Obsession

At first I was just curious. It was only later that I became obsessed with castration. I was almost fifty years-old and hadn’t much of a sex life-no partners of either sex. I didn’t have much interest in sex-probably masturbated only a couple of times a month. One day, while at my computer, when my balls were uncomfortably squished by the chair and my jeans, I thought, “What good are these things? It’s not like I use them, or really need them.”

One of my older friends had once said, “God has it all wrong. When you get old, instead of having your teeth falling out, your balls should fall off. You need teeth, but you no longer need balls.”

I was beginning to think that he was right. I couldn’t conceive of any use I had for them. Oh, I still had erections, but it was getting more difficult to get off-and my climaxes weren’t that great. Besides, I had some prostate problems. Possibly, being castrated would get rid of them. So, I searched the Web for “castration.”

I found several sites, but the two which influenced me the most were Sherry’s site, on which she described her castration, and the Eunuch Archive. At first I just read the stories. They got me hot. Reading castration stories-and fantasizing about my own castration-made me hot. I was soon masturbating more frequently than I had in years.

I read about different possibilities-different means of getting myself castrated: banding; crushing the cords; cutters; and about Dr. Spector in Philadelphia. I finally decided that saving up my money for Dr. Spector would be, not only the safest, but the most discrete road to travel to my castration. I had seen pictures of him, though. He was old. I wasn’t sure that he would still be practicing by the time I had saved enough money. Actually, he retired before I could.

After awhile, I began reading the message boards on EA. as well. Many people who had been voluntarily castrated posted on them. I never read a post by anyone who regretted being castrated. They were glad to be without balls. Reading their posts reinforced my desire to be castrated. I began saving my money-and making plans for a trip to Philly for the summer of 2003. By May, I had most of the money saved-so, I made an appointment for the early part of July with Dr. Kimmel, who had replaced Dr. Spector.

The closer I came to the time for my castration, the more aroused I became. I was masturbating several times a week-something I hadn’t done for years. Although I knew I wouldn’t do it, I fantasized about masturbating one last time on the operating table, about shooting one last wad before I lost my balls. The thought made me especially hot.

During the week before my trip to Philadelphia, I masturbated every day-sometimes twice a day. When I lost my balls, they were going to be drained of sperm-if they any longer produced much.

The night before my castration, I checked into the hotel in Philly-the one Dr. Kimmel had suggested. As I did, I wondered if they knew why I was there-and what they would think, if they did. How would they look at me, if they knew it was going to be my last night to have balls-that by the same time the next night my balls would be in a bottle in my suitcase? I got hard just thinking about it. I masturbated one last time that night-or at least I came once. That was all I could. I had masturbated more during the last week than I had since I’d been a teenager. The thought of my approaching castration had aroused me that much.

Before going to bed, I took my pill-the antibiotic that Dr. Kimmel had prescribed-then bathed, a long hot bath. I was supposed to shave-down there-but, I had been plucking my pubic hair for years, so there wasn’t much to do. I liked the smooth look and feel of not having any hair around my genitals. At least Dr. Kimmel wouldn’t be surprised to see my hairless crotch as the physician I had gone to earlier-for another reason-had been.

I had already discussed my reasons for wanting to be castrated with Dr. Kimmel. Libido, I had said-out of control libido. It wasn’t true; until I had begun thinking about being castrated, my libido had been very much under control. At least, it had been for years. It might have been out of control when I was younger-but probably no more than for most young males. Needing to masturbate a couple of times a month-until I became interested in castration-is hardly a symptom of out of control libido. He accepted my reason; though he was probably more interested in the $2000 than he was in my reason.

My appointment was for 1:00 PM. I arrived about fifteen minutes early. I didn’t want to be late for my castration-for what I had come to think of as a major turning point in my life. In a couple of hours I would no longer have balls: no balls to stick to the sides of my legs; no balls to get squished by my jeans or by the long hours spent sitting at my computer.

It’s not that I didn’t want to be a male. I had no desire to be a woman-or to look like a woman. I liked my cock-and wanted to keep it. I had just become obsessed with getting rid of my balls. I was looking forward to the “eunuch calm,” but mostly the thought of being castrated aroused and excited me-it had become my obsession. When I had posted on the message board at EA. that I had the date set for my castration, several people had congratulated me-and wished me well.

While I waited for my appointment, I filled out the consent forms for my castration-forms saying that I wanted to lose my nuts. I signed a paper saying that I was willingly giving up what most men would rather die than lose-what many men felt made them men. I would no longer fully be a man. I wasn’t becoming a woman, but neither would I any longer be a man. I would be a eunuch-a third sex-or sexless; for, without balls, I might be male, but I would no longer be a man. Isn’t that what it means to be a man: to have balls? A boy doesn’t become a man until his balls ripen and begin producing testosterone, which changes him from a boy into a man-and, I wanted to lose them.

After I had filled out the forms, Dr. Kimmel came out to greet me. I expected him to ask me if I really wanted to go through with it-I sometimes wonder what I would have said if he had-but he didn’t. I had, after all, filled out the consent forms. He just asked me if I’d been taking the antibiotics he’d prescribed. When I assured him that I had, he led me into the operating room.

I stripped and lay down on the operating table. It was covered by a green cloth. Dr. Kimmel’s assistant prepped me. He complimented me on the good job that I had done shaving. I didn’t bother to tell him that I’d been plucking my pubic hair for years. I had shaved my legs-about half way to my knees-and I had shaved my stomach-up to my navel.

They smeared some red antiseptic all over my crotch; then Dr. Kimmel gave me the shots-one in each testicle-then into my abdomen alongside my cock. They hurt; and, unfortunately, I have a resistance to anesthetics. The first shots weren’t enough. I had four more before the my balls were numb enough for him to proceed. My cock-despite my willing it down-had been about half hard when I climbed onto the table. Dr. Kimmel had taped it to my belly without commenting about it; but my hard on disappeared with the first injection into my left nut. Being the one that hung the lower of the two, it was the first one that Dr. Kimmel had grasped. The shots hurt.

I had wanted to watch myself being castrated, but they put a gown on me and then slid a table, on which was placed the instruments they would need, over the operating table stopping it at my stomach. It prevented me from seeing the operation.

He checked-by poking my scrotum with a needle-to see if I was numb enough. I was; so, he began-began cutting. There was no turning back now.

I didn’t feel him cut, but I did feel the blood running down into the crack of my ass. In a moment he held up an object. “Here’s the left one,” he said.

What’s the old saying, “I’d give my left nut?” Well, I had just given my left nut. Already, I was beginning to wonder what I was getting in return; but, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say, “Stop, don’t cut the other one off.” He didn’t cut it off right away. He had to tie off and stitch up the cords on the first one. I didn’t really see my left nut clearly. There had been too much blood on it. I’d get the chance to see it better when it was in the bottle. I had requested that they be saved for me.

After stitching up the cords to my left nut, he began cutting on my right one. Before long, he held it up, too. “Here’s the other one,” he said.

Well, there was certainly no going back, now. I was a eunuch. I was ball-less. I was no longer a man. I should have been happy. This was of what I had dreamed-had been my fantasy-for over a year. This had been my obsession, but now that it had been done-now that I no longer had balls-all I felt was their loss. What would I fantasize about now? What was it going to be like to have no sex drive-to never be aroused at all? Perhaps I should have heeded some of the suggestions on the message boards to take a test drive first-to try out chemical castration before undergoing surgical castration, but my desire hadn’t been to get rid of testosterone, but to get rid of my balls-those unsightly, dangling orbs below my cock. I would get hard just thinking about how I would look without them, and, although I wasn’t getting my scrotum removed that day, I eventually wanted to have it removed, too. I wanted nothing between my legs-but my cock.

Of course, I said none of this to Dr. Kimmel. Instead, I raised my fist into the air, and said, “All right!”

He wasn’t through yet. He had to stitch up the cords on my right nut-then my scrotum. When he was finished, his assistant cleaned the blood from my crotch and my ass. Immediately, I looked down at my balls-or where my balls used to be. My scrotum wasn’t hanging loose as I had expected. It was swollen, and still appeared to be full-but I had seen my balls. Dr. Kimmel had held up each-when he had snipped it free from its cords.

I shook hands with everyone before I left-smiling-outwardly. Behind that smile was doubt. My fantasy had been to get my balls cut off; they had been-but, since I no longer had balls, I no longer had anything to fantasize about. My dream had been realized. I could only hope that it did not become a nightmare.

Back at the hotel, I spent hours looking at myself in the mirror-or holding the bottle containing my balls up to the light so that I could see them clearly. Taking them out of the bottle, I measured them. Each was about 2-1/4 inches long and about 1-1/2 inches across. They were a bluish-white in color.

My scrotum really didn’t look much different; there were stitches in it, but it still seemed to be full. Dr. Kimmel had told me that the swelling would eventually go down; then, I would have nothing but a loose flap of skin hanging from my dick. Gently, I squeezed my scrotum. Although it was partially filled-probably with blood and fluid-there were no balls inside. I held them in my hand.

There wasn’t much pain. I was a little sore, but not enough to use the pain pills that Dr. Kimmel had supplied me. The next day, after visiting Dr. Kimmel’s office for a check-up, I flew home. I have to admit that I derived some enjoyment from my secret-that I was a eunuch-different from the other men I encountered. What would they think, I wondered, if they knew that I had no balls-that I had paid to have them cut off-for no reason other than to satisfy my obsession-that, instead of between my legs, they were in a bottle-in my suitcase. While waiting in line for the security check, I sat down on my suitcase, straddling it. Well, I thought, my balls are once again between my legs.

When I returned home, I logged onto E.A. and posted that my “dream” had been realized-that I was now a eunuch. I received congratulations from everyone. I began to think that I made the right decision. I didn’t really feel any different. I even masturbated-successively climaxing; the usual amount of come oozed from my cock. It didn’t seem any different-even though there was no sperm in it-even though there would never be any sperm in it. Besides, I thought, I could look forward to the “eunuch calm.”

It never came. I don’t know whether it’s a myth, or, whether I am somehow different, but I never experienced “eunuch calm.” Instead, I experienced hot flashes, depression, lack of energy, and weight gain-and-loss of libido. After a few weeks, my cock no longer got hard. I could still climax if I worked at it long enough, but there hardly seemed to be any reason to make the effort-other than to see if I could still do it.

I quit posting on the message boards. How could I tell all those who had congratulated me-those, who I partially blamed for having talked me into being castrated, that it had been a mistake-that I regretted having my balls cut off. I missed not having a libido. My life seemed somehow empty without it. I felt old. In the mirror, I looked older. Young men have libido. Old men-ball-less men-do not. Although I could still appreciate the pictures that had previously turned me on, without the accompanying stirring in my groin, I soon became bored with them.

But, you’re now free of libido, I would say to myself. Now, you can concentrate on other things-on more constructive, fulfilling things; but, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. With my libido, had also fled my desire, my drive-my energy. All I did was lie around watching TV. Previously an Internet junkie, I would go days without even turning on my computer; and, I wasn’t sleeping well either. I was too depressed to sleep.

After a failed suicide attempt, my doctor put me on HRT. I regularly get testosterone injections. I’ve got some of my libido back and some of the energy that I had lost-even lost a little of the weight, but that comes off much more slowly than it had gone on. In many ways, things are as they were before my castration-except that there is nothing but an empty flap of skin hanging from my cock. My balls are in the bottle on a shelf in my room.

Everything is almost the same-except, now I have to pay for the testosterone that my balls used to produce. It’s money that I would prefer spending on other things-a new computer, TV or car. Although my balls no longer get squished from sitting for hours at my computer, my empty scrotum still sticks to my leg in the summer, and with the money I’m paying for testosterone, I’ll never be able to save enough to have it removed.

I joined a gym to try to work off some of the weight I’d gained, but I never shower there. I haven’t the courage to show off my empty sack to other men-men whom I envy for still having their balls.

Visit my site at: http://www.slammr.com/slammr_stories/ You'll find illustrations and links to my other stories, and to stories by some of my favorite authors on EA.