Chapter 4: The Traditional Walk of Shame, Part 2
“Oh no! Oh shit! Oh!” cried the panicked Harvey as the reality set in—he’d just been stripped of both shirt and corduroys in one swift, humiliating motion. Now here he was, out in public, sitting in the front row of the football stands in nothing but his snug little tighty-whities.
And Harvey wasn’t the only one hollering. Cheers and laughter erupted from the two dozen or so spectators scattered behind him. I was among them, giggling with delight as I watched him wriggle and squirm in his seat, red-faced and half-naked.
"Sit up straight," said Victor while he pulled Harvey more upright by the shoulder. Harvey looked longingly at his pants and shirt, which were teasingly draped over the railing just a few feet in front of him.
“Can I please...can I please get my clothes back?” he asked, his voice quivering with humiliation.
“In due time, Harvey. In due time,” Victor replied. “Lunch isn’t over for another twenty minutes, so why don't you just relax and finish your sandwich."
I nearly choked on my own saliva. Were they really going to make him eat? Like that? In just his underpants?
Harvey made no effort to even acknowledge the unusual request, so Victor picked up the half-eaten tuna fish sandwich and held it up. “Eat,” he instructed. “You’ll need the energy—for your walk.”
"I'm...I'm not hungry," responded Harvey boldly.
Victor turned to his crew. “Hold him up. I'll make him eat this sandwich after I stick it up his ass."
They stood in unison, two of them grabbing Harvey by the arms and hoisting him upright. I looked on wide-eyed while Harvey was held up and restrained.
Victor pulled open the back of his underpants and it looked for all the world like he was going to shove the sandwich right up the crevice of Harvey's ass cheeks.
“NO! Okay! I’ll eat it! Stop! I said I’ll eat it!” Harvey screamed, panicking.
Victor paused, clearly weighing the threat, then smirked and let him sit back down. Harvey, thoroughly rattled, took the sandwich and began nibbling at it miserably—still seated in just his tighty-whities while the rest of us looked on, snickering and whispering. It was both surreal and ridiculously entertaining. I swear, you never knew what to expect at that school.
“Need a drink of water to wash that down?” Victor asked.
Harvey shook his head quickly, eyes downcast.
“You really should hydrate before the walk of shame,” Victor said. “We wouldn’t want you passing out halfway up the bleachers.” He gestured toward a drinking fountain off to the side. “Go get some water.”
I think at that point Harvey was resigned to the fact that he would not get his clothes back until he was done doing their bidding. He stared at the drinking fountain for a spell before building up the courage to stand up.
It was a delicious sight for me as I watched him make a beeline to the drinking fountain in his tighty-whities. He had both hands over his crotch as he scampered past his clothes, took a quick drink of water from the fountain, and dashed back to the laughing group, his face a deep shade of red.
It was about to get redder.
"It's time," said Victor as he took Harvey by the arm and guided him to the center aisle.
Harvey reluctantly followed him, keeping his free hand covering the front of his underpants.
And speaking of those underpants—I mentioned that he had been rendered naked but for "a little pair of tighty-whities." Well,
little is the operative word. I know that the white briefs are, well, pretty brief, but I don't think his mother had been underwear shopping for him for a while, because his were at least a size too small. The waist band sat well below his belly button, with the back riding up high enough to expose the very bottom of his cheeks. I couldn’t see the front—Harvey guarded it with all his might—but I imagined it didn’t leave much to the imagination. I remember silently hoping for a better look. And lucky for me, I wouldn’t have to wait long.
Victor positioned him at the base of the aisle and let go of his arm. The terrified Harvey was facing toward the football field, hunched over with both hands glued to his crotch.
“Turn around,” Victor commanded, nudging him on the shoulder. Slowly but surely, Harvey turned around and faced us.
My heart was pounding. But not as fast as his. His bare chest was rising and falling so quickly it looked like he might hyperventilate.
“Okay, here’s how it works,” said Victor. “You walk—don’t run—to the top of the stands, touch the rail, and walk back down. That’s it. When you get back, you get your clothes. Got it?”
Harvey nodded without looking up.
“Good. Now stand up straight. No crouching. Hands on your head—and leave them there. Show everyone your pits, and all of your tighty-whities. It's tradition."
My friends burst into giggles beside me. I was too breathless to join in—I just stared, wide-eyed, as Harvey hesitated, then slowly, submissively, peeled his hands away from his underpants and raised them to his head.
He was a sight to behold. I looked him up and down and there wasn’t a hair on him. I couldn’t help but wonder if that smoothness extended everywhere. Judging from what I could (barely) see in the front of his undies...probably so.
Speaking of his bits, I looked closely and there wasn’t much to behold in that department. His tight little briefs clung tightly to his hips, but even so, there was barely a hint of a bulge.
He was already as embarrassed as all get out. I doubt if knowing that everyone was looking at his negligible protuberance helped him feel any better.
I couldn't suppress a giggle as I sized him up. He peeked up at me and quickly turned away, abashed. I really enjoyed the moment.
“Okay, get ready, Harvey!” Victor shouted, rallying the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen… the traditionallllll WALK OF SHAME!”
With that, he gave Harvey a hearty smack on his ass to get him started.
And off he went. To the utter delight of the onlookers—and, I’ll admit, to a delicious wave of stimulation on my part—the profusely blushing lad began his mortifying ascent up the bleachers, hands behind his head, his snug little underpants clinging to him. The crowd erupted with cheers, whistles, and gleeful catcalls that followed him every step of the way, adding to his already extreme embarrassment. And there I sat, eyes locked on every moment, positively buzzing with delight.
At one point on his way up, an amused girl shouted out, "Can we see your little pee-pee?"—a shout that triggered a fresh chorus of raucous laughter. Poor Harvey visibly panicked and quickened his pace, desperate to end the torment as soon as humanly possible. On the way back down, he was practically trotting—a move (whether deliberate or just pure instinct) that would, unfortunately for him, backfire spectacularly.
“You went too fast,” said Victor, grinning ear to ear. “You’ll have to do it again—and this time, sloooowly.”
“Oh please, just let me go!” Harvey begged, breathless and red-faced.
“After you do it right,” Victor replied matter-of-factly. “It’s a
walk of shame, not a
run of shame. Now turn around. Hands on your head.”
Harvey obeyed, albeit with trembling reluctance, once again presenting himself to us again—his snug little tighty-whities on full display. Only this time, Roosevelt’s so-called “tradition” was about to get a spicy new twist.
As Victor shouted, “Go!” he simultaneously reached down and yanked Harvey’s underpants to his knees.
Harvey let out an amusing, high-pitched squeal and bent forward in blind panic, yanking his undies back up with lightning speed. It all happened so fast—but not quite fast enough. I caught just the briefest peek at the poor boy’s most private little bits, and even that fleeting glimpse was enough to send me into a fit of gleeful laughter. Judging by the shrieks and giggles around me, I wasn’t the only one who’d gotten a glimpse—and thoroughly enjoyed the humiliating little flash.
“Oh my goodness!” gasped one of my friends.
"Make him do it naked!" shouted a girl, and I suddenly realized that girl was me. I had impulsively vocalized what was on my mind.
"Michelle!" said my friend as she looked at me in surprise. "You little
devil, you!" she said with a laugh.
“I know,” I said, giggling. “I can’t believe I said that.” I paused, then leaned in with a wicked grin. “But I hope he does it.” We both laughed as we looked on intently in hopeful anticipation.
Clearly, I wasn’t alone. A chant broke out—“Na-ked! Na-ked!”—and soon nearly everyone had joined in, the rhythm echoing through the bleachers.
“NA-KED! NA-KED!”
Victor looked up at us, grinned, and turned back to his favorite freshman. He reached for the waistband again, but this time Harvey was ready, clutching his underpants like his life depended on it.
“NA-KED! NA-KED!” the chant grew louder. The energy was electric.
“Let’s do it!” said the energized Victor, and all four boys lunged at Harvey. No more playing around—they all went straight for his undies.
"No! No!" shrieked Harvey as he slapped at them with his hands—for them it probably felt like a nuisance fly—and kicked his legs wildly like a trapped animal. But the briefs began to slide down his thighs.
"Stop!" Harvey continued kicking and screaming.
It was quite a scene, and a very entertaining one at that. His undies were pulled down to his shins, and Harvey was desperate. In a last-ditch effort to keep from forfeiting his precious underpants, he spread his legs out as far as he could to keep them from sliding off. He pulled his legs forward and grabbed onto the waist band and tried to pull them back up his legs. But he was unable to make much progress.
“NA-KED! NA-KED!”
Harvey was fighting a losing battle, but ever so valiantly. He clutched the waistband with both hands while four sets of hands tugged in the opposite direction. It was a tug-of-war, and a distinctly uneven one. Yet somehow, the poor boy was holding his own. Desperation can lend surprising strength—and Harvey was drawing on every last ounce of it.
That is, until Victor got the bright idea to try a different line of attack. Abandoning the waistband, he went straight for Harvey’s ribs, digging in with ten relentless fingers. The effect was instant. Harvey howled, squirmed, twisted—desperately trying to shake free of the maddening tickles.
He succeeded in doing that—but the cost was high.
In that moment, Harvey’s fingers lost their grip, and his precious underpants slipped past his knees...then his ankles...and finally, with a triumphant tug, into the eager hands of his tormentors.
As soon as the briefs cleared his feet, the chant stopped on a dime, replaced by a single, gleeful roar: “NAKED!”
Applause, cheering and laughter broke out. It was a full-blown celebration—and an absolutely unforgettable moment.
In the immediate moments after the stripping, the unfortunate naked boy was beside himself, and reacted like a fish out of water. The laughing foursome kept him at bay while he flailed about at the bottom of the aisle. Whenever he tried to make a run for his clothes—it had to be so tantalizing for him, because they were only a few feet away—his efforts were easily thwarted.
Eventually he dropped to his knees, doubled over with his arms planted on the ground—facing sideways, doing everything he could to shield himself. From my angle, I couldn’t see much, but that hardly mattered. The image of him crouched there, naked and red-faced, was more than enough to get my pulse racing.
And I have to admit—shamelessly, really—that I was deriving considerable pleasure from his naked shame.
I can't explain why that is—it seems cruel and maybe even a little sadistic when you think about it, being that the poor kid was enduring the humiliation of a lifetime—but I was loving every second of it.
One look around told me I wasn’t alone. The stands were alive with laughter, gasps, and wide-eyed grins. We were a captivated audience, spellbound by Harvey’s humiliation.
I guess this is a dark side of human nature, but it was one that I honestly had no interest in resisting. I was having way too much fun.
"You still have to do the walk of shame again," Victor persisted.
Harvey looked up, wide-eyed. "I can't...like this...can I do it...do it in...in my underpants again?"
I chuckled—not at the question itself, but at the absurdity of it. The poor kid was literally begging to do the walk of shame again in his tighty-whities. That clearly illustrated how terrified he was of the alternative.
“Nope,” said Victor. “If the freshman has to do the walk of shame a second time, it always has to be naked. It’s tradition.”
I had a pretty good inkling that Victor was making up this "tradition" on the fly. Not that I was complaining.
There was a pause. Harvey wasn’t moving, still paralyzed with shame.
"If you want to see your clothes again, Harvey, you'll have to do the walk," warned Victor. "And I'm not going to wait much longer."
"Please...let me have my under...ohhh...can I...can I at least cover up with my hands?"
He’s going to do it! He’s really going to do it!
“Nope. Hands on your head. It’s tradition.”
Harvey was silent, and again there was a standstill. Victor nodded to his crew. "Gather all of Harvey's clothes and go hide them where he'll never find them."
"I got it," said one of them as he made a move toward the rail.
"No! Okay! I'll do it!" cried Harvey.
The crowd hushed. Every eye turned to watch.
Harvey slowly rose to his feet, still turned away from us, both hands locked tightly over his genitals. The view from behind—his bare butt on full display—was delectable. But of course, I wanted more.
"Turn around, Harvey. Come on, you can do this," encouraged Victor. "The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can have your clothes back and put this all behind you."
Yeah, right, like he'll ever forget this. I don't THINK so.
Harvey turned around, ever so deliberately. And what a vision he was—all naked and red-faced with his hands clenched firmly over his goodies, as if exposing them to us would be his doom.
“Good, Harvey,” Victor said. “Now hands on your head. I’ll tell you when to go."
The tension was unbearable—in the best way. I think I was literally holding my breath. Most everyone had their phones held up in video mode. I did not, preferring to take it all in without the distraction, knowing I could obtain the footage later from one of my friends.
It was an excruciating moment for Harvey. His breaths were rapid as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other while calling on every fiber of his being to dig up the courage to do what he knew he had to do.
He took a quick look up at the stands. I'm sure he noticed that most of the spectators had gathered closer to the aisle on both sides to achieve a better view of what promised to be an entertaining display for them.
Once again, he and I made eye contact, and I smiled at him. It definitely added to the moment for me.
"It's time, Harvey," prodded Victor.
And so it was. With great effort, Harvey extricated his hands from his privates and slowly raised them to his head.
Gasps and delighted squeals rippled through the crowd as his tiny bits came into full view. In case the reader is wondering—and I have a feeling you are—Harvey had a small penis, which, not surprisingly, was completely devoid of any hair. His testicles were proportionately small, and his nut sack was all shriveled up and only visible if scrutinized—and scrutinize I did. I'm not sure if his balls were always like that or if it was due to his overwhelming humiliation.
Whatever, I can tell you that his little bits were a source of amusement for me, and most certainly were a source of extreme mortification for naked Harvey.
* * * * *
Before I wrap up Harvey’s ordeal, please bear with me while I venture off course for a moment and discuss penises. During my four years at Roosevelt, I saw my share of penises—more than any teenage girl rightfully should. This is not because I was promiscuous—I was a virgin all the way through high school—but because of the many strippings that occurred at Roosevelt High School. Not that I'm complaining.
As I’m sure you’re aware, penises come in a variety of shapes and sizes. That said, I probably didn’t get a true cross-section of what’s out there, since most of the ones I saw belonged to freshmen—and most often the victims were the more delicate boys who hadn’t really begun to develop much yet. Harvey was a textbook example of that type.
Still, if we’re ranking, I’d say the smallest penis I ever saw at Roosevelt belonged to a boy named Johnny. I mentioned in the introductory chapter that a girl named Felicity had made a sport out of humiliating a boy named Blondie when he was an upperclassman. Well, she had other victims—all freshmen—and Johnny was one of them. Anyway, as small as Harvey's penis was, Johnny's was even tinier. I only saw him exposed a couple of times, but I remember getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles both times. The poor boy!
For comparison, Harvey's and Blondie's penises were similar in size when they were freshmen. I recall seeing Blondie get stripped by his sister and her girlfriends even before Felicity entered the picture. Blondie's penis grew incrementally over his time there, but not by a lot. It had to be especially embarrassing for Blondie, because he was older—I did see him naked once when he was a senior—and, as I mentioned, Felicity made him keep his whole body completely hairless. Imagine being seventeen-years-old and still looking like an underdeveloped twelve-year-old down there. His humiliation must have been through the roof!
As I said, the boys who found themselves stripped at Roosevelt tended to be smaller—not just in stature, but in every sense of the word.
There were a few exceptions, and they handled their ordeal differently. I noticed that the boys who were more generously equipped—or who at least had a bit of hair to suggest some maturity—were still embarrassed, of course, but they didn’t always scramble to cover themselves. Some even stood there red-faced but exposed, maybe hoping that confidence—or at least the illusion of it—would soften the sting of their humiliation.
But the underdeveloped boys? Oh, they were a different story entirely. They clutched themselves like their lives depended on it. Their shame was more acute, more visible—I could see it written all over their poor blushing faces. I don’t doubt for a second that their humiliation was magnified—intensified by the very thing they were trying so desperately to hide.
And I have to admit—that only made it more fascinating to watch. The smaller they were, the redder they got—and the more fun it was to witness. I know that probably says something terrible about me, but at the time I didn’t care one bit.
* * * * *
Which brings me back to Harvey (and thank you for indulging my little detour into penis ponderings). To say he was humiliated to have his genitals exposed would be putting it mildly. And with all of us laughing, pointing, and delighting in his shame, I can only imagine how much worse it felt for him.
Desperate to end his living nightmare, Harvey didn’t even wait for Victor’s signal. With his hands on his head and his hairless little package fully on display, he began his agonizing ascent up the bleachers. His walk of shame had evolved into a walk of abject humiliation, as the wretched Harvey endured the laughter, the catcalls, and the prying eyes while he traversed the stands in his naked state. He completely avoided eye contact with anyone and had the most pained expression on his face that one can imagine.
The scene is portrayed nicely in the drawing below. While at the reunion, I was retelling the infamous tale of Harvey’s walk of shame, and one of the guys listening was so inspired that he pulled me aside afterward. I had mentioned I was toying with the idea of writing these memoirs, and he offered to create an illustration for me—one I’d be free to include. I took him up on the offer, and I'm glad I did.
Harvey was a bit shorter and slighter in real life, but I think you’ll agree: the artist truly captured the essence of his mortifying march.
The artist goes by the online moniker of clashofstyle, and you can see more of his impressive work by Googling "clashofstyle art."
As Harvey's humiliation increased, so did his pace. What started out as his mandated slow walk—much to my pleasure, as I ogled him while he passed by me—gradually progressed to a faster walk, then a slow trot. After reaching the top and turning around, he galloped pretty much all the way down.
The hysterically laughing Victor did nothing to rebuke him. I mean, he probably figured that under the circumstances it was almost physically impossible for Harvey to do anything but break into a run. His humiliation was that intense.
Victor let him run right past him and straight to the front rail, where he feverishly threw on his clothes. He grabbed his shoes and socks and carried them away while running barefoot, disappearing into the distance, where the sounds of laughter surely were still ringing in his ears.
* * * * *
I didn't realize it until after the event, but Harvey was actually in my 4th period Spanish class. I really enjoyed running into him. I can tell you with certainty that he did not enjoy running into me. Whenever we crossed paths (okay, I know this is a little mean, but I couldn't help myself) I would look him up and down and smile. He would blush every time—and I would enjoy it every time—and I never had to say a word. Just looking at him with a devilish smile was equivalent to me saying, "I saw you naked." You could probably add, "And I know you have a small penis," for good measure.
There was another girl in our Spanish class who took it a step further. She’d been in the stands that ill-fated day (well, ill-fated for Harvey), and she clearly hadn’t forgotten the show. Every so often, she’d walk past him with a sweet smile and say, “¿Cómo está tu pene diminuto hoy?” I understood most of it—except
pene diminuto. After hearing her say it a third time, curiosity got the better of me and I looked it up.
I burst out laughing when I discovered it translated to: “How is your tiny penis today?”
I’m almost positive Harvey looked it up, too. You should’ve seen the way he turned crimson every time she said it. Oh, the poor boy!
* * * * *
About a week later, I was standing in the cafeteria lunch line when someone behind me asked, "How did you like the Harvey show?"
I turned around and it was Victor, who was grinning freely.
"Oh, hi," I said while gathering my thoughts. "It was...extraordinary, that's for sure," I said with a laugh.
“Wasn’t it?” he said. “I think I remember you being the one who wanted us to get him naked."
I felt my face turning red. "Guilty as charged," I said.
"Hey, that's okay, I'm glad you said something," said Victor, still smiling. "It helped spur me on."
"Well, I can't say I regret it," I said, still a little flushed. "That was really fun to watch."
"Yeah, glad I could help," Victor chuckled.
I leaned in slightly. "Hey, I have to ask...is that ‘walk of shame’ thing really a tradition?”
Victor’s eyes twinkled. “It is now.”
And right then, I knew exactly where I’d be spending my lunch breaks over the next three Septembers.
