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My new clients usually ask me the same three questions: When did I first do it? How did I come to do it? And, how many have I done? There is a fourth question they seldom think to ask: Why? They likely assume that they already know the answer. I can say that they are only half-right. Sure, I enjoy it and find it exciting. Who wouldn’t? But helping my clients achieve their long sought goal, to reach peace with themselves and become who and what they are meant to be, that is my true reward. So, perhaps, I can answer all these questions by addressing the second. If you understand how I first came to do it, all the other questions will be answered as well. First, I should tell you a little about myself. My name is Jack. When I was nineteen, I went and enlisted in the Army and trained as a medic. When assigned to my unit, I often became the first person our troops would consult about certain, rather personal medical issues. I would clear them on for treatment, as needed, but often I would hear the same refrain. “I don’t know how I let myself get into a situation where I could get something like that. I really hate getting all crazy and out of control. I know what could be done to stop it, and it doesn’t seem so bad to me. But I can’t let my buddies find out I feel this way; I’d be outcast if I actually ever did it. So, I suppose, I simply have no choice but to keep getting crazy and getting into trouble.” And, I guessed, they were right. Surely, nobody actually ever does it. It is impossible, so I put all thought of it completely out of my mind. Eventually, like forever, I got out of the service. I then studied for my nursing degree, finally graduated and landed a position at a small community hospital; it is located in a town in California’s Sierra foothills. Our hospital serves both our town and its surrounding rural areas. It has a small nursing staff, a few general practitioner doctors, and one surgeon. Anyway, I love the country lifestyle and have settled in here. With a small inheritance from my grandmother, I bought a secluded twenty-five acre heavily forested property outside town. What this town doesn’t offer, however, is much in the way of a social life. Well, the idea planted in my head during my military days never really went away. Sometimes, when I had a slow night shift, I went to our medical library to look up anything I could find on operations to the genitals, particularly concerning removal of the male organs. About this time, some six years ago, the hospital took on a new surgeon, Dr. Smith. Somehow, and I can’t really explain it, he must have noticed my reading material. Anyway, he always then made sure I was on staff whenever an orchidectomy, or similar operation, was to be performed. Generally, the hospital would see several such operations a year, mostly to older men in order to retard prostate cancer development. Dr. Smith made an effort to instruct the nurses about the fine points of the operation. Usually, it was just a simple removal of the testicles and often a replacement with matching prosthetic ones, so that to all appearances, nothing was noticeable. Occasionally, we had more interesting cases. One man in his late thirties had developed nodules on his testicles; this time the doctor removed the entire ballsac. Dr. Smith was in fine tutorial form during this operation, and seemed pleased that I took especial interest in the proceedings. We also did one penectomy – on an elderly man whose organ had developed tumors. Dr. Smith also was very instructive this day, perhaps also in response to my interest. I was very pleased with the interest Dr. Smith showed in me, but I simply figured the tutorials were meant to help me assist better in the OR. I never figured that I would ever have a chance to do such an operation myself, though I was becoming confident that I could. But such things just aren’t done, and nobody would ever want such a thing done on them, anyway. It turned out that I was quite mistaken. In a small town, the few gay men that there are usually become friends and socialize amongst themselves. None were ever quite relationship material for me (the few possibilities I had all lived too far away for it to work out), so I simply accepted the single life here in the country. Still, I became good friends with several local men; we’d get together at the local bar for a few drinks after work, or dinner out, and maybe a fishing trip, but seldom much else. One such friend is Dave, a nice man in his mid-fifties. We’d often hang out together after work, talk about anything that came to mind, and generally have a fun time. We slept together a few times – Dave is a very sensitive, submissive bottom – all very pleasant, but nothing too special. Mostly, we just decided to be friends. Anyway, one evening Dave and I met for drinks. I’m not quite sure how the subject came up, but I suppose I mentioned how Dr. Smith behaved during the orchidectomies, and how I really liked the experience this gave me. At this point, Dave asked, “Do you think you could do it?” “Yeah,” I replied. “I’m sure I can. I’d really love to, but I don’t expect that I’ll ever get the chance. Who would let me?” Dave paused for a moment, then hesitantly said, “I was just wondering if … if you would be willing to castrate me? I’m sure you could do it safely.” I was stunned. Here was this nice man I had known for years making me an offer I could only dream about. I said that I was honored by his trust in me, but asked whether he was sure that’s what he wanted. “I’ve wanted to get castrated – well, since before I can remember. Wish it had been done to me while I was a teenager; it would have saved me a lot of grief. I probably wouldn’t have understood it all then, though. Was sure about it by the time I was in my thirties. But where do you go to get it done? I’ve just been miserable, wanting something I can’t get. Please, Jack, will you do me?” I couldn’t say anything but “Yes.” Dave took my hand, held it gently for a moment and simply said, “Thanks.” He seemed to have tears in his eyes. For the rest of the evening, we quietly talked about our hopes and plans. I told him that I didn’t know when we would be able to do it. I had to get supplies and set things up at my place. Dave offered to help in any way he could. We finally said goodnight; I have seldom seen Dave happier, yet more at peace with himself. I could barely contain my excitement. I was actually going to castrate a man! I couldn’t believe it. That night, after I got home, I had to beat-off three times before I could get any sleep. |