One in 20 Million

Chapter 1: Brian Domogalla

One:

One in 20 million. 

That's what they tell me I am.  Only one in 20 million boys is born with my condition, penile agenesis, or absent penis.  How's that for luck, huh?  Only one boy in 20 million is born without a penis, and I'm he.  And I don't mean micro penis.  At least then, I've have something, even if it were a half inch long.  I don't have any penis, no penile tissue above or below my skin.  It just never developed -- not at all; zip; zilch; nada.  I have balls -- normal balls -- but no cock.

I guess there was a big debate among the doctors when I was born.  Most wanted to castrate me and have me raised as a girl, but my dad refused to let them do it.  I've heard the story a million times.  "He has balls," my dad said.  "I don't care if he doesn't have a penis.  If he has balls, he's a boy, and I'm going to raise him as a boy."

I'm glad he did, I guess.  I can't imagine myself as a girl.  Even when I was little, I was all boy, my mom says.  She's even convinced it would have been a mistake to raise me as a girl.  I wouldn't want to be a girl now, but sometimes I wonder.  Maybe if they had cut off my balls when I was a baby, I would feel like a girl.  At least, they could have made me look like a girl.  Except for my balls, I almost look like one now, below the waist at least.  And with no cock, I certain don't look like a boy -- not in that department, anyway.  Boys have cocks; I don't.

I have no cock or even an opening for a pee hole where other boys have cocks.  My pee hole opens on my perineum, below my balls, between my legs.  I was born with it there.  I sit like a girl to pee, and I always will.  Even if they make me a cock some day, my urethra is too short to move.  They might make me a cock someday, but I won't pee or ejaculate through it.

Even though I'm glad I was raised as a boy, it hasn't been easy growing up as a boy without a cock.  Even in grade school the other boys teased me.  I couldn't pee at a urinal like they did. 

I'm different, all right.  Where other boys have a penis, I have smooth skin, or at least I did before I grew pubic hair.  Now, I have curly brown hair above, around, and on my balls, just an expanse of curly brown hair, unmarred by any sign of a cock.

Since I've never had one, I've always been fascinated by cocks. Cocks big or small; it doesn't make any difference.  If it's a cock, it enthralls me.  I remember going into the restroom the first time in kindergarten, watching other boys take out their penises and stand up to the urinals.  That was the first time I realized I was different -- really realized it.  I'd know it before.  My parents had told me that other boys had penises, and I didn't, but that was the first time it really sank in how different I was.  "You shouldn't be in here," one boy told me, when I sat down on a toilet.

"Why not?" I asked.

"You don't have a penis," he said.  "You belong in the girls' room."

Even five year-old boys didn't think I was a boy, since I didn't have a penis.  Fourteen year-old boys certainly don't think I'm one, since I have no cock.  Somewhere along the line -- probably when boys started going through puberty -- penises became cocks.  And when they became cocks, it became all important to have one.  They make fun of  boys that have small cocks, so you can imagine how much they tease me, who has no cock.

I act like it doesn't bother me, but it does.  I hate them for it.  Don't they realize that more than anything I wish I had a cock?  I would rather have been born without an arm or a leg than without a cock.

I hear a knock on the door.  "Brian," my mom says, "time for school."

Fuck.  I want to tell her I'm sick; but if I do, she'll take my temperature and know I'm faking.  I am sick.  I'm sick and tired of the jokes, "How's it hanging, Domogalla?" then everyone laughs, even the girls.  It's bad enough that the boys know I have no cock.  It's worse that the girls know I don't.  I hate how they look at me, some with pity and some with scorn.  I'd rather have the scorn than the pity; and I can tell which is which.  Believe me.  I can tell.

"OK, Mom," I say, grabbing my jacket and books, looking at myself in the mirror one last time.  Mom tells me I'm handsome, but it's not my face I look at in the mirror; it's my crotch -- my flat, smooth, crotch.  No bulge in my pants.  I guess I could put a sock in my pants, but what good would that do?  Everyone already knows I don't have a cock.  They'd just tease me that much more, if I show up at school with a bulge.

Two:

Sure enough, I'm barely inside the door, when I hear, "How's it hanging, Domogalla?" then laughter.  Can't they come up with anything new?  Why do the other kids still laugh at this tired old joke? 

"Fuck you, Nix," I say.  I want to tear his fucking throat out, but if I let them know they can get to me, it'll only get worse.  I found that out the hard way.  Not that I don't get into fights: I do; but only if someone else starts it, if he hits me first.  If I fought everyone that teased me, I'd have to fight practically everyone -- most of the boys, anyway. 

Some of the girls are OK, but I know it's because they feel sorry for me.  None of them want to date me; that's for sure.  Can you imagine a girl going out with a dick-less boy, even if she doesn't want to get fucked?  Talking about peer pressure.  She'd never live that down.  "You went out with him?  Why?"

I don't know whether girls discuss the size of a guy's cock, but you can bet they talk about the boy that doesn't have one.

A new girl came onto me once -- I even thought about asking her out -- but then she found out about me.  I could see it in her face, even if she hadn't glanced at my crotch.  She didn't say anything about my not having a cock, even though some girls do make snide remarks about it.  She gave me one of those, God, just let me out of here, grimaces, then said she had to get to class.  I never tried talking to her again.

I hear the class bell.  I'm probably the only kid in school that would rather be in class than out.  I get teased in some classes, but most of the teachers won't allow it, not if they hear it, anyway.  Carter Marcks sits next to me in History, though.  He always has a hard on and lets me know it.  He'll frame it with his hand, letting me see it pressing against his pants, then grin.  He doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to; his actions speak loud enough.  "Look what I have, Brian Domogalla.  Look what I have, and you don't."  I'd like to cut his fucking dick off, and see how he likes not having one.

At least, History's not my first class; English is; and Miss Odell doesn't put up with shit from anyone.  No one will tease me in her class.  Besides, Miss Odell likes me.  Probably most of the teachers feel sorry for me, but Miss Odell likes me; I'm sure of that.

Before you get the wrong idea, perhaps I should tell you a little about Miss Odell.  No spring chicken, she's sixty, at least, but never been married; and she doesn't take shit from anyone, not from other teachers or the meanest, toughest, guy in school.  She's not big; she's smaller than me; but she can put you down with one word.  That's all it takes.  I've never heard anyone talk back to her.

I do well in her class, one of the few that I do well in.  She doesn't care whether I have a cock or not.  She knows I don't -- everyone knows -- but she doesn't care.  Somehow, I know she doesn't care; and for that reason, I try hard in her class.  I don't want to disappoint her.  I get straight A's in English.

After English, I'm out in the hall getting a book out of my locker.  Three guys walk up, Landon Clapp, Ryan Schmidt, and Trevor Nix.  "How's it hanging?" Nix says again.

"Fuck you, Nix," is again my reply.

Clapp shoves into the locker.  "Shut up, Dick-less," he says. 

I turn around, tears in my eyes -- tears of anger.  I'm so fucking mad.  I want to kill him.  I think if I had a gun or knife, I would.  "Oh, look, we've hurt his feelings," says Nix. 

"Maybe the baby needs a pacifier," says Schmidt.  "Hey, Domogalla.  You want a pacifier?  I have something here you can suck on."  He puts his hand on his crotch.

"Yeah," says Clapp, "you can eat mine, too.  How about it, Domogalla?  You want to suck my cock?"

By now, there's other kids gathered around us.  "Leave him alone," I hear a girl say.

Clapp turns his head in her direction.  "Fuck off," he says, "We're not going to hurt Dick-less, the fucking baby."  I'm almost sobbing; I'm so fucking mad.

"Fuck you, Clapp," I say, "you fucking walking STD."  We're learning about STDs in Sex Ed.  I'm not the first to link his name to the disease.  He hates it.

Using both hands, he shoves me back into my locker.  I ball up my fists, but there's three of them, and even Clapp -- by himself -- can kick my ass.  He's a fucking bully, a little pudgy, but strong, a year older and two inches taller than me.  He out weighs me by a good thirty pounds. "Come on," he says.  "You want a piece of me?  Come on." 

"Fight," I hear someone say.

But there's no fight.  A teacher comes along and breaks it up; the class bell rings; everyone heads off for class.  I'm so pissed I shake.  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands, sniffling as I do.  I hate it that I cry when I'm pissed, but I do.  I can't help it.  Sometimes, I wish I were dead.  What good am I anyway?  I'm a fucking freak.  I'm not a boy or a girl.  I'm a fucking, cock-less, freak.  I hate myself.  They shouldn't have castrated me; they should have killed me.  My mom should have aborted me.  I should have never been born.

I hate myself; but I hate them more, Clapp, Nix, Schmidt -- all of them, all the boys with cocks, all the girls that want their cocks.  I'd like to kill all of them -- all those  that tease me -- all those that have seen me cry.  People wonder about school shootings: about what makes kids do it; but I don't.  I know why kids do it.  Those that get killed deserve it; just like the kids in my school deserve it.  I never did anything to them; I didn't ask to be a freak.  Why don't they just leave me alone?

My dad has a gun.  Maybe I'll -- no -- I shake my head trying to shake such thoughts out of it.  I'd have to be crazy to kill someone, wouldn't I?  I'd have to be crazy to kill all of them, wouldn't I?  But when I close my eyes, I can see myself doing it.  When I open and close my hand, I can almost feel the gun in it.  It's pointing at Clapp's face -- at his eye, almost touching it.  I squeeze the trigger.

Chapter 2: Marty Joyce:

One:

I stand around with the others watching them pick on him.  They're always picking on him.  I want to say something, but I don't.  They're all older than me.  Even he's a year older and a grade higher than me.  It's not fair.  They pick on him because he doesn't have a cock.  I wonder if they'll pick on me when I don't have one?  But, I know I'm only dreaming.  I'll never have the guts to cut it off.  As much as I hate it, as much as I wish I'd been born like him, I don't have the guts to cut it off.

Fuck.  I have a boner.  Just thinking about him gives me a boner.  Just thinking about his smooth groin with nothing but balls hanging from it, makes me hard.  I've never seen it; I don't have P.E. with him; so I've never seen him naked; but I've heard other boys that have seen him talk about it.  Everyone talks about him, about how he doesn't have a cock, about how he pees like a girl.  I'd trade places with him.  I'd trade places with him in a heart beat.

I've never liked my cock.  I don't know why; but I don't.  Even when I was little, I didn't like it.  I remember once my dad joked about cutting it off.  That didn't scare me.  I wanted him to do it; I begged him to do it.  He never joked about it again; and I never asked him to do it again, not after seeing how he looked at me.  I think he was afraid I was queer or something or that I was a transsexual.  But I'm not.  I don't want to be a girl.  I even want to keep my balls.  I just don't want my cock.  No, it's more than that; I'm obsessed with the idea of getting rid of it.

I wish I'd been born like Domogalla.  They say he doesn't any cock at all, even beneath his skin.  Even if I cut mine off, I'll still have some below the skin.  It'll probably still get hard, like it does now, even if I cut my cock off.  I wonder if I could have that cut out, too?  I couldn't do it myself, of course.  Hell, I can't even get up the guts to cut off the part sticking out.  I wonder if Domogalla knows how lucky he is?  Probably not.  He gets pissed when they tease him about not having one.  God -- I wish I'd been born like Domogalla.

Am I queer like my dad thought?  I don't know.  I don't like girls, I know that.  If I don't have a cock, what good would I be to a girl?  And I don't think about sucking some guy's cock or getting fucked in the ass.  Both sound gross.  I hate cocks, whether they're on me or on someone else.  Domogalla, though.  He turns me on.  I'd like to lie in bed with him, neither of us having a cock.  I don't know what we'd do, maybe just hold each other and kiss.  Maybe we couldn't cum, but wouldn't that be even better, to be almost crazy with the need to cum, but not have any cock to pump?

Fuck -- I'm hard.  I'm about to cream in my jeans.  I love it.  I love the feeling.  I want to jack off so bad, but I can't, not here, not in school, I can't. I'll jack off when I get home.  I don't want to, but I know I will.  I swear I won't; I promise myself I won't; but I'll do it anyway.  I can't help it.  As long as I have a cock, I can't help but do it. 

God -- I wonder what it would feel like to not be able to jack off, to just let the pressure build until I feels like I'm going to explode.  It'd be all right if I came then, I guess, if I came but didn't do anything to cause it.  I wonder if I'd get so horny that I'd cum just thinking about it?  I won't find out as long as I have a cock.  I've never gone more than three days without jacking off.  I tried -- God damn, I tried -- but I couldn't.  My fucking cock made me jack off.  The mother fucker owns me.  I don't own it.

"Fight," I hear someone say, after Clapp pushes Domogalla into the locker.  I want to go to his rescue, but I don't.  I'm scared.  I'm too scared to help him.  What could I do, though?  They're all older and bigger than me.  Even Domogalla is older and bigger than me.  A teacher breaks it up; and it's time for class: mechanical drawing.

Two:

Class is almost over and I haven't drawn shit.  I've been thinking about Domogalla the whole time.  If I'm queer.  If I'm queer for anyone, it's for him.  I don't give a shit about other guys with fucking cocks hanging from their crotches.  Domogalla, though; he's different.  I'd give my left nut to see him naked -- and I want to keep my balls.  Still, I'd give my left nut to see him naked.  But, I've never even talked to him.  I'm just another seventh grader to him.  I doubt he even knows I exist.  I wish I could think of a way to meet him.

I look for him in the hallway between classes, but I don't see him.  I don't know what his classes are.  Seventh and eighth graders don't have many classes together, and I don't have eighth graders in any of mine.  I wish I had P.E. with him; then I could see him naked every day.  I'd like to take a shower with him; but I'd get a hard on; shit -- I've got one now, just thinking about it.

Wouldn't it be cool, if neither of us had cocks?  I'd love to be in the shower with him then.  I'd love to walk in with him into the shower in front of all the other boys, neither of us with cocks.  They could tease me.  I wouldn't care.  I'd show them; I'd show Domogalla that it doesn't matter that he doesn't have a cock.

I know then that I have to meet Domogalla.  I don't even know his first name.  All I've ever heard anyone say is, Domogalla.  Still, I have to meet him.  I don't know how; but I have to meet him.  Somehow, I've got to see him naked.  God -- isn't that crazy?  I've never even spoken to him; he doesn't know I exist; but I have to see him naked.  I just have to, that's all.  I'll go crazy thinking about it, if I don't; I'll go crazy wondering what he looks like without a cock.

Oh, I hide mine sometimes, pushing it back beneath the skin, down into my scrotum, holding it in with my finger.  It's cool.  I like the way it looks, but it always pops out as soon as I let go.  Then I have a cock again.  I tried taping it once, but the tape wouldn't stick to my pubic hair.  I don't want to just hide it, though.  I want it gone.  I want nothing but my balls hanging from my crotch.  I want to be just like Domogalla.

I wonder if Domogalla has pubic hair.  I guess he must.  They say he has balls; he has hair under his arms -- sometimes he wears tank tops -- so I guess he must have pubic hair.  I wish I didn't.  If I have my cock cut off, I think I'll shave my pubic hair.  I'd shave it now, but then kids in P.E. would make fun of me.  Maybe I'll do it anyway.  If I don't have the guts to cut off my cock, don't I at least have the guts to shave my pubic hair?  I wonder what Domogalla would think about it, if he heard?  I'll do it.  When I get home, I'll do it. 

Last year I didn't have any.  Last year I wasn't jacking off.  But last year, I didn't get horny like I do now.  I like being horny.  I love being horny.  I just don't like jacking off.  It ruins it.  I'm no longer horny afterward.  Domogalla makes me horny, though.  I used to jack off once a day.  Now, I jack off two or three times a day thinking about him.  I have to see him naked.  I just have to.

"Hey, kid," I hear someone it the hallway say.  I look up.  He's looking at my crotch.  I look down at it.  I'm holding my cock through my pants.  I didn't realize I was, but I am.  I have my hand wrapped around it.  Fucking cock.  I'm surprised I wasn't jacking off in the hallway.  My face burns.  I turn loose of it.  My cock pokes against the front of my pants.  "You've got it bad, Kid," he says, and laughs.

Three:

I run outside when school is out, not even going to my locker.  I don't want to miss him. He walks to school; I've seen him walking up the sidewalk, coming from the opposite direction that I do, but it doesn't matter.  I intend to walk home with him.  I don't know how I'm going to explain it; maybe I'll say I'm going that way to visit someone if he asks.  Maybe he won't ask.  Maybe he won't let me walk with him.  I'm probably just a little kid to him -- a fucking seventh grader.

It doesn't matter.  I'm walking home with him, maybe not beside him, maybe behind him, but I'm walking home with him.  I'm walking home with him today -- tomorrow -- everyday, until I get to know him.  He's going to know who I am.  He might not ever let me see him naked; but he's going to know who I am.

I see him come out of school.  He's alone -- he's always alone.  I'm sitting on the concrete railing by the stairs to the street.  He walks past me, his head down, not looking right or left.  I don't think he even sees me.  He's not three feet away, but I don't think he even sees me.  It's like he's there -- but not there -- like he's hiding deep within himself.  I understand that.  I do it sometimes myself.

After he passes, I follow, walking a few paces behind him.  "Hi," I practice.  "I'm Marty.  What's your name?" but I don't say it.  I walk behind him for almost a mile, until he turns up a sidewalk to what I guess is his house, but I don't say anything.  He turned around to look at me once.  I smiled -- started to say something then -- but he quickly turned back around.  The look on his face screamed that he didn't want to know me -- that he didn't want me to say anything.  I wonder what he thought?  I wonder if he thought I was going to tease him like the other kids?

I wanted to put my arm around him.  I wanted to tell him I loved him; because I think I do; but I've never even talked to him.  How can I tell someone I've never even talked to that I love him?  I don't even know his first name.

Standing at his sidewalk I watch him as he goes into his house.  He stares at me for a moment, then quickly shuts the door.  Good.  Maybe he'll remember my face.  I want him to remember my face.

Circling the block, I head back toward the school.  I live a mile from the school in the opposite direction.  Two miles out of my way, following him has cost me; but it's worth it.  He looked at me twice.  That was worth it; that alone was worth it.

Four:

Finally, I'm home.  Mom and Dad are at work, so I'm the only one home.  I walk into their bedroom.  Mom has a full length mirror.  I pry one shoe off with the other one, then the other shoe, off with my stocking foot; next, I pull off my t-shirt, turning it wrong side out as I do; and throw it on the floor -- unbuckle my belt, my fly, and slide my jeans off, boxers and all, letting them fall down to my ankles, stepping out of them then, standing naked, except for my socks, in front of the mirror.

My cock is hard; but that was no fucking surprise.  I certainly didn't have to look at it to know it was hard; it's been hard for most of the day.  I want to push it in, imagining I'm like Domogalla, but I can't, not hard like it is.  Before I realize it, my hand's on it -- pumping it.  I said I wasn't going to jack off -- I swore I wasn't going to jack off -- if Domogalla can't jack off, I wasn't -- but I am.  And, I can't stop; not now I can't; once I start, I can't stop; I can't fucking stop.

 I feel the pressure building.  My cock swells.  Oh, fuck.  I shoot.  Spunk spurts -- no streams -- from my cock, the first stream, a white string a couple of inches long, arching up, then curving down, falling toward the floor, as another, this one longer -- shooting farther -- erupts from my cock, arching, then curving downward like the first, followed by another and another, until no longer shooting, spunk oozes from my cock.   I milk my cock, catching the last of it in the circle formed by my thumb and forefinger, as I pull my fist off the end of my cock. 

I look down at the floor.  Spots, most still white, cover my mom's carpet; Dropping my hand to my side, I look down at my cock.  It's beginning to droop, now that it's shot its load, now that it's done it's dirty work, now that it's corrupted me --thwarted my resolve.  I hate it.  I fucking hate it.  I didn't want to jack off, but it made me.  I don't own it.  It owns me.   I want to be rid of it.  I want to be like Domogalla, balls, but no cock.  Why couldn't I have been born like him?  Does he realize how lucky he is?

Grabbing some Kleenex off my mom's dresser, I wipe off the carpet, my hand, and my dick.  I said I wasn't going to jack off, but I did.  It's all my cock's fault.  Domogalla can't jack off.  I want to be like him.  I wanted to show him -- even if he doesn't know me -- even if he wouldn't know that I did it -- that I could be like him.

I'm cutting the fucker off.  I'm doing it now.  I'll flush the son-of-a-bitch down the toilet so they can't reattach it.  I run down the hallway, leaving my clothes -- the wadded up Kleenex with my cum on it -- on my parent's bedroom floor.  All I have on is my socks, but no one's home.  No one will be home for almost an hour.  By then, I'll have done it.  I'll have cut off my cock and flushed it  down the toilet.

What will Domogalla think?  Will he realize I did it to be like him?  I won't be entirely like him; I'll still have some cock beneath the skin; but I'll look like him; neither of us will have a hanging cock.  He'll probably think I'm crazy -- he probably wants a cock -- but I hope not.  I hope I can convince him that not having a cock is a good thing.

Rummaging through the knife drawer, I find a butcher knife, the one with a serrated blade, the sharp one.  I've used it before -- not on me -- but I've used it before.  I've tried to use on me, but couldn't.  I can't ever make the cut.  Today, will be different.  Today, I'll do it.  Today, I'll cut my cock off.

I'm excited.  I'm going to do it.  I'm going to do it this time; for Domogalla, I'm going to do it.  I'm going to be like him.

In the bathroom, standing on my tiptoes, I lean over the sink.  Will there be much blood, I wonder?  Probably; so I turn on the faucet, the hot water faucet.  In a moment, steam rises from the sink.  I'm going to do it this time.  I'm going to fucking do it this time.

But, how many times have I said that?  How many times have I been here before, standing with my dick hanging over the sink, this same knife poised over it: ten; fifteen; twenty times?  I don't do it.  I can't fucking do it.  It should be so easy -- just cut through the mother fucker -- but I can't do it.  I can't even cut it a little.  I'm a fucking coward.  I can't even cut the skin a little.  I turn off the water and put the knife back in the drawer.

Back in front of the mirror, I push my cock in, hiding it somewhere down in my ball sac.  Why couldn't I do it?  Why couldn't I cut it off?  This is how I want to look.  This is how Domogalla must look. 

Oh, yeah, I was going to shave my pubic hair.  I can do that at least.  Shit.  I'm going to catch it in P.E. tomorrow.  Oh, well.  I'd planned to go back to school without a cock.  I guess I can go back without pubic hair.

I go into the bathroom again, open the medicine cabinet, taking out one of Dad's disposable razors, grabbing his shaving cream as I do; the sit down on the toilet to take a piss.  I always piss sitting down, imagining that I have no cock to piss through.  I wonder how Domogalla pisses?  I wonder where his piss hole is?  After slipping off my socks, I step into the shower and turn it on.

Wetting myself all over first, I turn around, letting the water hit my back while I squirt shaving cream into my hand, then smear it on my groin.  I go to work with the razor.  Some of my pubic hair comes off along with the cream.  I get hard again.  Shaving off my pubic hair makes me hard.

Half turning around, I wash off the razor then take another swipe with it: more cream; more hair.  Before long my crotch is bare; I still have curly hair on my balls, but none above or around my cock.  I try shaving my balls, but nick them, so I leave them alone.

After drying off, I go back into Mom's room.  I want to see myself in the mirror.

Fuck -- I like it.  I fucking like it; except that it makes my cock look even larger, I like it.  I wish I'd done it long ago.  I'm going to catch hell in P.E., but I'm glad I did it.  I just wish I could have cut off my cock, too.

I hear the front door open.  Oh, shit. Mom's home.  I grab my clothes; when I do, I see the wadded up tissues on the floor; so I grab them, too.  Wouldn't do to leave them.  Still some spots on the carpet; but maybe she won't notice.  They're no longer white.  By the time she's in the kitchen, I'm in my room with the door shut.  Thank God, she always goes into the kitchen first.  "Marty," I hear her call, "you home?"

"Yeah, Mom," I answer.  I hear her go into the bathroom.

I hear her come out; then there's a knock on my door.  "Marty," she says, "can I come in?"

"Just a minute."  I slip on some shorts and open the door.

"Did you shave your pubic hair?" she asks.

Fuck, I forgot to wash out the tub.  I nod.  No use denying it.  No other hair looks like pubic hair.

"Why?" she asks.

"I don't know.  I just wanted to."

"Do other kids at school shave down there?" she asks.  I shrug.  "I don't think you're going to like it when it starts growing back in," she adds.  "It's not going to feel very comfortable."

Has she shaved hers? I wonder, but don't ask.

"I guess that's something kids sometimes do," she says, "but don't you have to shower in P.E.?  What are the other kids going to say?" 

I shrug again.  Not as much as they'd say if I showed up without a cock, I think; but I don't say that either.  I've never told Mom I wanted my cock cut off.  She'd freak, if I did.  I haven't mentioned it to either of my parents, since that one time I asked my dad to cut it off.  Later, I hear Mom in the bathroom washing out the bathtub.  I wonder if she'll tell Dad?

Later, naked in bed, I rub my bald crotch.  I like it.  I like how if feels.  I get hard again -- and jack off.  I don't want to, but I do.  At least, there's no pubic hair for the cum to mat in.  I wipe it off with a Kleenex.  Yeah, I like it.  I wish I'd shaved it off a long time ago.

Chapter 3: Brian Domogalla:

One:

Some little dork followed me home.  I thought he was going to say something when I looked back at him, the little shit.  He probably just wanted a closer look at the freak.  I don't think I've ever seen him before, but he's probably a seventh grader.  Who pays attention to seventh graders?  Maybe I'll add him to my list.

My list?  Am I really making a list: a list of the kids I want to kill?  Clapp, Nix, and Schmidt, certainly; that slut, Jean Claiborne, too.  She's always making snide remarks about me.  There's more: a lot fucking more; but I don't guess I can kill all of them.  They won't forget me, though.  I'll give them something to remember; something besides that I don't have a cock.

I'm going to do it, aren't I?  Can I do it?  Do I have the guts to do it?  They deserve it; ;they all deserve it; but can I do it?  Can I really kill someone?  Then, I think about Clapp.  I could kill him.  I could kill that mother fucker.  I don't know about the rest, but I could kill him.

I go into my parents room.  My dad has a nine millimeter pistol.  I think it holds about fourteen shots.  I have my .22 rifle.  It hold twenty-five or so, but doesn't have much punch.  I wish I had an AK-47 or something like that, but not much chance of that.  I have no idea where I'd get one.

I find my dad's pistol, but I can't find any bullets.  Why does he have a gun, if he doesn't have any bullets?  But, maybe he keeps them in the safe in his closet.  If he does, I'm out of luck.  He keeps it locked; and I don't know the combination.  I have a box of bullets for my .22, but I need the pistol.  I guess I don't do it tomorrow.  I was going to.  I was going to blow that fucker, Clapp, away, but I need the pistol.  I need the pistol to get close enough to him that I don't miss.  I want to stick it in his eye.  I want it to be the last thing he ever sees.

I'm going to have to find a way to get some bullets; I can't steal any; they keep them behind the counter; and they won't sell them to a kid my age.  They won't even sell me .22's.  I have to get my dad to buy them for me.  I'll find a way, though.  Maybe I'll get some bum to buy them for me or someone at a gun show.  Those kids in Colorado bought guns.  I should at least be able to buy some bullets. 

I grab my .22 and head for the woods.  I need to practice.

Chapter 4: Marty Joyce:

One:

"Fuck -- what did you do that for, Joyce?" Sam Albert, a kid in my P.E. class says, when I pull off my shorts to take a shower.  "Look.  Joyce shaved his pubes."

"Fucking queer," someone else says.  I'm not certain who.

"What'd you do that for?" Albert asks again.

I shrug.  "I don't know," I say, "I just did.  I like it.  I think it's cool."

"You look like a little boy, a little smooth crotch boy," Craig Aarons says.

"Makes his dick look bigger." I'm no longer paying attention who says what.

"Is that why you did it, Joyce, to make your dick look bigger?" asks Albert.  "It still ain't that big."  Albert has the biggest cock of any boy in our class.  Mine's about six inches when hard, but his is almost that big soft.  I've never seen it hard.  No telling how big it gets then.  He's not a big kid; but his cock is huge.  I'd hate to have it hanging from my crotch.  He seems proud of it, though.

"I don't want my cock to look bigger," I say.  I don't want it at all, I want to say.  "I just like how it looks and how it feels.  Without thinking, I run my hand across where I'd shaved.

"You're a dork," says Albert.  "I always knew you were a dork." 

Most of the others agree.  I don't care.  Someday, I'll really give them something to talk about.  I think about yesterday in the bathroom.  I wish I'd cut it off.  I wish I'd had the guts to cut it off.  Even though they tease me, I'm glad a shaved my pubes.  I'm glad I did that much, at least.  I'm going to keep them shaved.  I don't care what anyone says.  I'm going to keep them shaved.  If Domogalla can take the teasing they give him, I can take a little for shaving my pubes.  It makes me feel closer to him.

Two:

I'm waiting for him again when he comes out after school, sitting on the railing by the stairs where I was the day before.  This time he looks at me.  "Hi," I say, but he doesn't answer, so I wait until he's at the bottom of the stairs then follow him.

We're about half way to his house. He's glanced back two or three times to look at me.   "Are you following me?" he asks this time.

"No," I say.  "I go home this way."

"Yeah -- why haven't I seen you before?"  I shrug.  Turning around, he continues walking.

We're a couple of blocks from his house when I say, "I almost cut off my cock last night."

He turns back around.  "Are you fucking with me?" he says.  "I'll kick your ass, you little punk."

"No -- really," I say.  "I tried to cut it off.  I wanted to, but I couldn't.  Will you cut it off for me?"  I didn't plan that.  It just comes out.  Fuck.  I get hard thinking about it.  Suddenly, that's what I want.  I want him to cut it off.  I'm glad I didn't cut it off myself.  I want him to do it; then we'll be alike; we'll be like brothers.

"Are you fucking crazy?" he asks.

"No," I say.  "I just want to be like you."

"I don't even want to be like me," he says.

"I do," I say.  "I hate my cock.  I want you to cut it off for me." 

"You are fucking crazy," he says. 

I shrug.  I do a lot of that lately.  "Please.  I want you to cut it off for me."

"You're a nut case," he says.  "Go on.  Get out of here."

"If you cut mine off, you won't be the only one that doesn't have one.  Wouldn't you like that?  Wouldn't you like for there to be another boy that doesn't have a cock."  He looks at me -- looks down at my crotch.  I wonder if he can see I have a hard on?  He probably can.  It's pressing against my jeans.

"You want to come in my house?" he asks.   I nod.  "I'm not going to cut off your cock, but I'd like to take a look at it.  Will you show it to me."

"Yeah," I say, "Will you let me see -- " I glance down at his crotch.  It's flat: no bulge at all.  That's how I want to look.

"Fuck -- OK," he says.  "Everyone else has seen it.

We go into his house.  "Where's your parents?" I ask.

"They don't get home until six," he says.  "What's your name, Kid?"

"Marty Joyce," I tell him.  "What's yours -- I mean, I know your name is Domogalla, but what's your first name?"

"Brian," he says.

"Brian," I say.  Brian Domogalla, I say to myself.  We go into his room; he shuts the door.

"OK," let me see it," he says.

"My cock?" I ask.

"Yeah, your fucking cock.  What else have we been talking about?"

I unbuckle my belt -- start to unzip my pants, then hesitate.  "I've got a hard on," I say.

"I can see you have a hard on," he says.  "I want to see it.  I've never see a hard on, not on a real boy, anyway.  I've seen pictures of them on the Internet, but I've never seen one in real life."

Unzipping my pants, I slide them down, dropping them and my boxers down around my ankles.  Unless my mom or dad has seen me when I'm asleep -- sometimes I wake up with the covers off, my erect cock sticking out of my boxers -- he's the first person -- other than me, of course -- that's ever seen my dick hard.

"Where's your pubic hair?" he asks, "You have some, don't you?"

"Yeah, I shaved it off," I say.

"Why?"

"I don't know.  I couldn't cut off my cock, so I shaved my pubes instead.  It was something, at least.  I thought it'd make me more like you.

"I have pubic hair," he says.  "I have balls.  I'm full of fucking testosterone.  I just don't have a cock."

"That's not what I meant," I say.  "I figured you have pubic hair.  I -- I couldn't cut off my cock, so I shaved my pubes.  It was all I could think to do.  I wanted to be different from the other boys, too.   They teased me about it in P.E. today."

"They tease me everyday," he says.

"I know," I say.

"You have a nice cock."

"I hate it," I say.  "I want you to cut it off."

"I know.  You keep telling me.  I'm beginning to believe you."

"I mean it."  He reaches for my cock.

"Fuck -- it's hard, but soft, too.  The skin is soft." he says.  "I didn't know they got so hard.  Do you jack off?"

My face burns.  Again, I nod.  "I don't like to, but I can't help it."

"Can I do it to you?" he asks. 

"Will you cut it off, if I let you?"  I'm going to let him do it.  I want to let him do it; but even more, I want him to cut it off.

"We'll talk about it later," he says.

"Will you let me look at you while you do it?" I glance down at his crotch.

This time, he's the one that shrugs.  "Why not?" While he unbuttons his jeans, I pull off my t-shirt and kick off my shoes and step out of my pants.  I'm naked, except for my socks.  "You ready for this?" he asks.  I nod.

God -- I love it.  He has no cock; no cock at all; pubic hair above his balls, but no cock.  "Can I touch it?" I ask.

"You're weird, Kid, but OK."

I run my hand over his crotch -- over his smooth crotch.   I love it.  That's how I want mine to feel.  "You ought to shave your pubes," I say. 

"That's all I need," he says.  "It's bad enough as it is.  Come on.  Let's lie down on my bed."

"Will you kiss me?" I ask.  I hadn't thought about it before, but I want him to kiss me.

"Are you queer?" he asks.

"For you," I say, "not for anyone else -- only for you.  I love you."

"You love me?  You don't even know me."

"I know enough," I say, running my hand over his crotch, then down, below his balls.  I feel a hole. "Is that where you pee?" I ask.

He nods.  "Keep rubbing it.  That feels good."  He's pumping my cock.  I'm about to cum.  I look up at him, opening my mouth.  I want him to kiss me.  He does.  I cum.

"Keep rubbing," he says, when I quit; I do; then I feel something wet and sticky squirt from his pee hole.  I don't have to look to know it's cum.  "Oh -- oh fuck," he says, "God damn."

"Did you cum?" I ask.  Foolish question; it's all over my hand; but I ask it anyway.

"Yeah," he says.

"Do you cum often?" I ask.

"The first fucking time," he says.  "I had a wet dream once, but this is the first fucking time.  God damn, it feels good.  I didn't know it felt so good.  Do you jack off much?"

"Yeah.  A lot more since I found out about you.  You turn me on."

"Don't you like it?"

I shake my head.  "No, I don't like it.  It makes me feel -- I don't know -- out of control.  I jack off, not because I want to, but because I have to.  I swore I wasn't going to jack off yesterday, but I did.  If I was going to cum, though I'd rather cum like you do, though, through a hole down there." I touch his pee hole again.  He came a lot.  There's spunk all over the underside of his crotch.

"You really don't like your cock?"

"No, I hate it."

"Wow.  What a fucked up world," he says.  "I want a cock.  More than anything, I want a cock.  You have one -- a nice one too, not too big, not as big as those on the guys in the porn flicks, but nice, and you don't want it."

"I want you to cut it off," I say.

"You might bleed to death," he says.

"You can put some rubber bands around it first," I say.  "If you put them on tight enough, maybe I won't bleed too much."

"They'd put me in jail, if I cut off your cock."

"I won't tell anyone.  I'll tell them I did it myself."

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

"I can't," I say.  "I've tried, but I can't.  Like I told you, I tried yesterday, but I couldn't.  Besides, now, I'd rather have you do it."

"It'll hurt," he says.  "I imagine it'll hurt a lot."

"I don't care," I say.  "I want you to do it.  Will you do it?"

"I don't know.  I'll have to think about it.  You want to fool around some more?  I nod; "I might make you cum again," he says.

"It's OK," I say.  "I don't mind it when you do it."

While he pulls on my cock, I rub his pee hole.  My face is next to his.  I feel his breath on my face.  It caresses my lips.  I breathe it in.  It's sweet.  His breath is sweet.  I part my lips.  So does he.  Our lips meet.  His are soft, soft and moist.  I stick my tongue through his open lips -- run it along his teeth.  I imagine that I can taste the whiteness of them; he has beautiful teeth, white and even.  Then I feel his tongue dart into my mouth, no tentative jab like I'd made, but a thrust, an invasion, but a welcome one, a most welcome one.  I open my mouth, trying to swallow him, his tongue --- all of him.  I cum; but not with just my cock this time -- with all of me, with all my being.

I leave before his parents come home.  I've cum four times; and he's cum three, I think. We made a mess of his bed.  Cum all over it.  He hasn't said he was going to cut off my cock; but he hasn't said he wouldn't either.  Anyway, I'm coming home with him tomorrow.  Shit -- I'm hard again, just thinking about it.  He turns me on.  I love him.  I want to be just like him.

The next day I shave my pubes again before going to school; they were growing out; I had a little stubble already.  Brian said he likes me like this; that's all that matters.