Dad seemed to enjoy my obvious distress. He gave me a sadistic little smile and continued, "For now this is just a strong suggestion, not a demand. If you want to continue to wear shorts like a little kid then these are my conditions: For specific times and activities where they are required you may wear long pants. On all other occasions, especially in public, you will go bare kneed and look like a little boy; because obviously, that is what you want to be. Come to think of it maybe you should trade the Boy Scout uniforms you love to wear for a Cub Scout uniform that more nearly reflects your mental age. I'll bet the other boys in your scout troop would really get a big whoop out of that."

Dad paused then chuckled, "At least the Cubbies don't wear a neck rag with a jackass on it." (he was referring to Pedro the Philmont burro that was on my scout troop's neckerchief).

Dad was getting sarcastic now and ticking me off. This time there was legitimate red in my cheeks as I steamed. But what could I say. He spoke the truth. Finally dad gave me a slap on the rump and we headed back to the house.

I was walking ahead of him and as we approached the back door dad remarked, "You know what, you really would look cute in a blue uniform with knee socks and short shorts. Then maybe you wouldn't even look so silly carrying around a couple of your balloons. I should be able to pick you up a cub summer uniform on Wednesday when I go to the city to return the carnival stuff."

Ow that smarted. I was just about to turn and face off with dad when the voice of reason shouted 'a fight now and no balloons or shorts tomorrow'.

I suppressed my anger at my father and went up to my room. I was so angered by his humiliating, but unfortunately true, remarks that the sexual buildup I experienced as I watched my pictures burn had completely dissipated. I didn't take him seriously regarding the Cub Scout uniform, of course, because I was a fairly husky seventeen year old and they didn't make uniforms for nine to eleven year old kids large enough for me to wear. In any case I made a point of staying away from my father for the next couple of days to avoid any more of his brutally frank discourses.

Two days later Dad rounded up all the unsold merchandise from the carnival and returned it for credit at the novelty wholesalers. Considering he had made me destroy a major quantity of  balloons as well as discovering and destroyed my short pants pictures, I didn't consider it at all wise to ask him about any of the leftover balloons which he had let me add to my collection of toys the previous year.

Because my father had spent the morning running the leftover carnival stuff down to the city he was still hard at work in his office late Wednesday afternoon when I arrived after work to go home with him. He indicated there was stuff he had to get completed that night so he told me to find something to do for an hour or so. Then we would go to one of the restaurants in town for supper. Wednesday nights I had my scout meeting and he had his weekly meeting at his club, so it would have been silly to run home, gulp down some food, then race back to town for my scout meeting at seven thirty and his meeting at eight.

I was one of the senior troop honchos and as such the scoutmaster was insistent that we set an example for the troops regarding proper uniform wear. Since I wore one of my numerous old style scout uniforms to work, shorts, knee socks, short sleeve shirt, and generic scout neckerchief I wouldn't really be out of uniform but I unquestionably would have an aroma de phew from my day's labor in the hot sun.

Normally we would have gone home for dinner and I would have washed off and donned a clean uniform along with our troop neckerchief for the meeting. Realistically, after the half hour of our mandatory PT prior to every meeting, all the kids would normally be well sweated up and somewhat odious as well, and my less than pristine attire probably wouldn't be noticed.

When dad finished up his work we headed for a restaurant in one of the hotels within walking distance. He wanted a beer with his dinner so we went into the attached bar room and took seats at the bar. In those days the legal age for alcohol was twenty one but no one questioned boys over ten years old or so sitting with their dads at a bar as long as there wasn't a beer or alcoholic drink sitting in front of them.

I hadn't given my bare kneed attire any thought as we walked in and sat down. Although my knees and arms were a tad dirty and the uniform needed a trip through the washer, I looked like a seventeen year old scout dressed to go to a troop meeting which was what I would be doing.

Most of the men at the bar knew my father and many of them had seen me on occasion around town in short pants. We ordered our meals from the waitress and the bar tender set up a beer and coke for dad and me. We were seated near one of the corners of the U shaped bar and dad became involved with a couple of men that were seated down the adjacent side. An older gentleman was sitting next to me and he soon started reminiscing about his youth and involvement with scouting.

It soon became apparent that we had a lot in common because he expressed a liking for boys that were wearing short pants. It wasn't too long before his hand had found my thigh and he was fingering the hem of my shorts. He was beginning to get me excited. I was trying to think of a tactful way to tell him that I enjoyed what he was doing but he was being naughty and had to stop when a guy across the way on the other leg of the U shaped bar broke into the conversation that dad was having and wanted to know when father was going to buy his big boy a long pair of pants.

Father smiled and quickly responded, "Just as soon as he grows up."

The other men at the bar laughed but I didn't think it was funny and it pissed me off because I knew my father was serious; I really wasn't grown up at all, at least mentally or sexually. The guy wouldn't let it drop, however, and made a snide comment that sissies wear shorts along with some other non flattering remarks that I felt impinged on my father's sterling character.

That did it. My father had been verbally attacked and without considering any consequences I was off my stool and around to the other side of the bar where I bulged up what muscles I could muster as I confronted him. The guy was in his late forties and a lot huskier than he had appeared from my seat across the room. I glared at him as I loudly announced, "Do you have a problem with what I'm wearing?"

He just stared at me unable to believe the audacity of the punk kid that was standing in front of him. The bar keeper rushed over and said in an annoyed voice, "Hey boy, we don't want any trouble here.

I gave him an annoyed look and snapped, "I don't want any trouble either."

Then I turned to my tormentor and added, "Just some clarification."

Father and a couple of men near where I was standing had jumped to their feet and I could sense they were poised to grab me. The guy, obviously annoyed at my sudden and unexpected challenge shot back, "And just what do you want clarified, boy?"

"Just why the hell you think I'm a sissy because I prefer to wear short pants. This is my choice, not my fathers," I emphatically announced. "Do you want to go out back and see what kind of wimp I am?"

God I hoped he wouldn't take me up on my blatant challenge. My anger had completely overridden my animalistic desire for self preservation.

The guy glared at me with contempt which quickly melted into a wisp of a smile as he said, "OK boy. That won't be necessary. Because you have more guts than sense to come over and pick a fight, in your case I will make an exception. Even though you are too old to be wearing knee pants I can see you are not a sissy. There, is that good enough for you?"

He stuck out his right hand. I looked at it for a moment and then we shook. I gave his big paw all the squeeze I could muster but it fell short of the crunch he applied to my digits.

I returned to my stool and as Dad and I sat down he leaned over and whispered, "You know what happens to boys that get too big for their shorts?"

I nodded and replied, "Yah, they die young."

After we finished eating I walked up to the Methodist church where the scout meetings were held. I was a good half hour early and since the troops weren't supposed to be in the fellowship hall until at least one adult arrived I was sitting on the wall along the sidewalk when two scouts who were brothers, probably fourteen and fifteen years old, came up.

Even though it was late June they were wearing the long scout pants and after some awkward conversation they got to the point and wanted to know why I was always running around in shorts. (Because of dad's edict that I could only wear long pants to school, I always wore scout shorts to all the meetings, even during the winter months). I explained what I liked about wearing short pants (not the sexual reasons, naturally) and that they shouldn't be afraid to get their legs skinned up good or what people said or thought about their wearing them. They were genuinely impressed that I had the guts to wear them in public. Damn if the next week they didn't show up in brand spanking new oversized scout shorts, indicating a long term commitment to wearing them. It made me wonder if they had added any sexual reasons to the normal ones I had given them.

After the scout meeting I walked down to the club and sat in our car until dad was finished with his meeting; which must have been around nine thirty. After we had arrived at the house and were pulling into the drive Dad informed me in a nonchalant tone that he had stopped by the Boy Scout area in the department store and bought a few things for me after dropping off the unused carnival merchandise . After supper I was to try them on and let him have a look see.

Oh geeze. 'Try them on' meant clothing; I could just guess what he had bought. As we ate supper I was hoping against hope that he might have bought me new high top hiking boots because I had just about outgrown the ones he had bought me after my adventure with the rattler snake a couple of years earlier. When supper was over I mounted the stairs with apprehension as I went to my room.

Sue enough there was the large department store bag on the bed. Well so much for the hiking boots. They had been bought at the sporting goods store where we had picked up the bargain gym shorts, bar bells, and boxing equipment. I dumped the contents of the bag on my bed and stared in disbelief at what was obviously a Cub Scout uniform; knee socks, shorts, shirt, and yellow cubbie neckerchief.

I quickly determined that only the shorts and two neckerchiefs were actual scout issue. The extra long dark blue nylon knee socks were obviously the sort a few brave men who were willing to wear them wore with Bermuda shorts. The military styled navy blue short sleeved shirt was a Dickey's work shirt.

I stripped off my sweat soaked Boy Scout uniform work outfit and replaced it with the clothing from the bag. The socks were good and long and I had no trouble turning the tops down twice. The shirts were size L and were plenty loose on me.

I couldn't believe that they made Cub Scout shorts with a 36 inch waist, and that the store actually had such a large size in stock. I wondered if dad got them half off because how else would they ever sell them. My normal pants size at the time was 33 inches so the shorts were more then plenty big around the waist and in the ass. However, because they were intended for 'fatties', they weren't proportionally longer. I have a relatively low rise so I didn't have a problem as far as the crotch was concerned as I pulled them on; but the nicely full cut legs only extended down about a third of the way down my thighs; about as far as the scout shorts Bob had cut down for me back in the fall. Normally I actually enjoyed exposing this much thigh flesh around the house. I did feel, however, that short shorts such as these were really a tad revealing for wear in public, especially since I wore baggy gym pants under them. After distributing the excess waist material under my belt I put on the Cub Scout neckerchief and headed downstairs for Dad's review.

As I came in the room Dad greeted me with a loud wolf whistle as he exclaimed, "Wow sexy"

My step mom just gave me a nervous smile. I had to spin around and model the uniform in front of my father and he asked mom if she could sew some pleats to take up the excess material in the waist. Even though she would have to sew it by hand she said she would be glad to do it.

After a few moments Dad beamed, "Won't the boys at scouts be tickled pink to see your nice new uniform?"

I gave my father a disgusted look and shot back, "Why should I bother going to the Boy Scout meeting? Since I'm such a juvenile why don't I just attend one of the cub pack meetings from now on instead?"

Father didn't miss a beat, "Why boy, the cubs would think it funny to see you, and because you are so much bigger and older would just make fun of how silly you look. Now on the other hand, your friends in the scouts will not only tell you how silly you look but will be able to beat up on you a bit to emphasize their point as well."

Dad paused then smirked, "I'm looking forward to seeing some well skinned up knees and legs come next Wednesday night."

I didn't relish the thought of the pain and humiliation. If this was going to be dad's only retribution as a result of discovering my pictures of boys wearing shorts I considered myself damned lucky. Ever since he found them Monday night I lived in dread that he would rescind his stay of execution for my shorts and demand that I destroy all of them, and possibly my balloons as well.

The following night, Thursday, as we were riding home dad suddenly broke the silence and informed me that he had found balloons hidden in the barn. I looked at him incredulously because, unless I was really loosing it, I was certain all the balloons that I had were still safely buried under the front porch. In any case, what I had been dreading since Monday night was a edict to hand over all the balloons I had for immediate destruction. Then he went on the say that he had found a steel drum full of them (like I had buried) under one of the cow mangers, and just this once he would give me an opportunity to make them disappear out of sight rather than immediately confiscating and destroying them for me.

Suddenly it hit me. Son of a gun, good old dad was on a guilt trip again. He had not taken the unused balloons back to the wholesalers for credit, but was going to allow me to buy them. I smiled at him and said, "Thanks. How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, I don't know. About twenty bucks I would guess," he responded with a grin.

Holy shit! Twenty dollars was half of my weeks wages before taxes. From the Saturday night clean-up at the carnival I had a rough idea how many balloons were left as well as the approximate price from the previous year. Although we had far more balloons left over because of the extra sixteen's he had bought, the total cost to buy all the leftovers shouldn't have come to that much.

He had obviously decided to let me have them by Wednesday morning for whatever reason. I suspected that it might have been his choice between having me sexually play with balloons or having sexual play, if only in my mind, with shorts wearing boys. It obviously had nothing to do with his great pleasure in the aggressive way I handled the attack from the loud mouth in the bar the night before because that incident didn't occur until that evening.

A few years later when I was in college Dad did let me know that he had gotten one of his bachelor buddies, who normally ate supper at the hotel and was actually headed to the same club meeting as he was, to instigate the scene at the bar. He had wanted to see what my response would be. Fortunately for me I'm sure I took them both by surprise and I think it was pivotal in providing safety for my short pants collection from that time on.

My step mom and little brother were home before we arrived and as we pulled in the drive Dad mentioned that he would keep brother occupied so I would be undisturbed for an hour or so before supper giving me the opportunity to re-locate my unexpected balloon stash to a more secure location. Little brother was outside playing in the yard and after Dad rounded him up and they went in the house I quickly hot footed it out to the barn.

I had no trouble locating the steel drum. When I released the clamping band the lid actually popped up from the pressure of the compacted balloons inside; there were so many. Dad had removed them from their boxes and dumped them into paper bags before placing them in the drum. I investigated the bag on top and immediately discovered why he said there was twenty dollars worth. The bag contained a full gross of the 560 airship balloons which were fairly expensive. He had bought a gross of them because he knew how much fun I got from sailing them, and when they finally popped, using the long rubber sheets for leg, arm, and head bands. He was more than replacing the three dozen or so that we had popped or were now in the process of slowly dying in the blazing sun up on the mountain top.

I quickly checked the rest of the inventory and discovered that he had indeed rounded up all the left over balloons. This restored my balloon supply to at least the level it had been Sunday morning; and these were all fresh balloons. I figured there were close to four gross of the twelve inch, perhaps one and a half of the sixteen's, at least a gross of the heavy fluted balloons, plus the gross of airships that he had bought outright. After inspecting each of the bags I then stuffed everything back into the drum and re-sealed the lid. The only balloons that were irreplaceable were the large military target balloons.

There was no place safe in the barn that my father, and possibly little brother, wouldn't be able to find the sealed can of balloons, so I slipped out of the barn with it and went up the road about a half mile and into the woods. The wooded area had once been farmed fields and there was a stone row running perpendicular to the road that had separated two fields . I quickly removed a number of rocks about 50 feet from the road to form a recess, placed the drum in it, then covered it over with the rocks I had removed. I took sight bearings from several prominent trees so I would be able to find my treasure later without having to search through and move tons of rock.

My new toys would be safe there for the immediate, and although inconvenient, I would be able to access the drum from time to time to obtain balloons for my play sessions. The steel drum was made from fairly heavy metal and was painted. However I knew that it would not survive more than a year or two exposed to the elements before it would rust through, so I would have to come up with some other long term 'accessible storage' arrangement by the fall.

The following Wednesday scout meeting rolled around and that night after supper I dutifully went to my room, and instead of exchanging my dirty work clothes for the scout uniform I usually wore to the scout meetings, after washing up, I donned the Cub Scout uniform dad had gotten me on his trip to the city. Mom had stitched four pleats in the waist so it fit properly around my midriff when cinched up by the black military style cloth belt I usually wore with my scout shorts. Actually I liked the uniform and the fit was nice and comfortable. I had no qualms of going to knuckle city with any of the scouts that had a problem with it. The Cub Scout neckerchief I was sporting, however, was a humiliating problem of far more concern. I carefully folded up a troop neckerchief and stuck it in my shorts pocket; planning to switch before I entered the meeting room. When I finished dressing I came down and presented myself to my father.

Dad gave me a surprised look as he exclaimed. "Wowee, what nice sexy looking legs."

I think he might have been about to add some other 'flattering' comments when he suddenly realized that mom and little brother were in the room.

"You really aren't going to wear that Cub Scout uniform to the scout meeting, are you?" Dad asked pensively.

"Of course. That's what you bought it for, isn't it?" I snapped back. "Don't you want the boys to have some fun with me? I want to give it a go at least for tonight."

Dad turned to my step mom and said, "You had better have some Band-Aids ready when we get home tonight. I think our little boy here might need a few."

She gave him a disapproving look as she turned away.

My step brother was about seven and he caught father's meaning right away as he piped up, "Hee hee. He's going to get his knees all bloodied up."

"Don't bet on it, Bebe head," I shot back. (That was the name I called my step brother when he annoyed me).

As we drove into town father seemed actually upset that I had taken up his challenge to wear the Cub uniform to my scout meeting. Finally he asked what I was planning to tell them when they asked me why I was dressed in a little kids Cub Scout outfit. I knew that my wearing shorts in public was an embarrassment for him even though it was his requirement that I do so; because he felt that it was more humiliating even for me. Of course the obvious and actually true response for me would be, 'My dad made me wear it as a punishment'.

While this might save me from some unpleasant skin scrapes it would tend to make father look like some kind of a pervert; so I said, "I'll just tell them this blue uniform looks sexier than their olive drab scout uniforms, it's really comfortable to wear especially for our PT exercises because the legs are nice a short and full cut, and I just figured I would wear it to see what kind of reaction I get from any of you that want to get wise ass about it."

Dad glanced over as he said, "You aren't really going to tell them that, are you?"

"Absolutely," I replied.

And I meant it.

Dad parked the car near the club and I started hiking the four blocks to the church where we had our scout meetings. I had only gone about a half a block when a couple of the older scouts, one of whom was driving his family's car pulled up. They wanted to give me a lift rather than have me walk the distance. Naturally I hadn't anticipated this turn of events and was still wearing the cubbie neckerchief. Even walking I usually arrived early. Although they usually came by car they were also a good fifteen minutes earlier than usual. As a result they had caught me by surprise.

They were stopped right in front of me and I couldn't very well refuse their offer of a ride so I quickly slipped into the back seat of the sedan. Of course they spotted my blue uniform immediately but because our troop neckerchief was basically yellow like the Cub Scout one I was wearing they didn't spot it until I got out of the car. Meanwhile as we made the short journey and parked I did not know how to address their certain questions about my cubbie neckerchief.

My planned response relative to the uniform was rational and I felt confident that they would accept it, although they would consider my attire funny and silly. Explaining the Cub neckerchief as an adjunct to my Cub uniform would be something else. If I switched neckerchiefs they would naturally question it and my bravado would go out the window along with my self esteem.

We were early but there were already about a dozen scouts milling around on the sidewalk outside the entrance to the church fellowship hall. My fellow travelers lined up with them as they all looked me over. I could feel the red building in my cheeks. I couldn't believe the silence. Finally the biggest kid there who had been driving the car asked, "What the hell did you do to piss your dad off this time?"

I hadn't realized this was the only possible rationale my friends could think of for my blatantly childish garb.

"It's a long story," I began.

I sure as hell wasn't about to give them details of my shorts fetish, so I continued with the explanation I had given my father. I finally wrapped it up, "But my father didn't make me wear this Cub Scout uniform tonight. In fact he wanted me to take it off but I insisted I wanted to wear it, any questions?"

I could feel the surge of adrenaline rushing to my muscles.

Most of the boys laughed and giggled nervously at my response. Then one of the other older lads, also in eleventh grade and one of few who had made it clear that he enjoyed the cool freedom and comfort of scout shorts as well , obviously had some prior association with the likes of Sigmund Froid because he correctly analyzed, "Hah, I don't buy that. Your dad bought you that Cub Scout uniform to wear so you would be humiliated in front of your friends. Then he chickened out because he realized it would make him look bad. Having him buy the uniform to begin with made you mad and now you are calling his bluff; right?"

I looked at the kid and said, "No not really"

"Don't give me that shit," he snapped back.

"He doesn't like that fact that his big boy enjoys running in short pants all the time. Even to school."

His comment produced a wave of titters and giggles from the others. "He figured you would get yourself beat up and come home with your pretty legs all bloodied up, I'll bet?"

I didn't bother answering him.

I don't know if it was my friends analytical dissertation or just plain empathy for my perceived situation; but as other scouts arrived along with the scoutmaster and assistants I received no flack at all from any of the other boys, even the macho 'sissies wear shorts' types, before or during the meeting

The scoutmaster (who was our high school gym instructor- hence the weekly PT) wasn't pleased with my get up, which surprised me because he really had a thing for boys wearing shorts. The blue Cub shorts I was sporting weren't that much longer than the gym shorts he usually saw us all wearing. After the meeting he made it clear he liked the shorts but didn't appreciate me being out of uniform. Gad, you would have thought I had shown up in a pair of Levis.

When we were dismissed some of the younger boys who felt safe I guess that I wouldn't dare retaliate against them physically made some unkind remarks; but to my amazement the older jocks, even those I would have been hard pressed to square off against, refrained from comments demeaning to my manly character. It looked like I was going to make it through the evening unscathed physically or emotionally.

Finally just as the older, bigger boys were getting ready to leave I just had to ask them if they didn't have any desire to beat me up. A big brute of a kid with a good fifty pound advantage spoke up and said, "It would be fun; but no not really. You've demonstrated that you are no wimpy queer and you are pretty damn good with your fists. I don't think anybody feels you need prove you've got balls; at least I don't."

I know my father would have loved to have heard his comment. It made all the hours of screaming muscles and numerous boxing lesson beatings out in the barn suddenly seem worthwhile.

I was wondering if dad would be disappointed should I show up after the meeting with the flesh on my legs still intact. Even though I had done a quick wash off my knees were grimy from sweat and plowing through underbrush from my day's work. Also the last year of intensive exposure to the elements had made the skin, at least in the area of my knee caps, rather tough and leathery like you would develop on the soles of your feet if you spent the summer barefoot. My legs were in contrast to the often not even tanned leg flesh of the other boys who were obviously not brave enough to wear the summer shorts uniform to the scout meetings without Mr. Mack's strong persuasion.

I toyed with the idea of having them bloody my knees up a bit for dad's benefit. I had little doubt they would be more than happy to oblige. Then again, although I prided myself on being able to endure physical pain, it really would hurt like hell. I would probably wind up with blood soaked knee socks, and the adult leaders would surely get bent out of shape. So I opted to take my leave and return home with my father none the worse for wear.

When dad's meeting was over and he left the club and came out to the car he seemed genuinely pleased to see that I had survived what could have been a very humiliating and physically abusive evening. Naturally he wanted the details as to how I handled the situation. I again emphasized that I had not led anyone to think that he was forcing me to wear my little cubbie uniform.     Rev. Date 4/03.
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