Fifty-some years ago boys were taught at an early age to respect their own private parts as well as those of other boys, and TV supported the sanctity of the genitals. Wiley Coyote, Batman, Zorro, Wyatt Earp, Joe Cartwright, and Matt Dillon, and all of the other heroes fought, shot, and blew each other to smithereens but they never went for the balls. About the time boys entered puberty decent behavior went out the window and they entered a ball-busting phase. A large part of exploring their new sexuality included busting and getting busted, and most kids took great pride in delivering a righteous bust that left a buddy writhing on the ground in either real or theatrical agony. Getting nailed and hitting the floor, hands clenched to the crotch, was borne without rancor and served to heighten the awareness that they were indeed real men with functional and sensitive genitals.

Most guys slacked off when they discovered girls but a few took the sport back up again later when masturbation started getting boring or the forced celibacy of dorm life increased their natural horniness. Eventually marriage or a committed relationship relieved the sexual tensions and they no longer found joy in either receiving or delivering testicular pain, and other guys’ genitals were once again inviolate. Having told you what you already know, now I’ll tell you the rest of the story.

I was worse than rest of the seventh graders at Midvale Junior High. The other kids weren’t intending any real harm and would pull their punches, but I’d sneak up on a guy and pop him as hard as I could with absolute malice and without regard for the potential of injury. One of my victims missed a week of school after getting racked. I also liked to get them down and get my hands around their nuts, and if at all possible I pulled their pants down first so their balls would be naked and completely unprotected. This was easy for me, as I was an early bloomer and my growth spurt had kicked in ahead of all the other guys, and consequently I had six inches of height and twenty or thirty pounds on most of them. I’d get them down and dig my fingers in and make them beg me to let go. If I knew then what I know now I probably would have had my first blowjob while still in the seventh grade.

I was even worse the next year, and by the second week of school no other guy would dare getting within four feet of me, and I was an absolute pariah during P.E.

“Watch out for Abbott,” I frequently heard behind my back,” He always goes for your balls.” A few of the guys tried to return my favors, but I only took a couple of pops in exchange for the hundred or so that I’d dished out.

We moved during that summer, and I started the freshman year in a high school where none of my classmates knew of my penchant for ballbusting. My growth spurt had petered out by then and the other fourteen year olds were at least as large if not bigger than me, and the upperclassmen were absolutely huge in comparison. That put a little crimp in my style: The first time I ‘accidentally’ planted an elbow in the crotch of a burly junior I was reward with an ass kicking. I still managed to connect a few times in football scrimmages and baseball games, but these were all carefully masked as accidents. Other than one kid that I nailed with the butt end of a pool cue, I think the only really righteous busts I inflicted as a freshman and sophomore were on younger junior high students that I caught in the park. There is no doubt in my mind that they’ll never forget the encounter.

I did all right during my junior and senior years too, not only on the junior high crowd but also the diminutive freshmen and sophomore high schoolers. I even sneaked in a couple of kicks on bigger guys my own age, both of which were drunk on their asses at the time. They probably woke up wondering what the hell they did to each other to make their balls swell up and turn purple.

I got drafted right after high school, and the Army was a whole new ball game, so as to speak. Basic Training was just like a great big undisciplined junior high riot and I was in ball busting heaven. Hand to hand combat and pugil stick warfare were all custom made for nailing other draftees and even a few sergeants right where it hurt. I got chased around the compound a few times, but nobody ever was able to retaliate. I probably did them a favor in a way, as surviving me was tougher than surviving ‘Nam.

The rifle instructors in Basic taught us to aim for the bull’s eye and scoring was based on just that. Once we got in country we were taught to aim for Center Of Mass, or essentially the target’s guts. “Pick it up a little, Abbott. You’re eight inches low,” the sergeant chided.

“Okay, Sarge,” I replied, knowing that the rifle’s sights were dead on and that I could put the shots exactly where I wanted them. I had high hopes, but I never got the chance. I was stationed at a firebase and my job was to feed a 105mm howitzer. The other guys in my unit were safe because we depended on each other for mutual support, and since our firebase was never attacked I never got the opportunity to nut shoot an enemy, but late in my tour I did manage to strike a blow for democracy.

A patrol brought in a wounded NVA captain that we were to guard until an evac helicopter showed up. Wounded enemy soldiers were routinely stripped naked to be sure that there wasn’t a concealed grenade or something, and I found myself alone with the guy. He was nearly delirious from the pain of his wound, but I know full well that he felt it when I grabbed his boy-sized nuts and hoisted him from the litter. His eyes grew wide and he started to scream when he saw the knife in my other hand, but he’d been carrying on all morning and by now nobody paid any attention to him. I put the tip of the knife against the tender skin of his scrotum and slowly pushed, drawing a drop of blood. I would have loved to complete the thrust and castrate the little cocksucker, and had I been alone out in the brush somewhere I would have, but getting caught mutilating a prisoner would have resulted in a court martial and long prison sentence. I lowered him back to the litter and as an afterthought gave his scrotum two complete turns. His face grew even more ashen, and when the evac helicopter finally showed up he didn’t look like he’d make it.

I took a job as an apprentice plumber when I got out of the Army. Most people think of as plumber as the saggy-pants crack-showing guy that unplugs clogged drains and fixes leaks, but that is only a small portion of the total picture. I was assigned to a journeyman named Ernie, and our task was to install plumbing for a new wing of the hospital. It started with in-ground piping for the drains, and as soon as that was done we started in on the vent stacks and water and medical gas piping, and finished by setting the fixtures and trimming the job out.

A new apprentice’s first work is usually as an “access facilitator” i.e., a ditch digger, and two people working together with shovels is a perfect opportunity for a quick bust, and after only a few hours on the job I let the journeyman have it: An innocent little thrust with the shovel handle and he was doubled up in the bottom of the trench, hands clutched to his belly. The look on his face was absolutely priceless as he tried to catch his breath and refrain from puking out his lunch.

“What’s wrong, Ernie,” I asked innocently, “Did I hit you?”

“You stupid motherfucker!” He finally managed to gasp.

“I’m sorry!” I lied, “It was an accident!” I don’t know if he bought it or not, but he spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade watching me dig the trench for the piping that we had to install.

I didn’t even try to bust Ernie again but all of the other trades on the job were fair game. A sheetmetal worker lying on his back under some ductwork managed to stop a falling pipe hanger with his crotch. He sat up so fast that he beaned himself on the overhead ductwork and was out cold for half an hour. Roofers, carpenters, drywallers, electricians, painters, floor covering installers—I got them all eventually, and I think I walked around with a hard on for most of the year.

One could probably assume that I was some kind of pervert, but I had a perfectly normal sex life for a twenty-one year old guy. I jacked off two or three times a day, read Playboy and Penthouse, and spent my spare time searching the parks, beaches, and recreation areas for kids to bust. My on-the-job exploits had to be carefully planned to appear accidental, so whenever I caught an adolescent I invariably pulled his pants down to rack his naked balls. I hurt a few of them, but none very seriously, and I made them all keenly aware that they were lucky I hadn’t castrated them and that they’d best not tell anyone or I’d return and finish the job.

I vividly remember my last bust. The first year of my apprenticeship had passed and we were nearly done with the hospital addition. Ernie and I were both going to take a couple of weeks vacation before starting a new job, a school building this time, and I’d be working with a different journeyman. The end of a big job is usually cause for celebration, and on the last Friday the general contractor invited the hospital administrators and all of workers to an after hours party to be held in the newly completed dining room. Ernie and I showed up together to find the tables stacked with beer, soft drinks, hard liquor, and food.

The sheetmetal worker that I’d busted was there, as well as a bunch of my other victims, and even a few of the local neighborhood kids had slipped in and were furtively sipping booze or beer that they’d sneaked into pop cans. We all got a little loose and were having a good time when the hospital administrator quieted the room and thanked the general contractor. The general contractor made a short speech about how great the hospital was to work for, then announced that he’d like to issue a special award. “Jeff Abbott.” He was calling for me! “Come on up here!”

“Here you are, son,” he said, presenting me with a polished wooden plaque, “Most deserving of a kick in the balls!” The room burst into applause and I dropped the plaque and bolted for the door, but was quickly apprehended and stripped naked and the held spread-eagle on the table.

“Ernie, you’re first,” the contractor said. Someone handed Ernie a shovel, and he turned the handle to my nuts and gave a mighty shove. I closed my eyes and passed out for a few seconds, and when I regained full consciousness the sheetmetal worker was waiting, swinging a pipe hanger around on a short piece of rope. The insulator, drywaller, electrician, and all of the rest followed him. Last up were the kids that had sneaked in. I didn’t recognize their faces, but their voices were familiar, only now they weren’t begging me to let go of their balls. The last one wasn’t very big, but he had a hell of a grip and when he finished with me nobody would ever be able to rack me again.

They finally allowed the hospital staff to wheel me to a room that had already been reserved just for my recovery. I quit the plumbing trade after that and took up driving truck, and having lost my own balls I no longer care about anyone else’s.