Harkrider

I can't blame it on him, even though I was with him when I first thought of it.  I hadn't seen him for years; I wanted it; it was my decision.  No longer fifteen years-old, I was an adult when I did it.

His name was Harkrider-Mr. Harkrider, my ninth grade algebra teacher.  We called him Harkie, not Mr. Harkrider.  If I ever knew his first name, I don't remember it, now.  He was a great teacher.  Everyone loved him.  I loved him.  Even now, despite everything, I can't hate him.  Maybe he couldn't help what he did-just as I couldn't help what I did.

Although, he was serious about teaching, we could kid around with him in class.  If I got too far out of line, though, I could expect to get some licks from the wooden paddle he kept on his desk-having to stand in front of the class, bent over, holding onto my ankles, while he swatted my ass.

Usually, if I got swatted, it was because I had deliberately, provoked him.  It was only later that I recognized the sexual component of this game we had played.  Although, I don't remember having an erection during a paddling, it had been a sexual game-at least for him.  For me, it had been a way of getting his attention.  Shortly after one such paddling, he  had invited me to the drive-in movies.  I had thought nothing of it, because he always took boys to movies and other places.  I was thrilled he'd invited me.

Looking back, I think I had hungered for affection from an adult male.  My father had spent all his time with his friends-and, as I later learned, with his girl friends.  The only time I remembered that we'd played catch, I had been about five years-old.  He had criticized me for missing the ball, and had never played with me again-not at catch or at anything.  I blamed myself.  Because I hadn't caught the ball, he hadn't played with me again.

I remembered, too, when my mother had been pregnant with my younger sister.  I had been eleven years-old at the time.  My father had told me, "I hope it's a boy, so I can have a son who can play sports."  I had never been good at sports; he had been a star football player in high school.

He provided the money to my mom for what I needed.  Although we weren't rich, I never really wanted for anything.  He would give me money for movies and to go out with my friends, but, I don't ever remember his telling me that he loved me.  My mother did, but that wasn't the same. This isn't a story about my dad, though, it's about Harkrider.  I just thought I should tell you about my dad, so you'd understand why Harkrider was so important to me.

When we went to the movie the first time, it wasn't enough for me to sit quietly watching the movie.  Wanting his attention, I pestered him in some way.  I don't remember, now, what I did, but, to punish me for it, he grabbed my cock and began rubbing it through my pants.

Surprised, I didn't even get hard that time.  It wasn't sex I was seeking.  I wanted him to notice me, to talk to me-to like me.  I didn't want him to rub my cock, but he was a teacher.  Somehow, if he did it, there must not be anything wrong with it.

When I went to a movie with him the next weekend and I provoked him again, he rubbed my cock-this time, until it became hard.  When it did, he unzipped my pants and took it out.  He didn't pull down my pants; we were at the drive-in, and someone might have seen.  Instead, he pulled my cock through the flap in the front of my white briefs.  I remember the trouble he had getting my hard cock through the folds in my underwear.

I sat watching with my hands to my side, as he began jacking me off.  Of course, I'd done it to myself.  I had even masturbated in front of other boys, and one had used his parent's vibrator on my cock, causing me to ejaculate, but this was the first time that any one had ever put his hand on my hard cock-and Harkrider wasn't another boy.  He was a man-one that I liked-one that I trusted; but, that I liked him wasn't as important, as his liking me.  That's what I wanted most of all.

When I had come, he had seemed angry.  "Now, look what you made me do," he had said.

My feelings and thoughts were conflicted.  I had liked being jacked off.  It had felt good to have someone else do it to me, but, having always felt some guilt at my inability to refrain from masturbating, I had felt even more at having Harkrider jack me off.  His having told me, "Now, look what you made me do," had made me feel even more guilty-like it had been all my fault.

I don't know whether I started thinking about it at that time-it was probably later-but, at some time I began thinking if I didn't have a cock, he would like me for myself.  Maybe I realized, even then, that the reason he liked me, was because I had a cock.  It was my cock he wanted, not me.  Whenever he took me somewhere, I continued to provoke him; he continued to punish me.  I provoked him, not because I wanted him to play with my cock, but because I knew he wanted me to give him an excuse-that, if  I didn't give him a reason to play with my cock, he wouldn't like me.  During the summer after the school year he took me camping next to a river.  We swam nude.  On coming out of the water, he threw me to the ground, stuck his cock between my closed legs, and began humping me.  After coming, he said, "Look what you made me do."

He never took me anywhere again.  The next fall, he took a job at another school.  I think that he felt he'd gone too far with me-that he had been afraid about what might happen, if he had stayed at our school.  I could be mistaken.  He might have just found a better job-but I blamed myself, and blaming myself, I blamed my cock.  I saw him a  once or twice afterward-at some of our football games-but we never said anything-other than "hello" to each other.

I didn't really think about him much after he was gone.  I was in the tenth grade; I had a car-and friends.  There were other things to think about.  Whenever I masturbated, though, I thought about cutting off my cock.  I needed no other masturbatory fantasy.  Sometimes I would hold a knife to my cock with one hand while I pumped it with the other, imagining slicing through my cock with the knife just as I came, although, I never had the courage to do more than make small cuts at its base.  Once I had asked one of my friends whether he had ever thought about cutting off his cock.  "Hell, no," he had answered.  "You'd have to be crazy to want to cut off your cock."  I had never mentioned it again.

Sometimes, I thought I was crazy for wanting to cut it off.  Although I'd never fucked a girl, I had thought about doing it.  Someday, I thought I'd have a wife and kids, like everyone else.  I didn't hate my cock.  About six inches long, it was average in length, not particularly smaller than that of other boys; nor was it deformed.  It was just an average cock.  And, I must have liked beating off-because I did it often enough. 

Sometimes I tried not to jack off, but could never go more than a few days.  Not having more self control made me feel guilty.  In some ways, it reinforced my desire to cut it off.  If I had no cock, I wouldn't be able masturbate.  I wondered how that would feel.  Whenever I had felt sexual desire, the feeling had been centered in my cock, although, when intense, it had spread throughout my body.  If I had no cock, would that make the rest of my body more sensitive?  Would I be able to come by rubbing my tits-or the sensitive area behind my balls?  When a person was blind, his other senses compensated.  Perhaps without a cock, the rest of my body would compensate.  I fantasized being able to come by rubbing my tits, or even my mouth.  That, too, was sensitive.  I wondered if I could come just from kissing.

If I couldn't jack off, I could have wet dreams.  Always masturbating, it had been years since I'd had one.  Losing my cock, I should still be able to orgasm, because I wanted to keep my balls.  I didn't want to be neutered.  I wanted to have orgasms-or at least the desire to have them.  I just didn't want to have to use my cock to do it.

I married and had kids, but it didn't last.  Fucking was OK, but I had still masturbated to my old fantasy.  Over the next several years, I had sex with both men and women.  I remember the first time I ever sucked a cock.  I was twenty-five, and he was nineteen.  He was sucking my cock as I was sucking his.  I felt myself about to come, thinking that I should tell him before I did, but I had my mouth full of his cock-and he had come at that moment.  Simultaneously, I filled his.

I had thought that I was queer-that loving a boy would satisfy me, but it hadn't.  I kept coming back to my fantasy.  Jacking off while thinking about cutting off my cock aroused me more than sex with anyone else, whether male or female.

In researching castration, although it wasn't what I wanted, I came across several sites on the Internet, including the Eunuch Archive.  I found out that, if I was crazy, at least I had company.  There were others who wanted a penectomy (At last I had a word for it).  Only a few wanted what I did-to lose their cock, but to keep their balls:  most wanted to be castrated; some wanted a sex change; others wanted nullification, to lose everything, both cock and balls.  There were a few, who wanted what I did-just to lose their cocks.

It would have been easier had I just wanted to be castrated.  Having one's balls cut off is much easier that having one's cock cut off.  There are doctors, who for a fee, will cut off your nuts, but I couldn't find any who would cut off my cock.  There are sex change clinics, which will remove everything, but, even they hesitate to just remove one's cock.  They don't understand that one might want that-and no more.

Finding that I wasn't alone-that others wanted to be rid of their cocks-intensified my desire.  Eventually, I found a cutter, a guy, whom I paid to cut it off.  He did it in a motel, cutting it off at the base.  Wanting to keep my balls, I couldn't have the root of my cock removed-just that which protruded from my body.

He did a fair job, good enough that I didn't have to go the the emergency room, even though I needed follow-up surgery.  A plastic surgeon closed the skin over the base of my cock, removing more of it to repair the damage the cutter had done.  He relocated my urethra so that it opened behind my balls.  I could pee while sitting down on the toilet, although, I had to hold my balls up with one hands to keep them from getting wet.

After I healed, I looked strange.  Two balls hung directly from my crotch. Since the scars were hidden by my pubic hair, there was little indication I'd ever had a cock.  I had paid the cutter $1000.  The surgeon had charged an additional $3000 to tidy up after him.  Since my wound was self inflicted-or at least self directed-insurance hadn't covered the expense.

It wasn't as easy to come as I had hoped.  If I had still been a kid, I'm sure it would have been different, but I had been forty years-old when I had my cock cut off.  It had become more difficult to climax, even when I had a cock.  Sometimes, I wish I'd done it when I was a kid-sometimes, I wished I hadn't done it at all.  Perhaps, had I cut it off then, I could have better trained my body to climax without it.

I wasn't in a relationship with either a man or a woman when I had my cock cut off.  Afterward, I couldn't imagine a woman wanting a man who had no cock.  I supposed that there were men who would have been turned on by it, but I didn't know any-and I wasn't into hanging out at gay bars.  I couldn't see placing an add in the paper, "Man who has no cock, looking for man who does," so no one has fucked me since I got it cut off.  I did buy a dildo, though.  With it in my ass, rubbing against my prostate, and by massaging my pee hole and my tits, I could come.  It would pump out my pee hole and run down the crack of my ass.

Without a cock, a climax was different.  Before, they had been centered in my cock.  The intensity of the feelings in my cock had subjugated those being felt by the rest of my body.  With no cock, I became aware of them.  My climaxes became diffuse, spread throughout my body.  I couldn't tell you which was better, although, since it was more difficult to climax without a cock, the sexual tension had to build up more, which resulted in a greater feeling of relief, when it came.  Without a cock, my climaxes were rare, but intense.  When I had a cock, I had masturbated whenever I had become horny, seldom going more than a few days without.  Now, I'd sometimes go a month between climaxes.

At least the absence of a cock presents no health risk, as does being castrated.  My balls still produce the usual hormones.  There is no increased risk of osteoporosis; no loss of muscle, no hot flashes, tiredness, or depression from the change in hormonal levels.  At times, I became depressed, because I realized that my decision was irrevocable.  I couldn't go back to having a cock, but I've come to accept that.  Am I glad I did it?  Sometimes I am-sometimes, I'm not, but, at least, it's no longer an obsession.   I have taken control of my cock.  It no longer controls me.