“Oh, DO hurry up, Silva! It’s a long swim to the States, you know, and the plane won’t wait!”

The boy chiding me is Simon Scott, some years older than me, and one of the most popular students here at Southdown Hall School in Britain. Marvelous school, Southdown. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to be here, but you can read all about that in “Ricky Goes to School”. That would be me, you know – Ricky Silva. I’ve never done a story like Simon has, and as this is my first time, you’ll please forgive me if I ramble or digress? I thought you might…

For those of you who don’t know me, though, well, there isn’t all that much to tell. I’m an orphan. I’m not actually sure how old I am, either. The fake passport papers state that I’m 14 now; I think I may be younger. I certainly DO look younger… I was born in the United States, I think – at least, my mother registered my birth there. I do know I was born on July 4th. Ironic, that… I don’t recall her, and I know nothing of my father. About all I remember of my earlier childhood was missing my mother very much when she never came back to the camp we were living in. I didn’t know it then, but she was doing volunteer work in the Orient. Malaysia, near Cambodia, to be precise.

I was cared for well enough by the VSO people she worked with, but when things got sticky there and they left, they abandoned me. I still don’t understand how anyone could just up and leave a child behind, but they did. I then fell in with some sort of hippie-commune, where all of us children, (and there were a LOT of us!) were pretty much treated like public property. It wasn’t bad, as it was a very relaxed atmosphere. Relaxed, in fact, to the point that clothing us children wasn’t much of a priority and many of us, even girls, just ran nude most of the time in good weather. Of course, nothing untoward happened to me with them, but I was pretty much left to care for myself. I soon learned that if I stood in a line long enough, there would likely be food at the end of it. One becomes pretty streetwise fast that way.

Then one day, the commune moved on. Some men in trucks came, and in the confusion (I think I remember some hostilities, maybe gunfire?), I got separated from my caregivers and ended up being put in the back of a truck with several other boys. To this day, I don’t like sudden, loud noises. They locked us in the back of the truck, come to find out, when one boy, Li Shih, had to pee and could not get out and wet himself! They wouldn’t stop for anything, either; not even to feed us. It was a long, bumpy, miserable ride, I remember.

I should probably mention that of all these Asian and mixed-race boys, I was the most mixed and unique of all: I look quite Chinese in features, but I have yellow blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. This made me something of an oddity, and many of the other boys didn’t like me for it. A great deal of them made fun of me because of my features, even though the adults were always telling me how special, even beautiful, I was. I think they were just jealous. Over time, though, I did make some friends, and I miss them. I would later come to find out that I inherited my Scandinavian coloration from my mother, an American named Linda Benson, and my Chinese features from my mixed-race father, David Silva. I wish I could remember him…

It’s actually my Grandparents, on my mother’s side, that have arranged this trip to visit them, but we’ll get to that shortly.

To make a long back story short, the truck deposited us at a remote orphanage. It was a ten-hour drive to civilization from there, and I can’t for the life of me see why anyone would set up shop out there. But there were about 100 other boys there, and girls, so obviously there was a need for the place. It wasn’t much of a place, but it had food, a warm and dry place to sleep, and other boys that weren’t so rude as some I’d known. The girls, well, we were in separate buildings, so I can’t speak much on them. I did make a new friend there fairly soon, though. His name was Jimmy, but over time, I came to dislike him very much. He eventually came to Britain as well, being passed off as my little brother, although he was fully Chinese and probably older than I am. For more on that, you’ll have to read “Simon & the Horrible Hotel”. He’s in a special school for traumatized children now…

Not to digress upon Jimmy’s case too much, but it does merit a mention. Jimmy was rather…queer, if you ask me. He had been a “beach boy” since he was very little, coming and going at the home where I found myself then. He was there before Dr. Kristen Geller bought the place, and it was Dr. Geller that finally settled him down. I should probably mention how she did that, too – she castrated him.

And me.

Don't be surprised. In this day and age, a great number of boys of all ages are neutered. Mostly, it’s done by injecting Neutersol Rapid or Pediatric (depends on the age of the neuteree) into the testicles to make them shrink up and vanish. It’s called “having your balls pricked”, as the boys in Britain call it. Simon once told me he knew an American boy named Jason Johnson who called it “having your balls stung out”. It also destroys the erectile nerves, making it so that a boy can never fuck a girl or even get hard ever again! (Just so you know, Simon told me it doesn’t sting.) Me and Jimmy, however, were cut. We had a surgery, and I admit, at the time, Dr. Geller had talked me into it and I was all for it. I thought it was a very good idea at the time, but nowadays, sometimes I wonder. I don't think Simon really approved of it. I know it really bothered my Grandparents too, but we’ll get to that.

As it turned out, Jimmy and I were the only castrated boys there. We were ‘boy-eunuchs’, as Dr. Geller called us. She seemed to favor us, too. While all the other boys had shabby clothing and buzzed haircuts, Jimmy and I had longer, styled hair and better clothes. But Jimmy was a unique case in that his castration hadn’t settled him down a bit. Before his surgery, Jimmy was entering puberty and acting “coltish”. In fact, he was going about with an erection all of the time and fiddling with it. It was quite annoying. Dr. Geller had to restrain him, as he went mad when she told him what she was going to do to him. But when it was over (maybe it was the drugs?) Jimmy just seemed to accept it. He couldn’t get hard anymore, about 2-3 weeks after the cut, and his scrotum just shrank up; so did his penis. It was hardly a nub that he could pee through, and he had to sit down to pee from there on out. For that matter, so do I.

But the other thing that happened to Jimmy was that his desire for sex didn’t go away like it does for most boy-eunuchs. He still wanted to get hard. He still wanted to wank. He still wanted to fuck someday – whether it was boys or girls, I don't know – but he couldn’t. And he knew he never would. Neutering had made his tiny cock limp and useless forever, so he turned to the one way that he still had to find sexual pleasure – being fucked.

Up the arse.

By grown men!

Can you imagine?!

Now, for the record, “I” have never been fucked and I never will be! Don't even think about it! I value my virtue highly, thank you very much…

But Jimmy didn’t.

On many occasions, men would come to our home and pay Dr. Geller money to spend a night with Jimmy. Sometimes, they would spend a night with another boy. Some came for girls. It was by eavesdropping late one night that I learned this, when I overheard Dr. Geller making a deal with someone named Riche, a repeat customer. I think he was a Major. Anyway, he wound up renting Jimmy and fucking him silly! That was Jimmy for you – always ready for a “good sucky-fucky,” as he called it. What frightened me more, though, was when men would ask for ME.

“How much for a go with the blonde Chinese boy?” They used to ask.

But Dr. Geller never allowed that. I think I was her favorite. But that was how I learned one way that Dr. Geller made money to keep our home running. It makes me sad now, looking back at that.

I must have been special to her somehow, since all the other boys I came in with were shipped out on another truck about a week or so later. I never saw any of them again, Li Shih included. But I stayed on at Dr. Geller’s home for us kids, and I have to say, I liked her and liked being there. It was better than what I’d known, and I actually felt safe with her. I wouldn’t find out until years later what she’d been doing to all of those boys, or where they ended up.

To skip ahead some, otherwise we’ll never get to my summertime adventure in the United States…

One day, a man came to see Dr. Geller. It turned out that he was Simon’s Uncle Carl, Carl Scott, and he paid for me to come to Britain to go to school with Simon! I wish I could have met him in person to thank him for changing my life and giving me this opportunity, but I never got to. He died in a bus crash, right into the sea, not long ago.

I used to think, ‘Poor Simon, he never talks about it, but I know he’s just crushed. Uncle Carl was really the only family he had.’ That was before I found out the whole story, which I’ll sort of gloss over here:

For a long time Simon had looked on Carl as the family he’d never really had (his parents having shed responsibility for him when he was not much more than ten). All of those seemingly generous actions by his uncle, and even the times he’d been made to have sex, he’d taken for signs of affection – even in some strange way, love.

But in the days before that fatal crash into the waters of Portsmouth Harbour, Carl had emerged in his true colours. Carl used all of humanity as his pawns. Manipulation was his sole objective. Simon himself was typical of his uncle’s obsessive passion for control, from being taken to have his balls pricked, all those years ago, to a whole series of indecent degrading acts behind locked doors, humiliation and emotional blackmail. Did I tell you about Marcia? Well, do read “Simon Toes the Line” if you are interested.

It was the realisation that his uncle would stop at nothing, however inhuman or immoral, that would increase his control over others, which shattered Simon, even before the crash. Once I found out all of this, it changed my perceptions of Carl Scott a great deal. I’m glad Simon finally told me all this, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I know the death left Simon VERY well off, but money isn’t all that important, is it? I would think a family is, and that’s whyI’m so glad my Grandparents finally found me.

But that’s another thing I owe Dr. Geller, even though I would later come to find out that she was just Simon’s Uncle – manipulative, for her own gain. Actually, it was she who tracked them down via my only link to America – my old United Airlines baggage tag from back when my mother registered my birth there. I don’t know why she didn’t leave me with my grandparents then; looking back, I’d think I’d have been safer, don’t you? The Orient’s backcountry is no place for a baby, is it? What WAS she thinking?

So, anyhow, that’s how I got here – Southdown Hall School, Britain, like I said. It’s now summer holidays, seven weeks off, and I’m off with my best friend Roddy Fisher to visit my Grandparents in West Chester, Pennsylvania, United States! Simon’s very put off with us, since it’s taking us too long to pack and the plane will be leaving soon. Simon’s driving us to Heathrow in his gray Aston-Martin, now that he’s 17 and legal to drive it on the highways. Some Judge-lady friend of his pulled some strings, though, so he drove it before.

Melanie, Simon's long-time girlfriend, is coming too. She’s clearly going through one of her "retro" phases. To see us off she had put on a very short vinyl mini-skirt, worn over fishnet tights. At a guess she wasn't wearing any knickers. I thought, at first, what a slut she looked, but then reflected that Simon undoubtedly loved her (so far as a boy-eunuch can love a girl!) and that was all that mattered. She can’t drive worth a damn either, or so Simon says. I hear she’s trashed her mum’s Landrover Discovery. I really hoped SHE wasn’t driving!

“Fisher! For God’s sake, you don't have to pack up all THAT! And why take your uniform? School’s out for a bit?” Simon gently encouraged us. “Wear the peach button-down, yes, that’s the one! Goes well with your complexion, you see.”

So there we were, Roddy and I, getting packed up and ready to go. Dressing was a bit of a problem, though, as I don’t really own any clothes other than my school uniforms. Of course, I have PE gear, and trainers are always the fashion, but Simon wants us to look sharp. I’m not too sure about this shirt, though – it makes me look like a huge walking Union Jack, and red/blue aren’t really my colors. Melanie picked it out, though, and I don't dare talk back at her and hurt her feelings. I have to admit, I kind of like it when she kisses my cheek…

“How many times can you PEE in one morning, Silva?” Simon asked me irritably. “Shall we pack some nappies, too, or do you need an ivory ring?”

I had been peeing a lot lately, although I didn’t know why. It seemed like I always had to go, and it took a while TO go when I got to the toilet. I was going to ask Matron about it when she cleaned us out, but good, this morning, but I forgot. Her high-volume enemas are quite distracting, and that rubber band she wraps tight on our penises sort of hurts.

“I think I’m ready,” Roddy was telling Melanie, as Simon grabbed up his bag and headed down with it.

Briefly, Roddy is about the same age as I am. We share a room, us and two other boys, and we do everything together. We both have our Under-14 colors at Rugby and track, and we’re both stars of Mr Trefusis’ choir. We perform regularly at various churches, too. I’m a bit worried about moving up to Under-16 soon, but we’ve found that being neutered doesn’t seem to affect us much on the field, compared to intact boys. There I go again…sorry!

Did I mention that Roddy is “THE Roderick Fisher”, boy soprano and recording sensation? He started off doing voice-overs with Mark Maitland, an old friend of Simon’s. I’ve only seen Mark a few times, as he and Simon don’t get on much any more. Mark isn’t a eunuch, like we are, so he’s in a separate part of the school. I may have forgotten to mention that, too…sorry.

But yes, Simon’s a eunuch, just like Roddy and myself. In fact, there’s so many of us here that Dr. Holroyd, the Headmaster, has us in our special part of the school. I think there’s about 100 of us now?

That’s another thing that Roddy and I have in common – we both WANTED to be gelded, you see. Roddy didn’t want a thing to do with puberty and growing up, all those nasty male sexual characteristics like a beard, body hair, and the smell – not to mention the sex drive. Roddy doesn’t talk about it much, but he was raped when he was younger. Mainly by his adoptive older brother, Malcolm. But Malcolm’s in jail now, so that’s not our problem. I think they call Roddy’s case gender-dyslexia, or something – he was a boy who didn’t want to be a boy, but he didn’t want to be a girl, either. I’ve heard of boys, in Thailand, I think, that try to be girls, but I’m digressing again. Sorry.

Anyway, Roddy’s a famous recording artist, but we try to keep that under wraps. It just wouldn’t do to have the public here know that THE Roderick Fisher is a student of Southdown. I’m sure it’ll only get worse when our pop-style album comes out. It’s bad enough when fangirls spot him in public and throw their knickers at him, professing their undying love for him and offering to have his babies.

If they only knew!

Me, I’m pretty good at singing, so Simon says. Of course, my operation guaranteed that. Simon couldn’t sing a note until he’d had his balls pricked, then something just happened. That’s how Roddy was neutered, by the way – Simon and Melanie arranged it for him with Neutersol Plus. Roddy said it was painless, and he slept right through it. He doesn’t miss his balls a bit, and having a tiny cock so that he has to sit to pee doesn’t bother him a bit. Of course, we’re only two of about 100 boy-eunuchs here at Southdown Hall, with more being admitted or made every term. Nowadays, boys with intact balls are becoming something of an oddity, don’t you think?

But getting back to that, yes, Roddy and I do everything together. We’ve even just made a new CD of us doing solos, AND duets. Thanks to computers, we can even harmonize with each other in multiple parts, and we even have one track with old recordings of Mark’s. Our new CD is called “TIME HEALS”. Look for it. My favorite track is “Going Home”; I do the vocals on that one, but Roddy features as the Ghost in the video we just shot.

“We’ve just got time for a bit of shopping,” Melanie told us, once we were (safely?) in the Aston-Martin and tearing off down the highway for the airport. I didn’t know about that. After all, other than my scholarship and what The Simon Scott Centre pays for my needs, I have no money other than the bit my grandparents now send me for pocket money. Surely not enough for real shopping?

“They’ll need some things to take along,” Melanie was telling Simon, once we got parked at Heathrow and headed in. Major airports have a lot of shoppes in them, did you know? I was just astounded, but I thought they were going to strip-search us to let us in! Wouldn’t THAT have been a surprise for them?

And so Melanie pulled out a Gold Visa card and began to supply us with things I never would have bought for myself, even if I could have. She picked out a new Nikon digital camera with movie-mode, and an 8 Gigabyte card for me, and a smaller one for Roddy. I was lingering over some CD’s, but we’d already packed some of our own. I wanted to listen to “TIME HEALS” on the way. It seemed right, somehow, now that I had a family. I checked my watch, a gold Rolex I’d been awarded for services to my country. (You’ll recall that’s when we had that rare earthquake?) It was getting close to time to board. Melanie added some mirrored sunglasses, spare batteries for our I-pods, and some snack foods. I didn’t think I needed that, as I’d put on a bit of weight lately, but I didn’t argue. In fact, I was about to cry. (That’s one of those eunuch-things, but I digress again.)

“For God’s sake, Melanie, they’re not dress-up dolls,” Simon chided her, as Melanie was holding up a Herringbone gold necklace to Roddy’s neck.

“Oh, but Simon, they’re just SO bloody cute!” She replied, pinching my cheek. I felt my face turning red. “And you know how I get!” I thought I heard Simon mutter the word “net” or “wet” or something, but I wasn’t sure and didn’t ask. Simon grinned at her when the loudspeakers called out: “London to Boston, now boarding at Gate 9!”

We made a dash from the mall to Gate 9, with Simon reminding us of things all the way. “Don’t talk to strangers, be nice to the stewardesses, and don’t get lost in Boston when you switch planes. You’re unaccompanied minors, and the staff knows. Now, you’ve got mobile phones programmed with our numbers in case…,”

“Oh, Simon,” Melanie cut him off, as we arrived at the Gate and got checked in. I almost fainted when I saw the plane – it was huge! I think it was an Airbus; not a thing like the rickety, old rusty tin can that I’d flown into Britain on from the Orient! I swear, THAT plane had screen doors…

“First class,” the man checking tickets commented, as he handed us our “Unaccompanied Minor” tags and a very pretty young lady took us in hand.

“Goodbye, Roddy. Goodbye, Ricky. Have a good time,” Simon told us, bending down (he’s almost 2 meters tall now, so I guess they thought he was our dad?) to kiss us both goodbye. Then he quite suddenly burst into tears and crushed us with a hug; should have seen that coming when he used our first names. That’s another one of those eunuch-things, I guess. Sometimes you just cry at silly things. Melanie kissed us goodbye, too. Roddy and I blushed. And then we were headed down the ramp to get on the plane to America.

“…like little brothers…” I could heard Simon saying, as Melanie was handing him a tissue, “…miss them already…long flight…strange country…anything could…,” his voice trailed off. I began to feel guilty and got all misty. Maybe I should have asked Simon to come along, too?

I won’t dwell upon describing the plane. I’m sure you’ve seen them. To be brief, it was very spacious and quite nice. Roddy and I were seated near the cockpit (odd turn of phrase), and surrounded by well-dressed people. The takeoff was quite thrilling, almost like a ride at an amusement park, I thought. A little boy across the way from us with light brown skin and straight black hair grabbed a bag and vomited, though. I offered him some of our motion sickness medicine. His father, I assumed, a much darker-skinned man and obviously from India, accepted it gratefully.

Once we were aloft, and told that we were free to move about the cabin, I ran to the toilet to pee again. This was getting quite annoying! When I got back to my seat, I noticed a rather well dressed and stuffy looking man staring at Roddy. My guard went up at once, remembering what Simon had told us about strangers. The man nodded to me, and I could see that he was listening to an MP3 player. He smiled at me, and the fuzz on the back of my neck stood up. I nudged Roddy, who looked up from his large book about a boy-wizard. “What, then?” He asked. Then he noticed the man and his frightening smile.

“You’ll forgive me, I hope,” the man began, not bothering to introduce himself, nor the young lady sitting next to him. She was young and rather pretty, I thought. “But I think I know who you are?” He then produced a CD from his carry-on. On the jacket, it showed two young choirboys in white robes with hoods, both of them walking into what looked like a ruined ancient cathedral. They were holding hands, and it looked as if they were following behind a ghost.

“You’re Roderick Fisher, aren’t you?” He asked anxiously, “And you must be Ricardo Silva?”

Rats, I thought, our cover was blown already! I just hoped the young lady wasn’t going to throw her knickers at us, or worse!

“Ermmm, yes,” Roddy admitted nervously, and the man reluctantly offered Roddy a pen and his CD. His young girlfriend, thankfully, looked unimpressed. After we’d signed his CD jacket for him, he seemed satisfied. In the seat ahead of him, that Indian fellow with the coffee-colored skin glanced back at us. He reminded me of Manchit Khannah, Simon’s friend. Meanwhile, the little boy who’d been ill was dashing off to the toilet, and our personal stewardess (remember, we were unaccompanied minors) was asking if we needed anything. ‘Autograph-Man’ across the way seemed to be settling in for a nap. I wondered how long the flight would take, but that Indian fellow was still looking at us.

“He OK?” I asked conversationally.

“Oh yes, just a bit ill from the doctor’s, is all,” The Indian man replied. “Blood tests, the usual checkup. He doesn’t like to fly, I think?” He added, in quite good English, just as someone else got up and crashed right into ‘Sickly-boy’, who was returning from the toilet. That man’s elbow caught the boy square in the crotch, but my surprise, the little fellow just went “OOOF!” and said, “Sorry!” as he took his seat. The Indian man looked nervous as the young lady with ‘Autograph-Man’ muttered, “Bet THAT hurt!”

“No, it didn’t,” the boy offered, looking pleased that there might be other boys to talk to on the flight, even if we were older.

“It didn’t hurt a bit?” I had to ask him, knowing what was coming.

“No, he just bumped me,” the boy replied, “I’m Shekhar, I’m eight. What’s your name?”

We introduced ourselves, and Shekhar didn’t believe I was fourteen. Neither did I, for that matter. I don’t think I am, really, but as being neutered sort of makes it hard to tell, I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyhow, Shekhar sort of gravitated to us. Roddy asked him about his checkup, having pulled the earbuds of his CD player out to listen in.

“Just checking me over, you know, down there, too,” Shekhar added in a whisper. He cocked his head. “Why would it hurt if I get bumped there? There’s not anything to hurt?”

The Indian man, who still hadn’t introduced himself, coughed loudly and even managed to turn red, but before he could say anything else, I’d added, “Well, usually it hurts a boy to get bumped in the balls, Shekhar?”

“What?” Shekhar asked, looking confused. “I don’t have any balls? If you have one, maybe can play football (soccer, for you Americans) in the aisle?” I could tell that THIS conversation was going to go places! Then, in all of his childhood innocence, Shekhar said (somewhat loudly), “Uncle, am I supposed to have balls? I didn’t know I could bring them on the plane?” If anyone else around us was listening in, they didn’t react. Thankfully.

Shekhar’s Uncle moved over closer to us. It wasn’t like we were crammed into tiny little seats in coach, you know.

“Shekhar is, ahhh, well, he’s a…and he doesn’t really know he is…,” Uncle ‘What’s-his-name’ fumbled.

“Oh, so you’ve never even told him?” Roddy asked glibly, “And he was young enough when he was done, so that he doesn’t even remember it?”

Of all things! I thought, little Shekhar was a eunuch, and he didn’t even know it!

“Right,” ‘Uncle’ nodded in relief. “The procedure took place when he was a baby. Very holy, you know,” Uncle added. Shekhar was looking confused, so it looked like the time had come to explain to the little fellow just WHAT he was missing down there! We moved to a lounge area, and I could see nothing but ocean out the windows as I peered out.

“What balls, where?” Shekhar asked again.

“Maybe we should explain?” ‘Uncle’ suggested, “Since you seem to be, ahhh?” He fumbled again, apparently thinking it might be rude to suggest that he thought that we were boy-eunuchs too. I guess we must look the part?

Well, we are, so what’s the bother? I let him know that we were. He nodded and grinned. “Thought so,” he said. “Quite holy.”

Roddy then pulled out his laptop from his carry-on. “If you don’t mind, sir?” He asked, pulling up some images. ‘Uncle’ nodded. “You see, Shekhar,” Roddy explained, as the little boy cuddled up between us, “You’re a boy. Now, boys are born with some, uhhh, things…between their legs. You know, the penis and two organs below it, called ‘testicles’, or ‘balls’, held in a little hanging pouch called a ‘scrotum’. But some boys don’t have testicles. They can be born without them, or they can have them taken out by a doctor.”

“But I don’t have anything under my little penis?” Shekhar admitted, “Why is that, Uncle?” He asked, looking fascinated at the images of an intact adult male that Roddy had scanned from his biology text. The next image was that of a eunuch, neutered before puberty. “That’s more like me!” Shekhar agreed.

“Well, my boy,” ‘Uncle’ said, his face still burning, “When you came to live with us, when you were a baby, your Aunt and I decided that it would be best for you to be neutered. That means having your balls out. It makes a boy calmer, makes him a better student and smarter, and he never gets distracted by girls. Many times, it even makes his voice sweeter.”

“Ewwwww!” Shekhar whined at the mention of girls. Then he looked thoughtful. “So I had these ball-things on me when I was born, but you made a doctor cut them out?”

“Actually, the doctor gave you two shots, and your little balls just dried up and disappeared,” ‘Uncle’ explained. “It was a new medicine at the time, but it worked; much better than surgery. There are other advantages, like just now, when that man bumped you. If you had balls, you would be in much pain. They are very sensitive.”

“But what do they do?” Shekhar asked, and the next hour was spent explaining a lot of THOSE things. There was a great deal of dancing around certain subjects, as the boy was far too young to know it all yet, but in the end, I think he understood that he was indeed a eunuch, and that he could never grow up into a real man.

“I’m not sure about this,” Shekhar finally concluded, “But since I don’t remember ever having balls, I guess it’s OK?”

About then, it was time for lunch. Roddy distracted our little friend with a DVD in his laptop, and we watched a movie based on the adventures of that boy-wizard from Roddy’s book. Roddy was really into that series, and that was good for killing about 3 hours, plus the DVD extras. Shekhar seemed fascinated by it all, and all the talk of not having balls went right out the window!

The rest of the flight was uneventful. There was an in-flight film, of course, and then dinner. Roddy and I had steak, and even though we’re not fond of them, we did eat the steamed vegetables. Dessert, which we probably shouldn’t have had, was a wonderful chocolate layer cake with thick frosting (fattening, I’m sure). By the time we were done, Shekhar and us had begun nodding and we slept all the way into Boston.

THAT was where the fun started.

Boston was having bad weather, and it was the turbulence that woke us up. We had to delay and circle until we were almost out of fuel, and when we finally landed roughly and went to pick up our luggage, we were both missing one bag each. To top that off, no one believed our passports saying we were teenagers, and that had to be verified, since we looked so young. Finally, I pulled the big card – “Does the name JUDGE Wendell Benson of Pennsylvania mean anything to you?” I said darkly. Obviously, it did when the employee pulled up some data on his computer. After all, “I” was a US Citizen! All in all, it was quite annoying. I’ll never fly THAT airline again!

We bid our farewells to little Shekhar, the Indian Eunuch, figuring we’d never see him again. Roddy wished Shekhar’s Uncle good luck in raising a boy-eunuch. “You’re going to need it, sir, if he gets up to half the stuff that WE do,” he said by way of goodbye. Shekhar hugged and kissed us both, and I began to wonder about why younger children seemed so attracted to us. By the time we’d found our bags on the wrong carousel, we had at least three strays following us and had to take them to an Officer to sort them all out!

By this time, we were worried about missing our connecting flight on into Pennsylvania. It seemed that we’d be taking a charter plane - much, much smaller, into a private airfield. Of course, the foul weather delayed it. We were handed over to a different young man, along with a couple of other unaccompanied minors, and wound up falling asleep in the lounge while the rain outside came down in buckets and the wind tried to tear the roof off. (Considering we weren’t a bit tired after that nap on the plane, I think that prat put something in our drinks to knock us out!)

It was around three or four in the morning, local time, when someone finally shook Roddy and I awake and told us that our plane was finally ready to depart. We gathered up our bags, and headed out to see a much smaller, twin-engine plane awaiting us. It certainly wouldn’t be first class, but to our joy, the weather had cleared some and the pilot took us one at a time into the cockpit and explained flying to us! It was quite exciting, so we arrived at West Chester all wound up in the early hours of the morning. Flying isn’t all that difficult either, did you know? We both had a turn at the controls, but the pilot insisted on doing the landing himself.

I think we actually arrived at a time before we’d left London. Flying to the USA, you know, you go back like 7 hours in time or something? We reset our watches and I called Gran Benson’s mobile to let her know we’d arrived safely. As it turned out, they’d already called her and she and Grandfather were en route.

When they arrived, Gran went all to bits – just like she always does! Inevitably, she trotted out the phrase “you poor little thing” while dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I guess she’s never gotten over the shock of how I dropped the fact on her at dinner, the first time we ever met! The fact that I’d been neutered, that is. Maybe being a eunuch, in her eyes, is something of a disability? Of course, I am the only child of their only daughter, and I won’t ever be presenting them with biological great-grandchildren, so…

Anyhow, as Gran was fussing all over me, I saw Roddy shaking hands with Grandfather. I have to admit, I liked all that fuss. It felt good; a lot like when Melanie fussed over us. “Glad you could come, Roddy,” Grandfather was saying, “It’s such a comfort knowing our Ricky has such good friends and didn’t have to come all this way alone.”

“Thank you, sir,” Roddy nodded back to him politely, which got Grandfather (he wanted me to call them ‘Grandma and Grandpa’, which sounded strange to me) started up about how stiff and formal “we Brits” were.

“You’ve got to loosen up,” Grandfather…Grandpa Benson was telling us, as we got settled into their car for the drive back to their home. It was a Lexus, and quite nice, I might add.

I should probably mention that this was the first opportunity I’ve had to come to the States and see them since that first time we’d met at Southdown. Even though they don’t appear to want for money, other school breaks are, I think, quite too short to fly halfway ‘round the world for a vacation.

So there we were, and Roddy and I were totally lost, riding along with my Grandparents in this impressive automobile. It was starting to get light outside, and I was getting hungry again. Grandma was chatting away about how fleshy and healthy we looked (I think she was trying to hint at “fat” without saying it! I’m not fat, am I?), and asking this and that about our lives at school. Roddy and I just answered as best we could. After all, we didn’t want to really tell her just how much stuff we got up to! I also had to pee…again!

Roddy and I headed inside when we stopped at a ‘convenience store’, which I found to be anything BUT convenient. There was a wait for the toilet, and when we finally got in, the filthy room smelt of old urine and worse, and there was graffiti all over the walls. It served its purpose, though, much to my relief. The condom vending machine was good for a laugh, too. We were helping ourselves to some instant cappuccino from a vending machine near the coffee pot when I overheard Gran…Grandma saying, “Well I just can’t ASK him now, can I? How would THAT sound?”

“Well, I don’t know, dear!” Grandpa answered her, “They look the same age, but we can’t really be sure. Linda didn’t say WHEN she had the baby, and it’s not like Ricky would have TOLD us that his best friend is…a…,”

“’Eunuch’?” Roddy supplied helpfully, and Grandma dropped her purse in surprise. “It’s OK, Ma’am, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Ohhhhh, you poor little dear! Just like our Ricky!” She almost wailed, grabbing him in of those Grandma-hugs and almost spilling his cappuccino. “Who did it to you, Robert?” She almost begged.

“’Roddy’,” Roddy corrected her politely, “And I wanted to have it done, Ma’am. I didn’t want to grow up into…into something like…like m-my older b-brother,” Roddy stammered. That was it. He’d finally said it.

“You know, you really shouldn’t give them kids X-large coffees,” The clerk offered, and with that, we were off again.

“I just don’t understand it, Wendell,” Grandma was going on and on, “Nowadays, you even get ads in the mail for having boys … fixed!” She almost spat. “How’s a poor old lady supposed to get any grandchildren, if they’re neutering half the boys in the world like stray puppies?” I had to snicker at that one. Looking back, I’m sure that I was reminiscent of a lost puppy when they’d found me.

But ‘poor’ was not a word to describe my Grandparents. Not by a long shot! After stopping for breakfast in a typical American diner (nothing happened, and the place was a dump), we arrived at my home-away-from-school/home. Cumbersome, but accurate, I suppose. Just so you know, I live either at Southdown, or in a suite that Simon keeps for me and Roddy at the Centre. Remember, I’d never even been here before to see my Grandparents’ house; the house that would someday be mine, so Grandpa promised. It also wasn’t in West Chester, PA, either. It was about twenty minutes outside of it, past the suburbs, where the countryside started.

It was huge! It looked like one of the buildings back on campus, brick and imposing, all two stories of it. It sat back a ways from the road up a long, paved drive. Great for skating, I thought. The lawn was filled with huge old trees that must have been centuries old, too. The garage door opened by itself, and when we went in, the foyer was bigger than our dorm room by twice. Even Roddy, who’d spent years at the Knight-Foxes’ in Lymington Haven, was impressed by this house. “Gosh!” Was about all I could manage – as soon as I found the bathroom again, that was. (I was really getting pissed, pun intended, by this time!)

We were then shown to our rooms on the second floor. To our mutual dismay, they were two rooms across the hall from one another, and each even had its OWN bath! Figuring that I probably wouldn’t get reprimanded (I was the darling little grandson, after all!), I politely told them that I hadn’t slept alone in a room since I could even remember. I then launched into a short story about my time in the Orient, at Dr. Geller’s orphanage, and about how I shared my room with three other boys at school. “Please, Gran,” I whined, “I don’t think I can sleep by myself! It’s frightening!” Roddy, of course, saw right through this. He grinned, but turned away so they’d not see him.

OK, OK, I KNOW it was devious, but I admit, I was afraid to ask them outright. They seemed so happy to have us there, and I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot about our accommodations for the next month and three weeks. Of course, they caved in at once and ushered us into one of the rooms.

Two rooms? Were they daft?! There was a queen-size bed in there, an entertainment center, a loveseat and recliner, and a 48” color television! Having hardly ever had two coins to rub together, I shuddered at the amount of money that must be sitting in this room! My humble upbringing, I supposed…

“Are you sure you’ll be OK in here, dears?” Gran…Grandma asked us. I began to wonder if she weren’t going senile? Us, be OK, in here?!

“Maybe you should get some rest?” Grandpa suggested, but we hardly needed that. We’d slept on the plane, slept at Boston, had cappuccino, been fed breakfast – heck, we were ready to roar!

The Grands weren’t, however, so we spent the rest of the morning playing video games and surfing the Dish TV. I kicked my shoes off, and Roddy suggested that we probably needed a bath. Body odor wasn’t a problem for us, not like intact boys, but we did feel sort of travel-strained. We found the bathtub in our ‘suite’, since it was that big of a room, really, to be large enough for all four of our dorm! It was one of those tubs you climb two steps to get into, and deep enough to sit in with your head underwater! After filling it with as hot of water as we could stand, and some powerful, bubbly soap, we settled in. It felt good, after that long flight.

We’d been soaking for about half an hour when there was a knock on the door. “Boys, are you in there?” Grandfather was calling. “Together?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I answered, “In the tub?”

He came on in, but averted his eyes. Not that he could see us anyway, deep as that tub was. “We all shower together at school, sir,” Roddy offered. “We’re sorry, we didn’t think anything of it?”

“No harm done,” Grandfather nodded, grabbing some towels from the cupboard as well as a pair of white, hooded terrycloth dressing gowns. He called them ‘bathrobes’. “I showered with other men in the war, you know. Boys and boys can do that, seeing as how…,” he paused. “You know what I mean?”

“Sir,” Roddy piped up, “I don’t wish to be rude, but you and the Missus simply MUST stop being so worried about us! We’ve both had our balls out, and that’s that. Nothing anyone can do about it, and we’re both fine with it, sir. Please don’t be upset over it?”

“It’s just hard to accept,” Grandfather admitted. “Our only grandchild, lost to us for the first thirteen years of his life, hell! Don’t even know really how old you ARE, boy! And then find you, after you mother passed…and find you’ve been…,” he shook his head. “Oh, Ricky, can you ever forgive us?”

ME, forgive THEM?

What WAS the old man on about?

“If we’d only found you sooner,” he started, but I stopped him.

“Grandpa, you couldn’t have done anything. The laws there said that racially mixed boys have to get fixed, so they can’t breed. And there’s a LOT of boys like me there. I was one of the lucky ones, really.” And since it’s one of those eunuch-things, I started getting all misty and sniffly again. Without thinking, I stood up and reached for a towel. I was turning into a prune, after all, and my already-tiny cock had shriveled in the water to nothing more than a small bump. Grandpa just stared. Roddy cleared his throat and sank down into the bubbles.

I have to tell you, I’d never seen a grown man cry before, but Grandpa did. He hugged me in the towel, rubbing my back, and kissed my cheek. I could feel him trembling as he gently dried me off, and the look on his face was strange as he held up a robe for me to put on.

“Lunch is about half past twelve,” he finally offered, “You boys just put on slippers and come on down when you’re of a mind?” And then he left us.

“That was nice,” Roddy said cryptically, as he dried off. His little cock had shrunk back right up into his body, not visible at all.

“Yeah,” I had to agree. If having a family felt like that, then I thought I could make the time to come here more often.

By lunchtime, we were starved again (growing eunuchs eat a lot, you know!), and Gran had put out quite the spread for lunch. It certainly beat the school’s cafeteria, to which I’d so sorely become accustomed. But it also beat aid worker food lines, or living off of the land. I swear, I will starve to death before I ever eat another caterpillar or grub worm again!

As we were coming down the stairs, I overheard them again. My genitals, or lack thereof, it seemed, still greatly disturbed them.

“Well, Lib, it’s NO wonder the boy pees so much! His poor little cock is so tiny that I bet the urine can’t get OUT!” Grandpa was saying. “We should call Dr. Bruce, and at least have his blood sugar checked. No boy should pee that much!”

I was humiliated, to say the least! There they were, discussing my tiny little cock! Of all the…

“It IS rather tiny,” Roddy assured me, as if I needed that. Hell, I was a prepubescent eunuch! What did they expect? A porn star with a 30 cm erection?!

“He DOES eat and drink a lot,” Grandma agreed. “I’ll phone Bruce right now and have him come over this evening.”

“I think Matron would have caught it if any of us had diabetes,” Roddy assured me, “Best go along with it? All he’ll do is stick your finger for a drip of blood. You know Finch, a year behind us? He’s diabetic; just one little prick is all you need to find out.” We laughed at that.

“You’re forgetting one thing,” I told Roddy, as we came on into the glass-enclosed dining room with its view of a rolling and landscaped hillside bathed in the sunlight, “Weight loss!” I grinned, as Grandma served lunch. She’d made a ham salad from scratch with real Virginia baked ham, dill relish, sweet onions, and spread it on homemade wheat bread drenched in real butter. She’d even made French fries (chips) out of real potatoes herself! I could get used to this, I thought, as we tucked in.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” Grandma apologized, “Talking about you like that. We’re just worried is all.” Then her face turned serious. “You can’t be too careful! Cousin Eddie was carried off by a clot,” she snapped her somewhat arthritic fingers, and Roddy jumped. “Just like THAT!”

“It’s OK, Gran,” I agreed. “I don't mind seeing this Dr. Bruce, really, I don’t! If it’ll make you feel better?”

That proved to be a mistake on my part.

Gran not only called this ‘Dr. Bruce’, but he came right over just before dinner. Roddy and I were outside exploring the property, and it had turned very hot and sticky that afternoon. The AC in the house was beginning to sound good again, as the both of us were soaked with sweat from just walking about. I was having a hard time breathing, too. It was like sucking on water vapor. Didn’t they have an atmosphere in the States?!

Dr. Bruce was, I could tell, NOT a pediatrician. He was at least as old as Grandfather, and as it turned out, they’d served in the war together. I never got around to asking if it was World War I or II! But he knew his stuff, I’ll give him that. We were called in, and he went to work on me at once. Fortunately, he insisted on Grandpa (not Gran – I think I’d have just died) being present in the study when he examined me.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Dr. Bruce swore, when I pulled off my underpants. “I knew they were neutering boys again, but I’ve never actually seen one!” He gasped, as he had me hop up on a hastily covered desk. I had to ask what “house call” meant, and why doctors didn’t do that anymore. “Had ‘em taken right out, did you, Dicky?”

“’Ricky’,” I corrected him, “Yes, sir. When I was about ten, I think. Before I came to Britain?”

“I knew a fellow in the War who had his cock shot off,” Dr. Bruce reminisced, “Poor guy. He never was right in the head afterwards,” he went on, as he leaned down for a better look. He put his hand under my little cock, which had come back to its full 1” length out in the heat. I thought it rather looked like a little pink turtle’s head, wearing a snug shower cap!

“Well, seeing as how you’re gelded, it can’t be an enlarged prostate,” Dr. Bruce diagnosed, as he pulled out a thing like Finch’s called a ‘glucometer’. He then jabbed my finger and put a drop of blood on a strip. It read out “92” and beeped. I told him what I had for lunch and when.

“Plump,” he nodded, as he squeezed me here and there. “No, no diabetes, Wendell. If I had to guess, that tiny little cock of his is kinked up inside, pinching off the urethra so he can’t empty his bladder all the way. That’s why he’s going so much. But just to be sure,” he paused, “Ricky, have you ever had, well, anything put up your backside?”

He was almost embarrassed to ask, and I thought that was funny. I guess they didn’t know about Matron’s insistence that we eunuchs get at least a weekly soap-and-water up the bum, so I told them about that. Grandpa seemed stunned by that. Dr. Bruce didn’t.

“Well, I’m sure my finger isn’t as big as the enema nozzle,” he said, snapping on a latex glove. “But just to be sure, I want to check your prostate. Usually, I do this on old men, you know, not little boys! But you’re the first boy-eunuch I’ve ever examined, Ricky. Now, bend over and spread your cheeks!” He told me.

I did that.

He was right. His finger was not quite so large as the plug nozzle that Matron used on us, so we couldn’t leak while holding our enemas in. It was big enough, though, and I flinched when he touched something up inside of me. It made me feel like I was about to piss myself, but it felt oddly good at the same time. I know I clenched up on his finger as he rubbed that something.

“Oh, oh, oh,” I managed, feeling as if I were about to burst. Then he pulled his finger out.

“Nope, prostate’s quite small,” Dr. Bruce commented.

“What can you do for it, Doc?” Grandpa asked.

“Well, surgery would just ruin his whole summer, that’s for sure,” Dr. Bruce mused, “We could put in a stent, but that would be about as uncomfortable as a Foley catheter. Good way to get an infection, too. Other than a urethral reroute, I’d say his best bet is a Robinson cath at least three times a day, or each time he goes.”

“Whass’at?” I squeaked. (I tend to squeak a lot when I’m surprised. So does Simon.)

Dr. Bruce held up a very slim and long latex tube. “You slide this up your urethra – or peehole – when you have to go. When it starts to feel funny, or stops, you just relax and push it in gently. It drains your bladder all the way. Then you let it slide out when it stops flowing. The other type of catheter stays in you all the time,” he added.

“OK,” I sighed, figuring some discomfort was worth it, if I didn’t have to pee every hour or so. I was a bit off on that, though, when Dr. Bruce showed me how to use it. If you’ve never been catheterized before, I can only say this – don’t be! Matron’s enemas are one thing, but having a tube slid up your peehole is just…hellish! When it was done, I wanted to cry. It burned some, and it felt so weird going in and out. I didn’t like it at all, but I hadn’t come to America just to spend my whole summer laid up in Hospital!

“You’ll get used to it,” Dr. Bruce told me. I didn’t believe that at all.

When the exam was finally over with, Dr. Bruce did take the urine sample with him to test later. He also drew a bit of blood, and then asked to call Southdown for my medical records. Matron was in, and said she’d fax them right over. It must have been late there, but she was still up; Matron never slept, I don't think.

“Just one more thing, Ricky,” Dr. Bruce said, as I was about to pull up my shorts. “Did they use that injectable on your balls, or was it surgery?”

“Surgery, sir,” I answered, “Dr. Geller took them right out. It didn’t hurt a bit!” I said proudly, finding that I somehow missed her and wondered where she was. No one had seen her since the day before the fire at the Grand Met Hotel. After all, SHE had been the one to locate my Grandparents, but I think I mentioned that already?

“Well, you might consider having him circumcised as well, Wendell. That foreskin of his is a bit tight, you know. Infection just waiting to happen.”

“Roddy’s circumcised, sir,” I offered in a small voice. In fact, Roddy had the smallest cock in all of our Third Year when I’d first seen him naked. He said he’d had a bad infection, too, and they’d skinned his little cock down and even cut out the tiny flap underneath the head. One more little snip, and Roddy’d have been a perfect harem-eunuch – no NOTHING between his legs! I shivered. I certainly didn’t want them cutting on me any more than I’d already been. My little cock might have been useless, but I didn’t want any more of IT snipped off; of that I was SURE!

“Well, you just keep that little thing clean, and you won’t have a problem,” Dr. Bruce warned me. “But as soon as you get back to that school of yours, you tell your Matron that you have to have something done about this urination problem!”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded, as I pulled my shorts back up and Grandfather dismissed me.

I didn’t know it then, but once I was gone, Dr. Bruce had asked Grandfather, “Dr. Geller, the boy said? You don’t think it could be that Dr. Geller over on 14th & Lincoln that specializes in paediatric urology and neutering, do you, Wendell?”

“How could it be? Ricky was lost in rural Asia, and castrated in an orphans’ home there? How could it be the same woman?” Wendell wondered.

Like I said, I didn’t know it then, but I’d sure come to find out later on! (Don’t let me get ahead of myself, now. We’ll ruin the story!)

That evening, dressed up in new dark navy blue suits and ties, with fine black leather dress shoes, we were taken out to eat at a very fancy (and obviously expensive) restaurant. I’d told Roddy all about my problem in the men’s room, when we were washing up and HE was peeing. I’d emptied my bladder beforehand with the catheter. He wasn’t too surprised.

“I think I’ve heard of some boys who had to have something done about ‘internally kinked-up cocks’,” he mused. “You know, I think they cut a new hole in the base of your cock, down by your arsehole, to let the piss out faster?”

“Thanks,” I muttered dryly, just as someone coughed. We both jumped. Apparently, the restroom was already occupied! How embarrassing that we’d been overheard discussing my need to have a new peehole cut in me. We bolted at once, dodging behind a large potted palm in the foyer. Even the toilet at this restaurant had its own foyer! I told you, my Grandparents must have had the money.

Not daring to be seen until this man came out, we waited.

Finally, after a couple of busboys and a waiter had come and gone, he came out of the toilet.

Roddy and I both gasped.

It was ‘Autograph-Man’ from the plane ride from London!

“Small world,” Roddy thought aloud, as we watched the man looking all about. Finally, he checked his watch and moved on.

Then something else came to me.

“Roddy,” I whispered, as we scampered back to our table, “That bathroom was so big, and all tile! I’m sure he heard your voice!”

Roddy’s face paled. After all, the man HAD some out as if looking all around for someone. AND he was obviously an audiophile, to boot. That and the bathroom was a huge echo chamber. Any singer could tell you that.

“You think he recognized my voice?” Roddy gasped, his face pale. After all, there had been something unnerving about Autograph-Man from the moment we’d seen him and that young lady on the jet.

I nodded. “I’m sure of it, mate,” I agreed. “We’ve got voices one doesn’t easily, or soon, forget! Especially not someone who collects our CD’s!”