One in 20 Million

Chapter 5:

Brian Domogalla:

One:

        Jeez.  What a weird

kid.  I think he really wants me to cut off his cock.  It's almost

time to go to school.  I lie in bed rubbing my pee hole.  It feels

good.  Why hadn't I ever thought of this before?  Oh -- shit -- fuck. 

I cum again.  I love it.  God damn, it feels good.  If nothing

else, the kid taught me how to cum.  I squirt all over the sheet; no time

to change it.  I hope Mom doesn't decide to change the sheets before she

goes to work.  I had to ditch the bedspread, as it was.  It's wadded

up under my bed with cum all over it; too much on it for one kid.  She sees

it, she'll know I was fooling around with another boy.  I wonder what she'd

think about that?  I wonder what she'd think, if she found out her kid was

queer?

        I am, aren't I?  I

played around with another kid's cock, didn't I?  Doesn't that make me

queer?  Well, what of it?  It's not like I have anything to offer a

girl, anyway?  I like his cock.  I don't want to cut it off.  I'd

like to suck it.  Yeah, I wonder if he'll let me suck it?  What would

that be like, to suck a cock?  Guys are always saying that: suck my cock

or eat me, but they're assholes.  If I sucked one of their cocks,

everyone would find out.  He wouldn't tell anyone, though; Marty wouldn't. 

I'll bet he's a loner like me.  I'll bet he doesn't have many friends,

either.

        I don't know whether I'm

queer, but I like his cock.  It's the first one I've ever touched.  I

liked jacking him off.  It was cool making him cum.  I think about the

porn flicks I've watched on the Internet, guys fucking other guys.  What

would that be like?  What would it be like to have a guy's cock up your

ass; what would it be like to have Marty's cock up mine?  I wonder if he'll

fuck me, if I ask him to?

        I think about Marty. 

He's weird; any kid that wants his cock cut off has to be weird; but he's nice,

too.  He's the first kid that doesn't look at me like I'm some kind of

freak.  He wants to be like me.  He thinks I'm the lucky one. 

How's that for weird?  Still it feels kind of good; it feels good to know

someone would want to be like me.  And he means it.  I know he means

it.  He really wants me to cut off his cock.  He would have let me do

it yesterday.

        Will I do it for him? 

I don't know.  Not yet; I want to play with it some first.  In a way,

it like it's my cock, the one I've never had.  Then, I know I'll ask him to

fuck me.  I want his cock in my ass.  If it were inside me, wouldn't

that almost be like having one? 

        I might cut it off for him. 

It would be nice to know there's another boy like me; it'd be nice not to be the

only one, one in 20 million.  If I cut off Marty's cock, there'd be two of

us.  I might cut it off for him; but not yet; not yet; not until I've had

it in my ass.

        I think about Marty, lying

on my bed, naked except for his white sock, his pubes shaved, his cock sticking

straight out from his naked groin.  He's a cute kid; he has a cute face,

shaggy brown hair; and his body's OK, not that he's built or anything.  I'm

more muscular than he is.  Yeah, I like him. 

        He said he loved me. 

Isn't that weird?  I don't know whether to believe him; but it was nice

hearing him say it.

Two:

        When I see Clapp, I realize

I haven't thought about killing him since yesterday, not since I met Marty. 

Maybe I'll still kill him; but not yet; not until I'm through playing around

with Marty.  For the first time, I have something to live for.  Fuck

-- I don't believe myself.  Something to live for: a fucking seventh

grader.  He loves me, he says.  Can you believe that.  He says he

loves me.  He doesn't even know me.  Hell -- I was ready to shoot him

yesterday.  I was thinking about adding his young ass to my list.

        I won't kill him, now. 

Maybe, if I shoot up the school, I'll cut off his cock for him, if that's what

he wants.  Maybe I'll cut off some other cocks.  How about Clapp? 

What if I just cut off his cock, instead of killing him?  Nah; they'd

probably just sew it back on or make him another one.  I should just kill

him -- or cut off his balls, too.  How about that: cut off his cock and his

balls?  I could flush his cock down the toilet.  I could cut off a

bunch of cocks; Schmidt's cock; Nix's cock; a bunch of cocks.  That'd

almost be better than killing them.  I'd cut off their balls, too.  I

wouldn't cut off Marty's balls.  He wants to keep them; I'll just cut off

his cock.  The others, though; they lose everything.

        But cutting off their cocks

and balls isn't as simple as killing them.  I'll have to plan this. 

That's OK.  I'm not ready to do it yet.  I want to play around with

Marty -- with his cock -- some first.

        I get teased -- I always get

teased -- but I don't let it get to me.  I'm thinking about Marty.  He

said he'd be waiting for me out by the stairs.  I wonder what it'd feel

like to get fucked?  Maybe tonight, I'll find out.

Three:

        "You ever fucked anyone?" I

ask Marty as we walk toward my house.  "Either a boy or a girl?"

        He shakes his head. 

"No, that's gross," he says.

        "You never wanted to fuck

anyone?"  He shakes his head again.  "Why not?" I ask.

        "I'd have to use my cock,

and I hate my cock."

"Don't you like it when I

jack you off?"

        "I like it better when you

do it, than when I do it," he says, "but I'd still rather cum like you do. 

You don't need a cock to cum.  I'll bet I could cum without one."

        "Will you fuck me?" I ask. 

"I want to see how it feels.  I guess I could get someone else to do it,

but I'd rather have you do it."  I figure I have him, when I see the hurt

look on his face.

        "I don't want you to let

someone else do it," he says.

        "Will you fuck me then?"

        He nods.  "Will you cut

off my cock?" he asks.

        "Yeah," I say.  I've

already decided to do it when I do those other boys, although I haven't decided

whether I'll kill them or cut off their cocks and balls.

        "You promise," he says.

        "I promise," I say, "but not

yet.  Will you wait awhile?  I haven't ever had a cock to play with. 

I like playing with yours.  Will you let me play with it for a while before

I cut it off?"

        "How long?" he asks.

        "I don't know; a month or

two; can you wait that long?"

        "I guess," he says.  "I

don't want to; but I guess I can."

Four:

        We're on my bed.  Mon

didn't change the sheets.  He sees the dried cum spot.  "You do that?"

he asks.

        "Yeah."

        "Did you jack off?"

        "If you can call it that

when you don't have a cock," I say.  "I rubbed my pee hole like you did,

and I came."

        "I jacked off, too," he

says, "after I got home."

        "Horny little bastards,

aren't we?" I say.

        "Yeah.  You turn me

on," he says.  His hard cock is throbbing.  I grab his cock,

stroking it slowly.  He moans, a low soft moan.   I lay my head

on his stomach.  The head of his cock is just inches from my face: inches

from my mouth.  I scoot my head down, my lips almost touching it. 

Sticking my tongue out, I taste him, taste the precum leaking from his cock. 

I like how it tastes, salty and sweet at the same time.  I like how he

tastes.

        Without intending to --

through no conscious effort on my part -- I take his cock into my mouth. 

I'm sucking it.  I'm actually

sucking his cock, the head of it soft, but the shaft hard. 

It slides into my mouth stopped only by the back of my throat..  I gag and

let it slide back out, but stop it, trapping it with my teeth, my lips closed

around the rim separating the head of his cock from its shaft..   Probing

its

slit with the tip of my tongue, I taste his precum, tasting more than that, tasting his cock

as well.  It's bitter, salty, and sweet:

salty from sweat; bitter from long dried secretions; sweet from the precum

oozing from it.  Bitter; sweet; salty; it doesn't matter; they're all a

part of it: all a part of him.

        At first, he just lies there, not moving; but then he

begins to thrust, shoving his cock into my mouth.  I feel his

hot spunk squirt into my mouth, feel his cock contract and expand with each

spurt, with each stream of hot cum.  More than anything, it surprises me. 

I hadn't thought he would actually shoot into my mouth. The taste of his cum

fills my mouth.  It has a pungent taste, much sharper than the taste of precum,

a milder, more subtle taste.  I don't know how to describe the taste of it.  I don't know that I like the taste of it, but I

swallow it anyway.  It's part of him: his essence; his seed.  I

want to make it part of me.

Then he relaxes: no more thrusting; no more spunk squirting into my mouth.  His cock

slowly subsides, losing it's steely hardness.  How strange, that one minute

it could be so hard, so rigid, filling my mouth, and the next minute be soft, no longer pressing against my throat.  What a marvelous thing is

a cock.  I'm suddenly saddened by my desire for one of my own. 

        When I raise my head, it

slides out of my mouth, to lie shrunken and wet, the head of it hidden beneath

his foreskin. 

        I look up at him.  His

eyes are closed.  "Did you like it?" I ask.

        "It felt good," he

says.

        "Will you lick my pee hole?"

I ask, hoping the idea of it doesn't gross him out.  I'd like to cum into

his mouth.  I don't know why.  I don't know why that's suddenly

important, but it is.

        "Sure," he says.  "I'd

like to.  I like your pee hole.  It turns me on."

        "Do you want me to tell you

before I cum?" I ask, hoping he'll say, no.

        "Nah," he says, "I didn't

tell you.  I was going to, but I was  afraid you'd take your mouth

away, and it felt too good.  I didn't want you to.  I wanted to cum in

your mouth.  You're not pissed at me, are you?"

        "No," I say, "I'm glad you

did.  I liked it.  I even kind of like the taste of it."

        "You can cum in my mouth,

too," he says.  I want you to."  I raise my legs, and he starts

licking my pee hole.  God damn; it feels good.  I rub my tits while he

licks.  It heightens the sensation.  I feel the tip of his tongue

probing at my pee hole.  I wish he could stick it all inside it, but it's

too small.  He can get the tip of it in, though.  I can feel it

spreading my pee hole.

        I pinch my nipples while

biting down on my lower lip.  I'm going to cum; any minute, I'm going to

cum.  I shudder, feeling my muscles tighten, especially those in my groin. 

I reach down, placing my hand on the back of his head, shoving his nose into my

balls, shoving his mouth against my pee hole.  I cum.  It washes over

me ,every cell in my body seeming to have an orgasm, an incredible, an

unbelievable, feeling, one that I can adequately put into words, one that I

can't entirely recall once it's past.  I love it.  I fucking love it. 

I love him for giving it to me.

         I wonder if it feels the same to him as it

does to me.  He has a cock and I don't.  He licks my hole afterward. 

At least, this way we don't make such a mess.

        "What do you think?" I ask.

        "I don't know," he says, "It

taste weird; but it's OK.  I don't mind it.  I don't know whether I

like the taste of it that much.  It kind of made me sick at my stomach at

first; but it wasn't so bad after a while.  I liked making you cum. 

That was the best part about it."

        I pull him up to me and kiss

him, running my tongue into his mouth, tasting myself, the vestiges of my cum

still in him mouth.  "I love you," he says.  I don't say it, but I

think I do.  I think that maybe I do love him.

        "Will you fuck me?" I

whisper into his ear.  He scoots on top of me.  I raise my legs. 

His cock, hard again, presses against my asshole.

        "I don't think it'll go in,"

he says.

        "Just a minute."

I've seen some K-Y jelly in my mom's dresser.  I saw it when I was looking

for my dad's pistol.  I run to get it -- run down the hallway naked to get

it, so I can get back and get fucked.  In a flash, I'm back, the tube of K-Y

jelly in my hand.  I smear it on his dick and in and around my hole. 

This time, his dick goes in easily.  It hurts some at first, but then it

feels good.  I'm going to like fucking.  I like it already.

        This time, we both cum --

together or close to it.  He moans and kind of spasms as I'm shooting out

my pee hole.  God -- I love sex.  Maybe -- just maybe -- I love him. 

At least, he loves me.  That's more than anyone's ever done, other than my

parents.  At least, another boy likes me -- loves me.  Another boy

likes me for what I am.  Hell, this one likes because I don't have a cock. 

But maybe that's not the only reason he likes me.  Maybe he just likes me.

        Next we try a 69; we wash

his cock off first, of course.  It had my shit all over it.  It works;

we both cum into each other's mouths.  I'm getting used to the taste of it. 

I hope he is, too; because I want him to keep doing it.  We each cum four

times before we quit.  I probably could more -- especially if he fucked me

-- I'm making up for lost time; but I think I've about worn him out; and I don't

want to press it.  "You want to come back tomorrow?"  I ask.

        "Yeah," he says.

        "Can you spend the night?" 

Tomorrow is Friday.  No school the next day.

        "I'll ask my mom," he says. 

"She'll probably let me."

        I walk back as far as the

school with him.  I'm going to miss him.  I'll see him tomorrow; but

I'll miss him tonight.

Five:

        Marty is spending the night. 

We just got home from school.  "Get undressed," I tell him.  Wet

between my legs with moisture -- precum  -- leaking from my pee

hole, I'm hot for him.  I want him to fuck me again.  That feels the

best.  Those orgasms feel best.

        He takes off his t-shirt,

then slips off his pants.  He never bothers taking off his socks.  He

looks cool, though, naked except for his white socks.  "You still shaving

your pubes?" I ask.  I don't see any stubble.

        "Yeah," he says.  "I

like it.  I like being smooth down there.  I can't wait for you to cut

off my cock."

        I don't say anything. 

I love his cock.  The last thing I want to do is cut it off.  Instead,

I grab it.  "Let's get in bed," I say.  I kiss him, and we fall onto

the bed.  "Fuck me," I say, reaching over for the K-Y jelly.  I bought

my own tube of it, lest Mom and Dad wonder what happened to theirs. 

        I kiss his cock first,

taking its head into my mouth, licking it around the rim at the base of its

head.  "You keep that up," he says, "and I'm going to shoot."  I know

what he means.  I'm getting hot myself.  It's not going to take much

for me to cum.  I squeeze the jelly out of the tube, smearing it all over

his dick.  He's never been circumcised.  When his dick's

soft, the head of it is completely hidden beneath his foreskin.  That's not

often, though.  His cock's usually hard.  Then, the head is exposed.

        When I'm through with his

dick, I smear some of the jelly on my asshole, sticking my finger into it to

lubricate it, then lean back with my legs and ass raised slightly.  He

scoots up between my legs on his knees, his torso raised, his cock pointing at

my face.  God damn -- I love his cock.  He grins at me, but doesn't

lean over to place his cock in my hole.  "What the fuck you waiting for?" I

say.

        He raises one eyebrow, the

silly grin still on his face.  "What do you want?" he asks.

        "You know what I want."

        "Tell me," he says.

        "I want your cock," I say.

        "What do you want me to do

with it?"

        "I want you to fuck me with

it, you idiot," I say.

        "Beg me," he says, "say

please."

        "Please." 

        "Please what?"

        "Please fuck me," I say.

        "OK." Nothing else, just,

"OK."  He leans over, his face next to mine.  I can feel his hot

breath on my cheek.  Then I feel his cock at the entrance to my asshole,

nudging at it, seeking entrance to it.  Rotating his hips, I feel him press

the head of his cock against my sphincter.  Then, thrusting, he's inside me, his mouth seeking mine.  I take his tongue into my

mouth.  He rams it down my throat as he shoves his cock into me to the

hilt.  Fuck -- it feels good.  God -- I love his cock.

        We both cum.  Lying on

our sides afterward, our arms wrapped around each other, we kiss.  "What

does if feel like for you?" he asks.

        "What do you mean?" I say.

        "What does it feel like for

you to cum?  I mean -- what does if feel like to cum without a cock?"

        I shrug.  "I don't

know," I say, "It feels good.  How does if feel for you?"

        "It feels good.  I

don't like it as much as you do, I guess, but it's my cock that's cumming; and I

don't like my cock.  I think I'd like it better if I could cum like you do,

without a cock.  That's where I feel it when I cum -- in my cock."

        "You really hate your cock

that much?" 

        He nods.  "I hate it. 

I want to cum like you do, without a cock.  How does it feel?  I mean

-- where do you feel it, when you cum?"

        "All over," I say.  "It

feels like every cell in my body is having an orgasm.  I feel it in my

groin, but not just there.  I feel it everywhere.  I love having your

tongue in my mouth when I cum.  I love having you on top of me.  It's

like you melt into me, and I can't tell where I leave off and you begin."

        "Cool," he says.  "I

wish it felt that way for me.  Do you think it will after you cut off my

cock."

        "I don't want to cut off

your cock," I say.  "I love your cock."

        "You promised," he says. 

He tilts his head back, looking me in the eyes.  "You promised."  I

can't stand the hurt look on his face.

        "OK," I'll do it.  Just

not yet, OK?  Your's is the first cock I've ever touched.  I've never

had one of my own.  I mean this is fucking weird, the two of us.  I

want a cock -- I wish to God I had one  I would give anything to have one

-- and you want yours cut off.  How fucking twisted is that?  At

least, let me enjoy yours a while longer."

        "When?"

        "When, what?" I ask.

        "When are you going to cut

it off?"

"I don't know," I say, "in a

month or two."

        "That's not good enough," he

says, "I want to know when."  He jumps off the bed, retrieving a calendar

from the wall above my desk.  He shoves it at me.  "When?" he says

again.

        I take the calendar from

him.  "You want me to pick a date?" I ask.

        He nods.  "Uh huh," he

says, turns back to the desk, picking up a marking pen, and hands it to me. 

"Pick a date," he says, "Circle it; and swear to God you'll cut off my cock on that

day."

        I look at his face, back at

the calendar, then at the pen in my hand.  "You're serious, aren't

you?"  He nods.  I start leafing through the calendar.

        "That's too far away," he

says, grabbing the calendar out of my hand after I turn a couple of pages. 

He turns the pages back. 

"November," he says.  "Pick a day in November."  Hell, it's already

October 12th.  "And not clear at the end," he says.  "You said a

month."

        "I said a month or two."

        "One month," he says. 

"November 12th at the latest."

        "OK, then, November 12th. 

I'll do it on November 12th."

        "You promise?"

        "I promise," I say.

        "You swear you'll do it?"

        "I swear," I say.  I

don't want to do it.  Doesn't he realize how much I like his cock -- how

much I fucking love it?  Cutting it off will be like cutting off mine, if I

had one.  I finally have a cock -- even if it's attached to his body -- and

he wants me to cut it off.  I think about threatening to find myself

another cock -- on another boy -- but I don't.  I couldn't.  It

wouldn't be the same with another boy.  Then I realize: I love him. 

I've never told him; but I love him.  Even if he doesn't have a cock, I'll

still love him.  So, I say it.  "I love you, Marty."

        "I love you, too, Brian," he

says.  "I've loved you since the first time I saw you."

        "Even before you saw my

empty crotch?" I say.

        "Yeah," he says, nodding,

"even then."

        I have him fuck me again. 

We only have a month.  I want his cock up my hole as often as possible

between now and then.  By the time my mom gets home, we're sitting at my

desk, surfing the Internet, searching for castration and penectomy sites, not

something I'd been much interested in, since I wasn't looking to have anything

cut off.  Marty was already familiar with most of them, though. 

"See," he says, as he scrolls through posts on one message board, "lots of guys

don't like their cocks.  Some of these guys have already cut theirs off."

        "How are we going to do it?"

I ask.  "I can't just cut it off.  You might bleed to death."

"We can get one of these,"

he says, accessing a website.  "It's an elastrator.  See.  It

stretches these little green bands.  We can put them around my cock. 

I would have bought one before, but I don't have a credit card, so I couldn't

order one."

        "I have a debit card," I

say.  "It's like a credit card, but you have to put money on it first. 

I use it on the Internet, sometimes."

        "You got any money on it?"

he asks.

        "Yeah, $150 or so," I say.

        "Order one.  I'll pay

you back."

        I go onto the site and order

an elastrator and a package of bands.  Ten days delivery time it says on

check out.

Six:

We both catch hell at school: me for the same old reason; Marty because he hangs with me.  Of

course, it doesn't help that he shaves his pubes.  Everyone thinks that's

weird.  I suggested that he quit doing it, but he won't. 

"It won't matter," he tells me.  "In a little more than two weeks they'll

have a lot more to talk about." 

        Fuck -- that's right. 

It's almost Halloween.  I don't want to do it; I love his cock;

but I promised.  I fucking promised.  I'm not sure he'd forgive me, if

I backed out now.  He wants to lose his cock as much as I've wanted one. 

        We're out in the school yard

at lunch talking when Clapp and some of his cronies come up to us. 

"There's the two fags," Clapp says.  He's not the only ones calling us

fags.  I guess it's pretty obvious.  Oh, we don't kiss or hold hands

at school -- nothing like that -- but I guess it's pretty obvious that we at

least like each other.  "Is he fucking you, Domogalla?" asks Clapp. 

"We sure as hell know you're not fucking him."  He laughs.  His

buddies join in.

        "Fuck you, Clapp," I say,

the only response I can think of.

        "Well, I don't have to worry

about you doing it, do I?" he says.  "Who's going to do it, your fuck

buddy?  You going to fuck me, kid?" he says to Marty.  Marty's head is

down.  He's looking at the ground, his lips set in a thin line.  He

shakes his head.  "Do you really shave your pubes?" Clapp asks.  Mary

shrugs.  "Let's see," Clapp says.  "Drop your pants."

        "Leave him alone," I say. 

A couple of his buddies grab me; a couple more grab Marty.

        "Let's pants them both,"

says Clapp.  One boy fumbles at Marty's belt, while another fumbles with

mine.  I struggle, but there's too many of them.  Marty just stands

there, letting them pull down his pants.  Soon, our pants and shorts are

down around our ankles.  A crowd of boys has gathered around us, but no

one's hollered, "fight,"

        "He does fucking shave

them," someone says.

        "Who's got the razor?" says

Clapp.  Someone hands it to him.  I don't know what he plans to do

with it, but I'm certain I won't like it.  They wrestle me to the ground,

and Clapp begins shaving my pubes.  "Only right," he says, "that you fags

look alike."

        It hurts.  Since he

doesn't use any water, the razor pull my hair.  Before long, though, he's

finished.  I'm bare down to  my balls.  I still have hair on my

balls, and around them on my legs, but otherwise my crotch is bare. 

"Smooth; just like a baby's bottom," says Clapp.

        "I'll get you for this

Clapp," I say.

        "Yeah, I'm scared," he says.

        "Fuck," someone says,

probably someone that's never seen me naked, "he really doesn't have a cock."

        "No shit, Sherlock," Clapp

says.  "Everyone knows he's a cock-less freak."  He grabs hold of my

balls.  "Anyone got a knife?  We'll cut off these, too.  You

don't need them, do you, Domogalla?  You got no cock.  What do you

need balls for?  How about it?  I could make a proper girl out of

you."  He gives my balls a squeeze.

        "Ow," I say.  It hurts. 

I don't know whether he's serious or not.  I've fantasized cutting off his

cock and balls -- although I've never seen his -- but I never thought that he

might cut off my balls.  I might not have a cock, but I want to keep my

balls.  They're the only thing I have in common with other boys. 

Besides, I've only just learned how to cum.  Without balls, I might not be

able to.  "Don't," I say, "Please don't."

        Someone opens a pocket knife

and hands it to him. "Are you really going to do it, Clapp?" someone asks.

        "Sure," says Clapp.  He

hold the knife to the base of my balls.

        "What about this one?"

someone says, obviously referring to Marty.

        "Fuck him," say Clapp, "I

want Domogalla's balls.  I feel the knife bite into my sac.  Then

Clapp laughs and withdraws the knife.

        "Fuck, you cut him," someone

says, "He's bleeding."

        "It's just a fucking

scratch," says Clapp.  I look down, but he's dropped my balls.  They

cover whatever cut he made.  He made a cut -- I can feel the sting of it --

but I can't see the blood the kid was talking about.  There's some blood

where he nicked me with the razor shaving my pubes, but I can't see any from

where he cut my ball sac.  I guess it can't be too bad. "Come on," he says

to his cronies.  They turn loose of me and Marty.  I reach for my

pants.  I guess Marty does too, but I'm not looking at him.

        "Jeez," I hear someone say,

"no cock at all.  I've never seen anyone that didn't have a cock."  By

that time, I'm buckling my belt.  I look over at Marty.  He's

fastening his pants.

        "Mother fuckers," I say to

him.  "I'd like to kill them all, every mother fucking one of them." 

I hadn't been thinking about shooting up the school lately, not since me and

Marty got together, but I am now.  He doesn't say anything, but he nods.

Chapter 6:

Marty Joyce:

One:

        It's been a couple of days

since they pants us at school and shaved off Brian's pubes.  I like how he

looks.  I'm trying to convince him to keep them shaved.  We're walking

into his house.  "It came," he told me this morning.  The elastrator

came.  I want to see it.  Maybe he'll let me try it out. 

        He's been talking about

shooting up the school.  I don't like those guys either.  Brian's the

only friend I have; but I don't hate them enough to kill them.  Right now,

I have too much to live for: Brian; and having my cock cut off. 

        "Put one on," I say to him,

after he takes the elastrator out of the box.  There's a package of green

rings accompanying it.

        "I'm not cutting it off

today," he says, "not until November 12th."

        I want him to do it now. 

November 12th seems so far away.  "I just want to see what if feels like,"

I say.  "You can cut the band off after a while."

        He shrugs.  "OK," then

spreads out the instructions.  It takes him a few tries before he's able to

spread one of the bands.  They keep sliding off the tool.  My cock is

hard.  "I think you ought to jack off first," he says.  "I don't think

we should put it on while you're hard."

        "You do me," I say.  He

smiles, leaning over taking my cock into his mouth.  Pretty soon, I shoot

into it.  He swallows my cum.

        "Yum," he says, then grins.

        "OK," I say, glancing down

at my cock.  Shrunken, it's hiding beneath my foreskin.

        "You sure?" he says.

        "Yeah," I nod.

        Picking my cock up, he

slides it through the ring.  "Where do you want it?" he asks.

        "At the base of it, next to

my belly," I say, "where we'll put it when we cut it off."

        He places the ring next to

my body.  "You sure?"

        "Uh huh," I say.  He

releases it; the band snaps around my cock.  "Ow," I say.

        "Does it hurt?" he asks.

        "Some," I say.

        "You want me to cut the band

off.  I know you want me to cut your cock off, but I'm not doing that

today.  Do you want me to cut the band off?"

        "Not yet," I say, "It

doesn't hurt all that bad."  It really doesn't hurt.  Oh, the

band hurts.  My cock hurts where the  band is, but not elsewhere. 

But, it's weird.  My cock behind the band is hard.  The part beneath

the skin is hard, but the rest, the three inches or so beyond the band is not. 

My cock sticks out like it does when it's hard, but the end hangs down. 

It's turning blue.

I touch it.  I can still feel my hand touch it.  I want to leave on

until I can't.  I don't want my cock to feel anything at all.  Brian,

taking my limp cock into his mouth, begins sucking it.  Fuck, I cum, but

because the band's on nothing comes out.  I wonder where the cum went. 

There was a lot of it; I could tell.

        We leave it on for a half

hour.  We've read on the Internet that we could leave it on that long

without killing it.  "I'm cutting it off," he says.

        "A little while longer," I

say.  Dark blue -- almost black -- my cock is numb.  It hurts some at

the base, where the band is, but when I touch it, it's numb everywhere else. 

"I don't think it's going to hurt when you cut off my cock.  It's numb."

        "I'm cutting the band off

now," he says.  "Your cock belongs to me for another two weeks.  I

don't want you to kill it before then."  He cuts off the band. 

Cum runs out my cock like water.  It doesn't spurt; it runs out.  We

both  laugh.  "Fuck," Brian says, then he asks, "How

does does your cock  feel?"

        "Kind of numb," I say.

        "Can you still get it hard?" 

It takes a while, but I do.

        "At least, we didn't kill

it," he says.

        "I wish we had," I say. 

"Let's cut it off now."

        "Not until November 12th,"

he says, "you promise?"

        "OK," I say, "not until

November 12th.

Two:

        It's November 6th.  Six

more days.  I can't wait.  We play with the elastrator most every day,

using up almost half the bands.  My dick is about half numb most of the

time, and I have trouble getting an erection.  When I first take off the

band, my dick is numb for several hours.  I have a brown mark around the

base of my cock that doesn't go away.  Brian doesn't like it because

I usually can't get hard enough to fuck him.  I can get him off with my

mouth or my hand though.  I don't cum as easily; and I like that.  I

don't care if I don't cum at all, after he cuts off my cock.

        We're lying on the bed, my

head between Brian's legs, a band on my cock, so I can't get hard.  I'm

licking his pee hole.  I lick his asshole, too.  That might sound

gross, but I like to do it, and he likes it.  He likes it a lot.  I

can taste his precum.  I like the taste of it, a more subtle taste than

that of his cum, salty and sweet at the same time.  I wish cum tasted like

precum.  Oh, I like the taste of cum all right now -- God knows, I've

swallowed enough of it -- but I like the taste of precum better.  "Oh,

fuck," I hear Brian say, and his spunk shoots into my mouth.  Some of it

dribbles down my chin.

        "See," I say, looking up and

grinning at him from between his legs, "I don't need a cock to get you off." 

The band's been on my cock for a good forty-five minutes.  The fuckers not

going to work for the rest of tonight for sure, and I haven't cum at all. 

I had him put on the band as soon as we got to his house.  I haven't had a

climax for three days, and I love it.  I'm horny as hell; but I like being

horny.  I like being horny, yet have a cock that won't get hard.  The

fucker's almost dead or at least damaged.  It takes a lot to get it hard.

        "Come here," he says. 

I scoot up.  He licks his cum off my chin.  "Yum," he say, grinning.

        "Yum," I say, then kiss him. 

"See, we'll do fine after you cut off my cock."

        "Might as well cut it off,"

he says.  "The fucker's not good for much anymore.  You haven't fucked

me for days.  I miss it."

        "I still get you off, don't

I?" I say.

        "Yeah," he says.  "We'd

better get that band off.  It's been on too long already."

        "Just cut off my cock

instead," I say.

        "We still got six days," he

says.

        "It's not doing you any good

anyway," I say.  "I think we've killed it.  I didn't even wake up with

a hard on this morning.  I was so horny I tried jacking off, but the fucker

was still numb.  I could hardly feel my hand on it.  I couldn't even

get it hard."

        "And you like that, not

being able to cum?"

        "Yeah," I nod, "I like it."

        "You're weird.  You

know that?" he says.

        "Yeah," I say, "I guess I

have to be to want my cock cut off, huh?"

        "Yeah, we're a fucking pair,

all right," he says, "the cock-less wonder --"

        I finish for him, "And the

soon to be cock-less wonder."

        "I'm cutting off the band,"

he says.

        "Cut off my cock," I say.

        "You know we can't do it

here.  We have to do it at your house, so you can say you did it yourself."

        "Yeah," I say, "but do we

have to wait until the 12th?  You could come over tomorrow and do it then."

        "Fuck," he says, "fuck --

fuck -- fuck.  I guess I might as well.  You've killed it, anyway." 

He snips off the band.  I touch it.  It's completely numb.  It

hurts some where the band was, but most of my cock is entirely numb.  I

can't even feel my hand on it.  It's even cold to the touch, not hot like

it used to be.

        "You really going to do it?"

I ask.

        He nods.  "Yeah, I'm

kind of looking forward to doing it, now that you can't get it hard.  Like

you say, it's not doing either of us much good.  I guess we'll be like

brothers then, twins from the waist down." 

        I convinced him to keep his

pubes shaved like me.  He catches more hell about it in P.E., but we catch

hell anyway.  We've been pants a couple more times, once by Clapp and his

crew, once by some other boys.  They're all assholes.  The whole

school is full of assholes.  Everyone calls us queer.   I guess

we are, but what business is it of theirs?

Three:

        We're at my house. 

Brian's brought the bander.  "Where do you want to do it?" he asks.

        "In the bathtub.  That 

way, we won't get blood all over the place.  We go into my bedroom.  I

take off my clothes -- my socks, too.

        "Will you get me off first?"

Brian says.  "This is making me horny as hell."

        "Sure," I say, "I'm horny,

too; but put the bands on first.  I like doing you with the bands on. 

Put on two or three this time."  I'm horny -- horny as hell -- but my cock

is limp. 

        Brian slides on one band --

then another and another, until three bands are on my cock at the base of it. 

We crawl onto my bed.  This is the first time we've had sex at my house. 

My mom comes home too early.  She'll be home in an hour as it is. 

"We'll have to hurry," I say, partly because she'll be home before long and

partly because I want him to hurry up and cut off my cock.

It doesn't take him long to cum; he shoots into me mouth.  I like the taste

of his spunk now.  "I don't know why you don't like to cum," he says. 

"I love it.  Aren't you horny?"

I am horny  -- fucking horny, but banded, my cock is limp.  No blood

can get to it with three bands around it.  "Yeah," I say, "I'm horny, but I like being

horny.  I like being on the edge but unable to cum."

"You like being frustrated?" he asks.

"I don't really think of it as being frustrated," I say, "It's like another

state of consciousness almost, like my senses are heightened.  Before, I

couldn't keep my hand off my cock; I'd cum; and it'd be gone.  Now, I can

maintain the feeling for a long time.  I like it.  I like that feeling

more than cumming.  It was always a let down to cum."

"I don't get it," he says, "I love to cum."

"But you cum all over.  I just came in my cock; and since I hate my cock, I

hate to cum."  I look down at my cock, then touch it.  It's completely

numb.  "Let's do it," I say.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure.  I'll meet you in the bathroom.  I have to get the knife out of

the kitchen."  I get the knife and meet him in the bathtub.  He's

naked, too.  No sense getting blood on his clothes.  I hand him the knife.  We step into the

bathroom.  He picks up my dick in his hand.

        "You sure?"

he says again.

        "I'm sure.  Do it!" 

He places the knife blade above my cock.  "Do it fast," I say. 

Holding my cock in one hand, he slices through it with the knife in the other.  I don't feel a

thing.  I don't feel a God Damn thing.  A little blood seeps out,

mostly from my cock, not from my new stump.  The bands hold. 

He had to leave a stump, a half inch stump for the bands.  I would rather

he hadn't, but it's better than bleeding to death, I guess.

        Brian holds up my cock. 

It rests in his open palm.  "Fuck," he says.  "I can't believe I

really did it.  How do you feel?"

        "Great," I say, "it didn't

hurt at all."  My eyes go from my cock resting in his hand to my crotch, my

almost empty crotch.  I'm glad he did it.  I was afraid I might not

be, but I am.  I'm glad he cut it off.  I just wish he could have cut

it all off, so I could be smooth like him.

"What do you want to do with

it?" he says, still looking at my cock -- my ex-cock, I should say.

        "Flush it down the toilet. 

I don't want them to try to reattach it."

        "You sure?" 

When I nod, he throws it into the toilet.  "You do the honors," he says, his hand, palm

up, the hand that had held my cock, indicating the flush handle.  Without

hesitation, I depress it, watching my cock swirl around, then disappear down the

drain.  The fucker's gone.  The fucker's really gone.

        "You better get out of

here," I say.  "My mom will be home soon."

        "You going to be all right?"

he asked.  "Do you want me to call 911?"

        "No.  I'm not bleeding. 

I think I'll wait until she comes home and let her call them."

        "She's going to fucking

freak," he says.

        "Yeah, I guess." I continue

standing in the tub.  I don't want to move, lest the bands pop off.

        "I don't want to leave you,"

he says.

        "Get dressed and get out of

here.  I'll be all right.  My mom will be home soon.

        He looks in on me a few

minutes later.  He's dressed, slipping on his jacket.  "You OK?" he

asks.  He comes over to the tub to look at my stump.  The bands are

holding -- I don't dare move, but they're holding.

        "I'm OK.  Get out of

here."

        "I love you," he says.

        "I love you, too.  Now,

get the fuck out of here." 

        He leaves.  I hear the

front door open and close.

Four:

        By the time Mom comes home,

one of the bands has popped off, and I'm afraid the others are going to pop off

as well.  I think it's time I got to the hospital.  "Mom."

        "What, Honey?" I hear her

say.

        "Can you come in here? 

I'm in the bathroom."  She comes to the door, shock on her face, but I

think at first, just to see me standing there naked.  I think it takes a

moment for it to sink in that I no longer have a cock. 

        "What did you do, Marty?"

she asks.

        "I cut off my penis," I say. 

The knife is on the bathroom floor.  "I think you better call an ambulance. 

The bands are slipping off." I'm holding onto a little loose skin, trying

to keep them on.  "I think there's going to be a lot of blood, if they do?"

        "Where's your penis?" she

says, looking in the bathtub at my feet.

        "I flushed it down the

toilet."

        "But why?  They might

have been able to reattach it."

        "I don't want them to

reattach it, Mom.  I hated my penis.  I've wanted to cut it off for

years."

        "But -- but --"

        "Mom.  The ambulance. 

Don't you think you better call an ambulance?"

        It's a good thing she does. 

By the time they arrive, the last band has popped off and I'm bleeding.  Mom's holding some gauze against my stump trying to staunch the

bleeding.  Now, it hurts.  Now, it hurts a lot.  Still, it's

worth it.  I no longer have a cock.  I've never been so happy.

Chapter 7:

Brian Domogalla:

One:

        I'm worried about Marty. 

What if the bands slip off before his mom gets home?  I wanted to stay, but

I couldn't.  Had I -- if they found out I cut off his cock -- I'd probably

go to jail; and what good would that have done either of us.  I could just

see me in jail with no cock.  I'd probably get fucked by everyone.

        While I liked being fucked

by Marty -- no more of that, huh -- I wouldn't want to get raped by some hairy,

inmate, dude; and I might end up in some adult prison, not Juvie.  I'm not

worried about Marty telling, though.  He'd die before he told.  I hope

he's OK.

        I slip off my pants, lying

on my bed naked from the waist down, rubbing my hand over my crotch.  I

need to shave it again.  I can feel some stubble.  It's a hassle

shaving, but Marty likes it; and that makes it worth the trouble.  God -- I

miss him already.  I hope he's OK.  I pick up the phone to call, but

put it back down.  His mom should be home by now.  The suspense is

killing me, though. 

        Fuck, though, that was hot,

cutting off his cock.  I didn't think it would be, but it was.  I

almost creamed when it came off in my hand.  I wish I could have kept it,

like in a bottle of alcohol or something.  It's gone now for good now,

flushed down the toilet.  Damn -- I liked his cock.  I'm going to miss

it.  I'm rubbing my pee hole while I think about cutting off his cock. 

I'm going to cum.  Oh -- fuck -- God, I love it.  Spunk spews onto my

hand.  I bring my hand up to my mouth and lick it.  Sick huh?  A

guy licking his own cum.  I like the taste of it though.  I'd rather

have it hot out of -- I start to say Marty's cock, but that'll never happen

again.  I wonder if he'll be able to cum without a cock?  But then, he

doesn't like to cum, anyway.  Still, I hope he does.  I like making

him cum.

        Finally, I can't stand it. 

I call Marty's house, but only get the answering machine.  His mom must

have taken him to the hospital.

Two:

I'm in class when an

announcement comes over the speaker for me to come to the office.  When I

get there, I'm sent in to Ms Stewarts office.  She's a counselor. 

"Are you friends with Marty Joyce?" she asks me.

        "Yeah, I guess," I say,

"kind of.  He's a seventh grader, so we aren't too close, but I know him." 

That's the story we decided on.  No one knows he spent practically every

afternoon over at my house.  Of course, no one knows what went on there,

either about the sex or about the banding games.  The kids at school call

us queer, but none of them have so much as seen us kiss.

        "Do you know why he's not at

school today?" she asks.

        "No, I didn't know he

wasn't.  I don't see him everyday, then usually just at lunch."  That

was a lie, but I trusted she wouldn't know it.  "What's wrong with him?" 

I prayed she wouldn't tell me he was dead.  I kept imagining that the bands

popped off, and he bled to death.

        "He had a -- accident," she

says.

        "What kind of an accident?"

I ask, wondering if she'll tell me.

        "Just an accident," she

says, "You don't know anything about it?"

        "No.  I haven't seen

him since here at school yesterday."  To play it safe, we didn't leave

school together yesterday.  I met him at his house.

        "You haven't talked to him

about your  -- uh -- condition?"

        "What condition is that?" 

I know what condition she means, but I want to make her say it.

        "That you don't have a

penis?"

        I shrug.  "Not really,"

I say, "it's not something I like to talk about.  He knows about it. 

Everyone knows about it, but it's not something we talk about."

        "He never asked you what it

was like, not to have a penis?" she asks.

        "I don't know.  Maybe

he did.  Lots of guys ask me.  I don't like to talk about it, though."

        "He never said anything

about hurting himself?"

        "No," I say, "Did he hurt

himself?  Is he going to be all right?"

        "He'll be all right," she

says.  "He's going to miss some school, but he'll be all right.  You

certain you had nothing to do with it?"

        "With what?" I ask. 

"What happened to him?"

        "Let's just say he had an

accident and leave it at that," she says.  "I would rather you didn't say

anything to the other students.  OK?"

        "Sure.  I won't say

anything?"  And I wouldn't.  I sure as hell wouldn't say anything.  

At least, he's all right.

Three:

        It's been three weeks, and I

haven't seen or heard from Marty.  I've stopped shaving my pubes and

they're beginning to grow out.  I only shaved them for him, anyway. 

School's even worse without him there.  All kinds of rumors are going

around about what happened to him, including the truth.  They ask me, but I

play dumb.

        My phone rings.  

"Hey," the voice at the other end says.  It's Marty.  I can't answer. 

I can't stop crying.

Four:

        "Where are you?" I ask, when

I do stop crying. 

        "I'm at home," he says, "I

just got home.  I was in the hospital for a while. They had to cut off more

of my cock; all the banding killed some tissue, and they were afraid of

gangrene; but that was cool.  I wanted it cut off.  I talked them into

making me a pee hole like yours.  I didn't have enough cock to grab hold of

to pee with, and I told them if they made my one, I'd just cut it off again; and

I would have, too.  I've been out of the hospital for about a week, but

I've been in a loony bin since then.  I think I convinced them I'm not

crazy, except for wanting my cock cut off.  I still have to see a shrink,

though.

        "Can you come over?  I

miss you."

        "I miss you, too," he says,

"but I can't come over, not yet.  My parents know about you -- that you

don't have a cock.  Someone told them; I think, Ms Stewart; and they think

you influenced me to cut mine off.  I tell them you didn't; but they don't

believe it.  They can't believe that I always wanted it cut off.  I

think I'm beginning to convince the shrink, though.  He says I have GID,

gender identity disorder, even though I don't want to be a girl.   It

makes sense, I guess.  I never wanted to be a girl.  I just didn't

want a cock.  He tells me I'm not alone in that; but I already knew it. 

I'll see you at school.  I'm coming back tomorrow."

        "I'm not shaving my pubes

anymore," I say.

        "That's OK," he says. 

"I'm now either right now.  My scar's pretty gross right yet.  The

doctor told me it'll pretty much go away; but for now, I'm letting the hair

cover it."

        "Are you glad you did it? 

Are you glad -- " I start to say, I cut it off, but I don't know who

might  be listening -- "you cut it off?"

        "Yeah, I love it.  It's

like I'm in the right body for the first time in my life.  I still get

hard-ons, though."

        "How can you?"

        "You forget.  I still

have some cock below the skin.  Remember those pictures we saw. 

There's a lot of cock below the skin.  I wake up with it hard."

        "Do you jack off?" I realize

he doesn't have a cock any longer, but I jack off in my own way, rubbing my pee

hole.  He might, too.

        "No, my pee hole's still a

little sore," he says, "besides -- remember -- I don't like jacking off."

        "You haven't cum?"

        "I had a wet dream, but

that's all.  I dreamt about you."

        "I dream about you all the

time," I say.

        "Wet dreams?" he asks.

        "No," I laugh.  "I jack

off too much to have wet dreams."

        "I'd like to make you cum,"

he says.  "I'd like for you to cum into my mouth.  I've missed that. 

I've missed you."

        "I've missed that, too," I

say, "and I've missed you.  I've missed your cock, too."

        "Well, you know where that

went," he says.  "I don't think we'll be seeing it again.

        "Yeah," I say, "I guess

not."

        "And don't you go looking

for more dick," he says.  "You belong to me."

        "I won't," I say.  And

he's right.  I do belong to him, whether he has a cock or not.  Weird

relationship, huh, two boys with balls, but no cocks?

        He says, "Goodbye," and

hangs up.

Chapter 8:

Marty Joyce:

One:

Mom's taking me to school.  She's on family leave from work.  I guess

she figures she has to stay home with me lest I cut off my balls or something. 

I told her -- I told the shrink -- it wasn't my balls I don't like; it was my

cock.  She doesn't understand, though.  Dad doesn't either. 

He'll hardly talk to me now.  He'll be talking to Mom, and I'll say

something.  He'll glance at me, then continue talking to her, as if I

wasn't there at all.  It's like I killed his son, when I let Brian cut off

my cock.  Doesn't he realize I'm the same person?  What's a cock? 

How does not having one make me less of a son to him?  OK, so he'll never

have grandkids; but I could have never done it with a girl, anyway.  It was

difficult for me to fuck Brian, and I love him.  If I hadn't, I'd never

been able to.

Well, if a cock's not important, why did I want it cut off?  I don't know. 

It's not something I can put into words, but I feel right for the first

time in my life.  My body matches my image of myself for the first time. 

Even my shrink can't explain it, other than calling it GID.  Are there more

than two genders maybe?  Are there people that were born to be eunuchs,

either eunuchs without balls or eunuchs without cocks?  I think there must

be.  Look at all those I've found on the Internets.  There's whole

sites for eunuchs, people that have had their cocks or balls cut off.  Some

of them have had both cut off, but some have just had their cocks cut off like

me.  I've read their posts.  They don't seem crazy to me.  I

don't think I'm crazy either.  I -- just -- didn't -- want -- to -- have --

a -- cock.  Why can't Mom and Dad understand that?

If they'd just accept me as I am now, I'd be happy.  If they didn't look at

me like I was some alien that had been substituted for their son, I'd be happy. 

I like myself like this.  Why can't they accept me for myself, whether I

have a cock or not?  Why is whether I have one so important? 

They never saw it.  Until Brian cut off my cock, neither Mom or Dad had

seen me naked for two or three years, not since I entered puberty, anyway.

Now's different, though.  Mom checks me out all the time to make certain I

haven't cut anything else off.  She even keeps the fucking knives put up in

a locked cabinet.

What's worse: she won't let me out of her sight.  I can't see Brian. 

She won't let me go near him, even though I keep telling her he had nothing to

do with it, that I wanted to cut it off before I even found out he didn't have a

cock.  She doesn't believe me though.  She thinks he gave me the idea. 

Ms Stewart told  my shrink that I hang with Brian at school, that neither

of us seem to have other friends.

It's a good thing she doesn't know the truth.  She'd have Brian put in

jail, or my dad would kill him.  If my dad knew about the sex games Brian

and I have played, he'd know his son was queer, like he thinks I must be since I

cut off my cock.  If only they'd let me see Brian, I'd be happy.  I'll

see him in school tomorrow, but only at lunch and maybe between classes. 

My mom's dropping me off and picking me up.  I won't be able to go home

with him.  I won't be able to hold or kiss him.  That's what I miss

most of all.

I thought I'd be happy once my cock was cut off; oh, I don't regret cutting it

off; for me, it was right.  I should have been the one born with penile

agenesis, not Brian.  If I could have given him my cock, I would have. 

If my parents could accept me as I am -- a boy without a cock -- I would be

happy.  If they'd let me see Brian, I would be happy.  As it is, I'm

miserable.  I can't talk to them; I can't tell them how I feel, about

myself, about not having a cock, or about Brian, least of all about Brian. 

To protect him, I have to pretend he's no more than a casual acquaintance, when

I want to tell them -- want to tell the world -- how much I love him.

But they wouldn't understand.  He's fourteen and I'm thirteen.  If

nothing else, they'd use our ages against us.  "You're too young," they

would say, "you're too young to know about love."  How can someone be too

young to know about love.  Brian and I were meant for each other.  I'm

lost without him.  Until he cut off my cock, I'd been with him every day. 

I'd made love to him everyday, because that's what it was for us.  We

didn't just have sex; we made love. 

For me, it had to me love for me to like it so much, for me to want to cum. 

With Brian was the only time I didn't feel bad about it afterward.  It was

all right for him to make me cum, because it gave him pleasure for me to cum. 

I did like our love making better, though, when I couldn't cum, when I had bands

on my cock when we made love and I couldn't, when I couldn't even get hard. 

It was like making love without having a cock, because it was numb and I

couldn't feel it.  I liked how he brought me to the point of cumming,

because of the band, I couldn't.  For me, that's always the best part, that

feeling right before I cum.  When I had a cock, I could never make it last. 

With bands on my cock, it did.

My body wants to cum now.  I like the feeling, or if I had Brian, I would

like it.  Now, it just makes me want him all the more.  I would jack

off, if I could, just to make the longing I feel for him go away. 

Sometimes, my desire for him makes me crazy.  I'd rather die, than live

without him.

But I can't tell my parents that.  I can't even tell my shrink that; he'd

tell my parents.  I can't tell anyone how much I miss him, how much I need

him, that I can't live without him.  And that's the truth.  I can't

live without Brian.  I love him more than I love my life.  He is my

life.  I die a little each day I'm away from him.  Damn, it hurts. 

I would jack off, if I could, just to make my longing for him go away for a

while.  This feeling, this pent up desire, with no way to release it, calls

for him -- screams for him -- for his touch, for the sight of his face, for one

of his sweet kisses. 

I rub my new pee hole.  I pinch my nipples like Brian does -- nothing; it

feels good; but I'm too used to needing my cock to cum; I can't cum without it. 

If I had Brian, it wouldn't matter; but without him, it does.  I want him

so much it hurts -- physically hurts.  I know now what they mean about

dying of a broken heart.  Mine's about to break.  When it does, I'm

certain I'll die.

I can't live without him.  I don't want to live without him.

If I told my parents, they'd say I'm only a kid; but a kid has feelings, too. 

A kid can love; a kid can hurt; a kid can rather die, than live with the hurt. 

I don't know how much longer I can live without Brian; if I'd known losing my

cock would cost me him, I would have kept it.  As much as I hated it, I

would have kept it.       

I can't even call him when I want, not when Mom's home.  She might listen

in.  I heard the phone click once, as if she'd picked up another extension,

when I went to call him, so I hung up without completing the call.  I had

to wait until she went to the store to call him today.

I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him.

Two:

"Wake up.  Wake up, Marty," I hear.  My mom is shaking me.  It's

too early to get up.  I tell her that.  "We have to be at school

early," she says, "We have a meeting with Ms Stewart." 

I remember now.  She told me last night we did.  I don't want to talk

to Ms Stewart.  Haven't I explained myself to enough people by now, my mom

and dad, the doctors -- my shrink?"

"Get up, Marty," she says, as I continue to lie in bed.

"I'm naked, Mom.  At least, let me dress in private for once."

"No, Marty.  I have to inspect you to make certain you're not still hurting

yourself."

"Mom, I told you that I like my testicles fine.  It was just my co -- "  

She hates for me to say, cock -- " penis I didn't like."

"Does that other boy -- that Brian -- have testicles?" she asks, not for the

first time.

"I guess.  I told you I've never seen him naked."  Boy, is that ever a

lie.  Every time I close my eyes, I see Brian naked.  "I keep telling

you he had nothing to do with this."  I glance down at my crotch, still

covered by the sheet.  When I look up, she's staring at the same place.

"Get up," she says, "Let me have a look, then you can get dressed."

I throw back the covers, saying, "Fuck," as I do.  "There," I say, once my

crotch is exposed, "are you satisfied?" 

She bends over to take a closer look, says, "OK." I half expect her to lift up

my balls to examine them, but she doesn't.  "Now get dressed," she says, "

I don't want to be late.  There's a bowl of cereal on the table for you."

I get up -- think about  walking into the kitchen naked.  If she wants

to see me naked -- fuck -- I'll start going to dinner naked.  Wouldn't Dad

freak if I did, if he had to be continually reminded what I'd done to his son? 

I say that, because I don't think he considers me his son any longer.  I

think about the movie: Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Is that what

he thinks I am, some alien that stole his son's body?  Often, I think he

does.

I don't go into the kitchen naked, though.  I get dressed and go in the

kitchen to eat my cereal.

Three:

It's an hour before school starts, when we arrive.  The halls are empty. 

"Come in," Ms Stewart says, when Mom knocks on her office door.  Behind her

desk when we enter, she stands up and holds her hand out to shake my mom's hand. 

She doesn't offer to shake mine.  I'm only a kid.  Mom sits in one

chair in front of her desk.  I slump into another.  Ms Stewart looks

at me.  "How are you, Marty," she asks.

I shrug.  "Sit up, Marty," Mom says, "Answer Ms Stewart."

"I'm fine," I say.

"Really?" says Ms Stewart.

"Yes." I want to scream it, but I don't.  "I'm fine."

"Did Brian Domogalla have anything to do with it?" she asks.  "Did he talk

you into -- " She hesitates.  I see her glance at my crotch.  If she's

looking for a bulge, she won't see one -- "cutting off your penis?"

"No," I say, "telling what seems to be the thousandth person, "I wanted to do it

long before I met Domogalla.  I never liked having a penis."

"Is that why you were friends with Brian?" she asks, "because you knew he didn't

have a penis?"

I shrug.  "Maybe."  It was at first I know, but wasn't the reason I

came to love him -- I'm not telling her this, of course.  Where as I was

attracted to Brian because he doesn't have a penis, other kids shun him because

he doesn't.  If they'd just give him a chance, they'd see what a great guy

he is.  Maybe they'd love him, too.

"I don't want that boy around Marty," Mom says.  I think my heart will

stop, when she says it.

"I've already made arrangements.  You have first lunch now, Marty," she

says.  "I've rearranged some of your classes."  Then she says to my

mom, "Other than between classes, Brian won't have an opportunity to see Marty;

and there's only five minutes between classes."

"I guess that'll do," Mom says.  "I'll be dropping off and picking up

Marty.  He won't be seeing him after school, either."

"Were you seeing him after school before, Marty?" Ms Stewart asks me.

"No," I lie.

"That's not true," Mom says, "He spent the night with him once or twice, and he

was always late coming home from school.  Although he denies it, I think he

was over at his house."

Actually, I spent much more than one or two nights at Brian's house, but I

usually told Mon I was staying at some other kid's house.  After the first

couple of times -- once I knew he'd cut off my cock -- I never told her I was

going over to Brian's house.

"Well, that certainly conflicts with what Brian told me," Ms Stewart says. 

"He told me he only knew Marty from school.  I think we'll have to have

another talk with Brian -- possibly with his parents, too.  He might have a

bigger part to play in this than we thought.  Did he, Marty?" she asks me.

"No!" I say, as emphatically as I can.  I'm worried, though.  It's

going to be hard for Brian and me to keep our stories straight, if we can't talk

to each other.

"In any case," says Ms Stewart, "I think we'll have another talk with Brian. 

"Oh, and by the way, Marty.  You won't be taking P.E.  I didn't think

you would want the other boys to see you," she glances at my crotch again, "like

you are."

"I don't care if they see me," I say.

I want them to see me, actually.  I want them to see that I'm just like

Brian, and that I'm proud to be like him.  I'll bet I'm not the only boy in

this school that never liked his cock.  I'll bet there's others that would

like to be rid of theirs.  If what I've seen on the Internet on Brian's

computer is any indication, there probably is.  I wish I had my own

computer.  Hell, Mom won't even let me on the Internet now.  I think

she's afraid I'll email Brian. 

Then, in a flash, I think:

the library.  If Mom will let me go to the library, I can use their

computers.  I can email Brian from my Hotmail account.  Maybe we can

at least talk to each other that way.

Ms Stewart awakes me from my reverie.  "I think it's best they don't see

you.  There's already rumors going around that you cut off your penis." 

She looks at my mom.  "I assure you," she says, "they didn't learn it from

me or anyone else at the school.  In a small town like this, it's hard to

keep secrets."

"I know," Mom says, "both my husband and I have had people come up to us on the

street and ask us about it."

I turn my head, looking at her.  I didn't know that.  I didn't know

anyone knew; but then, everyone seems to know about Brian.  No wonder my

dad is pissed.  I guess it's pretty embarrassing to have someone ask you

why your kid cut off his cock.  I wonder if Brian's parents know? 

They've seen me over at their house often enough.   They might just

put two and two together.  I think his mom already knows about some of the

sex games we played.  We've left enough cum on Brian's sheets.  She

must know something was going on.  She probably didn't say anything because

I was the only friend he has; besides if he didn't have sex with me, who would

he have sex with? 

Ms Stewart and Mom continue to talk, but I don't pay much attention. 

Finally, the conference is over; it's time for my first class.  If I hurry,

I might get to see Brian before class starts.

Chapter 9:

Brian Domogalla:

One:

It's third period, and I haven't seen Marty; then I see him running down the

hall toward me.  He's out of breath; he's beautiful; my heart catches in my

throat; that's what it feels like; it feels like my heart's in my throat; it's

beating so hard.  But it's almost time for class. 

He slides to a stop in front of me.  I put out my hand to stop him -- and

because I want to touch him, to see if he's real; it's been so long since I've

seen him, I was beginning to think I'd imagined him.  I was lonely before I

met him, but now -- now after I've known him, after all we've had together,

after all those days and nights with him wrapped in my arms, it's worse -- much

worse.  I ache for him; my body aches for him, like a heroin addict aches

for heroin.  I'm addicted.  I'm addicted to Marty.  Is that what

love is, an addiction?  Do you just get so used to a person, to the

pleasure he gives you, that you hurt when he's not there.  Is that what

love is?  I want to kiss him.  God damn, I want to kiss him; but the

hall's full of kids.

    "Whoa," I say, "where've you been.  I've been looking

for you.  I was afraid you didn't come today."

"Fucking Ms Stewart," he says, "she changed all my classes around.  Most of

them are at the opposite end of school from yours.  I had to run to get

over here, as it was.  She and my mom are conspiring to keep us apart. 

Fucking Stewart even changed my lunch.  I have first lunch now.  Oh,

shit..." 

The class bell just rang.  "How about after school?" I ask.

He looks over his shoulder, already heading off for class.  "I can't," he

says, "Mom's picking me up.  It's like being in jail.  She won't let

me out of her sight.  If you only --" but I don't hear the rest.  He's

already half way down the hall.  I have to get to class myself.

Two:

I'm on the back stairway between the first and second floors when I run into

Clapp.  At least, he's alone.  He knock my books out of my hands; some

of them bounce down to the next landing.  "Hear your fuck buddy's back," he

says.  "Did he really cut off his cock?"

I look at him, but don't answer.  I don't even say, "Fuck you."  Here

in the back stairway, he could smack me, and no one would see -- no one that

cared, anyway.  None of the other kids would care.  None of them would

stick up for me.  So, I go down the stairs picking up my books.  I

hate Clapp.  I fucking hate him.  I'm late to class and have to go to

the office for a tardy slip. 

Ms Stewart is in the office when I go in.  "Brian -- good," she says, "I

was about to send for you.  Come into my office."

"I -- I.  Mr. Avery's expecting me to  come back," I say.  "He

sent me to the office for a tardy slip."

"I'll take care of Mr. Avery," she says, then she sends one of the students -- a

girl -- that works in the office to tell Mr. Avery I probably won't be back to

his algebra class.  I won't be back?  What does she have to say to me

that will take most of an hour?

Once I'm seated in a chair in front of her desk, she says, "You lied to me,

Brian."

"Wha -- What did I say?  How did I lie to you?"

"You told me you only knew Marty Joyce from school," she says, "His mother tells

me he's spent the night at your house."

Oh shit.  It's been so long since he told his mom he was spending the night

at my house, I'd forgotten that he had.  Once we decided we were serious

about cutting off his cock -- once I agreed to do it -- he no longer mentioned

me to his mother, not as far as I knew, anyway.  "That was a long time

ago," I say.  "I'd forgot to mention it."

"His mother thinks he's been over your house more recently than that. 

We've checked.  The boys at whose houses he told his mother he was spending

the night say they aren't even friends with him.  They tell me that as far

as they know, you're his only friend.  Where was he staying, if not at your

house?"

"I don't know," I say, "Why don't you ask him?"

"I have," she says.  "Maybe it's time I asked your mother.  What would

she say, if I ask her whether Marty's been spending the night at your house?"

I shrug.  "I don't know," I say, but I can't look at her.  If she asks

my mom, she'll tell her that Marty spent at least one night out of almost every

weekend at my house for the last couple of months.  Thank God she doesn't

know he was over there every day after school.

"What will she say, Brian?"

"I guess she's say he's been over once or twice."  Maybe if I admit to that

much at least, she won't ask my mom.

"I think he's been over more than that," she says.  "Why did you lie to me? 

Did you know he was going to cut off his penis.  Did you talk him into

doing it?  Did you want there to be another boy that didn't have a penis?"

"No!  I didn't want him to cut off his penis.  I tried to talk him out

of it."  Oh, fuck.  I've done it now; but at least, I've told her the

truth.  I never wanted him to cut off his penis -- I sure as hell didn't

want to cut it off for him, not until at the end, anyway, not until after he'd

killed it with the bands.  But it wasn't doing him any good then, was it? 

It wasn't doing either of us any good.

"So you did know about it?" she says.

I nod.  "That's all he ever talked about.  Practically the first thing

he ever said to me was that he'd tried to cut off his cock."  I'm so

flustered I say cock instead of penis.  She doesn't seem to notice.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" she asks.

"He's my friend," then I lower my eyes -- lower my head -- and say, "the only

one I have -- the only one I've ever had." 

I look back up at her.  "I couldn't say anything," I tell her, "I couldn't

betray him.  Don't any of you realize that he hated his penis?  He's

never wanted it.  He wishes he'd been born like me.  I tried to talk

him out of it, but I couldn't.  I didn't want him to be like me."  I

lower both my head and my voice.  "I wouldn't wish that on anyone.  I

wouldn't want anyone to be like me.  He likes me, though.  He likes me

even though I don't have a penis." -- I almost say he loves me, but I catch

myself in time -- "He doesn't think I'm a freak like all the other boys do."

"Did you know he was going to cut off his penis when he did? she asks.

"I shrug, setting my mouth in a hard line, clenching my teeth, so I won't admit

that I'm the one that cut it off.

"I think you did.  Did you?"

I shrug again.

She glances at the clock.  "Go sit in the office until the bell, then go to

your next class.  I'm going to have to talk this over with Mr. Strickland. 

I imagine we'll be talking to you later.  Meanwhile, I want you to stay

away from Marty.  I've changed his lunch, so you won't be seeing him then. 

I don't want you talking to him between classes, either." 

Shit, she's going to talk it over with Mr. Strickland, our principal. 

He'll probably have me expelled.  Well, I don't give a shit.  I hate

this school and every one it it -- everyone except for Marty; and if they won't

let me see him, I don't want to be here at all.  God, I miss Marty, though. 

I miss him so much.

Two:

After school, I rush outside hoping to see Marty, if even only for a moment. 

I see him, but one of the hall monitors is walking with him.  Marty looks

over at me, shrugs, his palms turned upward, a helpless gesture if I've ever

seen one.  "I'm sorry," he mouths.  I see him get into his mother's

car.  It's all I can do not to cry.  It hurts.  It physically

hurts.  Is that why they call it heart ache?  Before, I thought that a

meaningless term, but it isn't.  That's were the pain seems to begin,

within my chest, where my heart beats -- beats for him.  Wouldn't I have

been better off never meeting him, never knowing him -- never loving him?

But, wouldn't I have already been dead, if not for Marty?  Wouldn't I have

killed myself before now?  My life was -- is -- empty without him. 

I've lived more in the last two months than I have my entire life.  Isn't

love what makes life worth living?  And, I love Marty; he loves me. 

No one has ever loved me as he does, not my parents, who at times seem ashamed

of me, their cock-less kid,  not anyone.  Why won't they just leave us

alone?  Whom does our loving each other hurt?

Three:

My dad comes into my room after he gets home from work.  I'm lying on my

bed, where I've been since coming home from school, doing nothing, just

thinking, crying some and thinking.  "Mr. Strickland from school called me

at work today," he says.  "He told me about Marty cutting off his penis. 

Did you have anything to do with it?

"No," I say, almost inaudibly. 

"What?"

"No," I say it louder this time.

"But you knew he was going to do it?"

I'm about to lie, saying I didn't, but I remember that I'd already admitted to

Ms Stewart that I'd known, so I nod.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks.

I'd already explains why to Ms Stewart, so I just say, "He made me promise not

to."

"What else were you two up to?" he asks, "You mother just told me about the cum

stains she's found on your sheets after his visits.  Are you a couple of

little queers?"

My dad hates queers.  He's always talking about fags -- when he's around,

that is.  He's usually out drinking with his friends.  I don't even

think he knew Marty was over here most of the nights Marty spent at my house. 

We were usually asleep by the time he came in and out of the house by the time

he crawled out of bed the next day.  I don't know what to tell him. 

What does it matter that we're both boys, as long as we love each other? 

But from the look on his face, I know better to lie to him, so I compromise. 

"We just fooled around some," I say.  "We just masturbated.  Other

boys masturbate together.  I hear boys at school talk about doing it all

the time.  It doesn't mean we're queer."

He looks at me -- glances down at my crotch -- "Masturbate," he says, "How can

you masturbate?  You don't have a fucking cock.  You're not even a

fucking real boy.  I think you were sucking his cock.  I think that's

what you were doing.  Were you sucking his cock?  Are you a little

cock sucker?"

Now, I am crying.  "It's not my fault," I say.  "I didn't ask to be

born without a cock.  I didn't ask to be born at all."  He's never

been much of a father, but it hurt when he said I wasn't a real boy.  I

guess he's never really accepted me for what I am.  He kept them from

cutting off my balls because he wanted a son, but he's never really considered

me his son, has he?  He doesn't even think I'm a boy.  I'm a freak to

him, just like I am to the other boys, just like I am to everyone except to

Marty.  "At least, he loves me," I say, "At least he loves me; you don't."

"You did suck his cock, didn't you?"

"Yes," I shout.  "I let him fuck me, too."  I raise my hips slightly,

patting my asshole.  "Are you fucking satisfied?"

He leans over, grabbing me by the shirt front with one hand, pulling me up and

slaps me hard across the face with the other, first with the palm of his hand,

then with the back of it, once, twice, three times.  I taste blood in my

mouth.  "I should have let them cut your balls off, " he says.  I can

smell liquor on his breath.  "You want to be a fucking girl.  I'll

make you a fucking girl."  He starts fumbling with my belt.  I'm

scared; I don't know what he's going to do.

"Dad, stop," I say, "What are you going to do?"

"You want to act like a girl, I'll make a fucking girl out of you."

"I don't want to be a girl," I say.

"No fucking queer deserves to have balls," he says.  "You're right.  I

should let them cut off your balls.  Well, it's not too late.  I'll

take care of that little problem right now."  By this time, he's pulled my

pants down.  "You shaving your fucking pubic hair, you little fag," he

says, noticing how short it is, it having just begun to grow out.  But, not

looking for an answer, he grabs my balls.  "Don't move," he says, "Move and

I'll rip them off."

"Mom," I shout.

"Don't bother," he says.  "She's not home."  I glance over at the

clock.  It's only 5:00.  She won't be home for an hour; he's come home

early.

"What are you going to do?"  I know what he intends to do; he's already

reaching for the folding knife he keeps on his belt.   It's sharp. 

He keeps it razor sharp.  Rather than answer, he flips it open one handed,

still holding me by the balls with the other.  I don't move; I want to, but

I don't dare, not with the grip he has on my balls.  If I move, he'll rip

them off.  God, it hurts.  "Don't, Dad, please.  You're drunk. 

You don't know what you're doing."

But those words just infuriate him that much more.  "Shut up, you little

fag," he says, "You want to be a girl.  I'll make a girl out of you." 

He places the point of his knife on the under side of my ball sac; then -- oh,

God.  It hurts.  It hurts so fucking bad -- looking down, I see the

point of his knife appear on the upper side of my ball sac.  He's stuck it

all the way through.

But, he's not through.  He pulls the knife toward himself, splitting my

ball sac in half.  I try to pull away, but he has hold of my now exposed

balls.  I feel his rough hand on them.  I'm screaming, unable to say

anything intelligible.   It hurts.  It so fucking hurts. 

Then, it's over.  He's done it.  He's cut off my balls, both at once. 

Holding both in one hand, he slices though the cords holding them with the knife

it the other.  As I lie on my blood covered bed, clutching my groin, he

throws my balls on the bed and leaves my room.  A moment later I hear the

front door slam.

It hurts.  God, it hurts.  Nothing, not even breaking my arm, ever

hurt so much.  I'm bleeding; blood's all over my bed.  Then, it

doesn't hurt so badly.  If I bleed to death, then it'll all be over. 

I'm glad he did it.  Let me die.  Just let me die.  But, I'm

still conscious when Mom comes home.  She takes one look at me and calls

911.  I don't tell her Dad did it.  I'm too weak to talk.  That's

the last I remember.

Four:

I wake up in a hospital bed.  I don't hurt; I guess they've given some pain

medication.  My mom's in the room.  "Why did you do it, Brian?" she

says.

She thinks I did it?  Or does she?  There was no knife in my room; Dad

took his with him.  Does it matter?  Does it matter whether he did it

or I did it?  Do I want him to go to jail?  Mother can't support us on

her salary.  Is she really saying, tell them you did it, so your father

doesn't go to jail?  "I don't guess I need them, did I?" I say.

"No," she says, "I guess you didn't.  Maybe it would have been best we

raised you as a girl.  I'm sorry, Brian."  I shrug, a conspiratorial

shrug.  The look she gives me tells me she knows the truth.

When the cops come to question me later, I tell them I cut off my own balls. 

They believe me, having already heard of my connection to the boy that cut off

his penis.  Just a couple of crazy kids; a couple of little fags that cut

off their own genitals.

I go home a few days later, a stitched incision on each side of my groin where

they had to cut me to get at the cords.  They've removed my shredded

scrotum.  I guess I have no further use of it, do I?  Dad might not

have made a girl out of me, but he's come close.  Once my pubic hair grows

out, one couldn't tell from the distance by looking at my crotch I wasn't. 

The doctor said he could provide me with testosterone, but I declined it. 

What good would it do me?  Maybe I'm better off without balls.  Maybe

missing Marty won't hurt so bad, if I don't have them.

Dad doesn't say anything to me.  He doesn't say he's sorry; he doesn't

thank me for not telling the cops; he no longer calls me a fag; he doesn't talk

to me at all.  It's as if I don't exist, a ghost that spends the day in my

room.  I only go out of it while they're at work, not even when Mom's the

only one at home.  I know where her loyalties lie; not with me; that's for

sure.

I haven't heard from Marty.  I tried calling him, but they've changed their

number; and the new one isn't listed.  He hasn't called; I don't imagine

his mother will let him, especially since she's probably heard I cut off my

balls.  I'm certain she blames me -- even though she doesn't know I did it

-- for cutting off Marty's cock.

Chapter

10: Marty Joyce:

One:

It's all over school: Brian cut off his balls.  I wonder why?  He

liked his balls.  Maybe I'd be better off without mine, too.  Maybe I

wouldn't miss Brian so much.  Is that why he cut his off, because he

missed me?  I'm horny all the time, but I can't cum.  I thought I'd like

that.  If I could have Brian, I think I would like it; but since I can't have

him, I don't.  The feeling, being horny, just makes me miss him that

much more.

If he doesn't have balls, I decide, I don't want mine, either.  But, I can't cut

them off.  I have a knife.  I have one hidden in my room, where I

hide other things I don't want Mom to know about  -- including the

elastrator and bands -- the attic access is in my closet.  Mom never thinks

to look there.  But I can't cut myself.  I know I can't.  I tried

cutting off my cock enough times and couldn't.  It'd be even harder cutting

off my balls. 

I'm lying naked on my bed, cupping my balls in my hands, looking at them.  Do I

need them?  Do I even want them?  I don't need them; I

don't have a cock.  Wouldn't it be better not to be horny all the time,

since I can't have Brian? 

        Getting up, I go to the closet,

retrieving the elastrator and bands.  I could band my balls?  What

would that be like?  Would they become numb, like my cock did?  Would

they die, if I left the band on long enough?

I have difficulty getting a band to stay on the elastrator.  Brian always

did it before.  Finally, getting one to stay, I have it expanded

and slip my balls through it one at a time; then release it.  Oh, shit. 

It's like being kicked in the balls.  I bite my lip, feeling tears course

down my cheeks, but I expand another ring, releasing it next to the first one. 

It doesn't hurt so much, so I put another one on. 

My balls hurt, not as bad as at first, but they hurt.  Mom's in bed, so I

go to the kitchen to get some ice.  Maybe they won't hurt so much if I put

ice on them.  Stopping at the bathroom medicine cabinet, I grab some

ibuprofen, tossing down four of them; then go back into my bedroom where I put

my balls into the bowl of ice.  It seems to help.  They don't hurt so

much.

Two:

It's almost morning.  Banding my balls hurt much more than banding my cock;

it hurt clear up in my belly.  But they're numb now.  I can squeeze

them, and it doesn't hurt.  I've kept them iced all night.  They're

black; they must be dead.  It's Saturday,

so Mom won't be coming in to wake me for school; and I often stay in bed until

noon on the weekend.  She sleeps late, too.

Since the last of the ice is melted, I empty the bowl into the sink, put it in the

dishwasher, then go back to bed.

I fell asleep, because I awake, and it's bright out.  Lifting the

covers, I look at my balls.  They're dead; they have to be dead;  They

don't hurt; and they're black.  I touch them; I squeeze them, but don't feel it.  I

don't feel my hand touch my balls at all.

When Mom comes into my room, I tell her I'm sick.  "You are pale," she

tells me, and lets me stay in bed.  Thank God she doesn't inspect my balls. 

I want to make certain they're dead before she sees them.

Three:

It's Sunday morning; Mom comes into my room.  "How're you feeling, Honey," she

asks.

"I think you better take me to the hospital," I say, knowing my balls are dead

now for sure.  It's been a good thirty-six hours since I banded them. 

They can't live thirty-six hours without blood.

I push down my covers, showing her my balls. "My God, Marty," she says.  "I thought you said you

liked your testicles."

"I did," I say, "but you wouldn't let me see Brian.  If I can't see Brian,

I don't want them."

She starts to call an ambulance, but I tell her there's no need, that she can drive me to the hospital.

"I've had the bands on thirty-six hours," I say, "My balls are

dead.  They don't hurt any longer," so she agrees to drives me to the hospital.

A doctor examines my balls.  "They have to come off."  He pokes

at my balls with a probe of some kind.   They're necrotic," he tells my mom.  "We

should do it now.  We don't want him to develop gangrene." 

        So, they wheel

me into the operating room, the bands still on my balls.   I wake up

later in a hospital room, a bandage on my crotch.  My balls are gone.  Even with

the bandage on, I can tell they're gone.

Four:

I pick up my phone, about to call Brian.  I told my shrink that if I

couldn't see him, I'd kill myself.  I don't know whether I could have -- hell, I couldn't even cut off my cock -- but I must have convinced

him, because he told my mom she should let me see Brian.

      "Hey," I say,

when he answers the phone; then I can't say anything, I'm crying too hard. 

He is too.  Neither of us can talk.  When I can talk, I say, "I want

to see you.  Can you come over?"

"What about your mom?" he says.

"It's cool with my mom," I say.  It isn't, but I guess she'd rather have me

alive and with Brian, than dead.  She's agreed he can come over whenever I

want.  Neither of us has any genitals left to cut off, do we?  At

least, she doesn't have that to worry about?  "She'll drive me over to pick

you up.  Do you think your parents will let you come?"

"They don't tell me what to do," he says.  "I do what I want." 

When I ask him why, he says he'll tell me later, once he's at my house.  I

figure he used the same threat on his parents I used on my mom, that he'd kill

himself.

He's waiting on the porch when we pull up, even though, December, it's cold out. 

I jump out of the car, meeting him half way down his sidewalk.  He takes me

in his arms, lifting me off my feet, planting a humongous kiss, square on my

lips.  I know Mom's watching, but I don't care.  He gives no

indication that he cares whether anyone sees or not.  "God, I missed you,"

he says.

"I missed you," I say.  I get into the backseat with him.

"How are you, Brian?" my mother say, rather coldly, I think; but it doesn't

matter.  As long as she lets me see him, I don't care what she thinks.

Five:

"Why did you do it?" I ask, when we're alone in my room, the door shut.

"Why did I do what?" he says.

"Why did you cut off your balls?"

"Why did you?" he says.

"Because you did; because I didn't want them, if I couldn't have you; because

you no longer had any."

"I didn't cut off mine," he says.

I think my chin hits the fucking floor.  "You still have them?"

He shakes his head.  "There're gone, but I didn't cut them off; my dad

did."

"Your dad did?  Why do they say you did."

"That's what I told the cops."

"Why?" I ask, "You ought to put the son of a bitch in jail for doing that."

"Why?" he shrugs.  "What good would that do?  Mom couldn't make it

without his paycheck; and she didn't want me to say he did it."

"Did she tell you that?"

"Nah, not in so many words" he says, "but she knew he did it -- I know she knew 

he did it --

and she didn't say anything; so why should I?  What good would it do? 

It wouldn't get me back my balls; and I might end up in some foster home, if my

mom couldn't care for me."

"But how can you live in the same house with him?" I ask.

"He leaves me alone; I leave him alone," Brian says.  "I do what I want to

do, when I want to do it.  I don't talk to him, and he doesn't talk to me. 

I have something on him; he knows I'll tell the cops, if he fucks with me."

"Would you?" I ask.

He shrugs.  "I don't know -- maybe.  Did you cut off your balls

because you thought I did."

"I didn't cut off my balls," I say.

"But, I thought -- they said --"

I laugh.  I'm playing the same game on him, he played on me. "I didn't cut them off," I say.  "You know how I am about cutting on my

self.  I banded them."

"Fuck -- you banded them?"

"Yeah."

"Did it hurt?"

I nod, "But I kept them packed in ice, so after a while they quit hurting."

"How long did you keep them banded?"

"Thirty-six hours."

"What did they look like after that long?"

"Shriveled and black," I say.  "The fuckers were dead; that's for sure."

"And they cut them off at the hospital?"

"Yep, you want to see?"

"Sure, you want to see mine, too?"  he glances down at his crotch.

"I want you to get naked with me," I say.  "I want to see all of you."

"What about your mom?" Brian says.

"Fuck her," I say.  "She won't come in here.  I made it plain to her

she wasn't to open my door."

"I don't cum anymore," he says.  "I haven't since Dad cut off my balls. 

Maybe I could have at first, but I didn't even try.  Now, I don't think I

can."

"I don't care," I say.  "I never cared about that.  It was never about

the sex with me.  I just did it because you liked it; because it made you

happy.  That's all I care about.  I just want to make you happy." 

        We kiss.  I feel him, undoing my belt.  Soon I feel his hand on my

bare crotch.  "Careful," I say, "I'm still a little sore.  They just

took the stitches out."  He rises to his knees, pulling down my pants, my

boxers along with them, as he does.

"Hey," they did you like me," he says; then he takes off his pants, showing me

scars in the same location as the incisions on my groin, one on each side. 

I like how he looks, his pubic hair beginning to grow out, his crotch otherwise

bare.

"Do you miss them?" I ask.

"My balls?"  he shrugs.  "Not really.  If I couldn't have you, I

really didn't need them; besides, if I'd kept them, I'd probably be dead."

"What do you mean?"

"I was so pissed all the time, full of rage -- at being separated from you and

at Clapp and the other boys at school.  I would have killed myself for sure; I might have killed Clapp and some other guys, too.  I was serious

about shooting up the school."

"You aren't any more?" I ask.

"No," he laughs.  "Maybe you really need balls to kill someone? 

I mean, maybe you REALLY need balls to kill someone.  Maybe it has

something to do with the testosterone.  I wonder how many eunuchs commit murder?  I doubt that

many do.  Since my balls were cut off, I don't get pissed; well, that's not entirely

true.  I

do get pissed; but I don't become enraged like I did before.  It

takes too

much effort to get a good mad on."

"What's if feel like?" I ask.  I haven't been without my balls long enough

for all the hormones to drain from my body."

"To be without balls?" he asks.  I nod.  "I get tired more easily, and I'm losing some muscle.  See."   He flexes,

making a muscle with his arm.  I can't tell that it's smaller --

I haven't seen him for so long -- but he seems to think it is.  "I get

depressed sometimes, but -- shit -- I was depressed before; before he cut off my balls. 

I'm not depressed right now, though, not now, that I'm with you."

We kiss.  It's a long time before we part.  "We're a pair now, aren't

we?" he says, "no cocks; no balls even."

"We're brothers," I say.

"We're more than brothers," he says, kissing me again.

We talk, cuddle and kiss; although we rub each other's crotch and tits, it's

just because it feels good, not to get the other off.  I couldn't cum

without a cock; and although I've only been without my balls for three weeks,

that's probably been long enough to take the edge off.  I'm not horny like

I was before.  I'm never going to cum again, and I don't suppose Brian will

either.  Neither of us are going to take testosterone supplements; I didn't

want to before; and since he isn't, I'm sure as hell not going to.

Yeah, we're a hell of a pair; but we're a couple; and I think we'll always be. 

I love him; and he loves me.  That's all that matters.

www.slammerstories.net