Simon Tells It Like It Was

There was a fly buzzing round the examination room. Twenty boys were looking at the English essay question paper: “Describe in not more than two thousand words, the most important event of your life.” Two hours were allowed.

I glanced around. Simpson would write about the century he’d scored in the house cricket matches. Carstairs, a religious nut, would describe his Confirmation. What about me?

I was hot and uncomfortable. One of my legs developed an itch, high up. I reached up the leg of my shorts to scratch it – and the most important event of my life was at once spelled out – no argument! Aged twelve years and seven months, I’d been neutered – lost my balls. They don’t cut boys’ testicles right out, not these days. I was taken to a clinic, where my shorts and pants were taken down, and a drug injected into my balls which made them shrivel and disappear. Of course, I’d been lied to and told I was being taken to Disneyland. I should have seen that one coming.

Over time, my penis began to shrink as well, until it was no bigger than a toddler’s. Not that it was that big to begin with. At thirteen going on fourteen I had no sign of a pubic bush, and never would have. My voice would never change. I could never be a man; most of all I could never fuck girls.

I mean, it’s not like I wanted to get my balls pricked. There just seemed no choice at the time. I was supposed to have “serious behavior problems” and my aunt (more about her in a minute) said I was “depraved.” Getting myself neutered was the way out of all this; otherwise I could be facing mega-problems. So I went to be neutered.

How was it that an innocent boy from Cape Town, living with a middle-class English family and attending an independent boarding school, could become depraved and develop behavior problems in less than a year? Listen and I’ll tell you.

Until the age of eleven, my home was in Cape Town, RSA. My parents were involved in church work which took them up-country a lot, and rather than leave me at home in the care of servants who might not look after me properly, they decided to send me to school in England. In the school holidays I should live with Aunt Jennifer and Uncle Malcolm.

Jennifer and Malcolm were not strictly my aunt and uncle, but something more distant in relation. It sounded alright; they were quite well off, in their thirties, and had three children of their own. Sue was aged thirteen, Victoria was aged ten, and Charlie was aged seven. In fact, the problems began there.

The house was modern and a bit overheated. I’d arrived in the summer, and at bath time all the children went around in the nude. No one cared how long we spent in the bathroom. Jennifer used to shout instructions up the stairs “Be sure to wash round your bottoms” and “Use plenty of talcum powder on your bottoms” and so on. I’d arrived only with the clothes I could carry on the plane and this caused a row about underwear – I had only two pairs of underpants which had to last a week each between washes. Jennifer complained that my underpants were filthy – that I never wiped my bottom properly.

When playing out I used to wear some white PE shorts, without anything underneath. They were comfortable, but short and wide in the leg. One day Vikki came upon me sitting on some steps with my knees drawn up. “I can see your cock and balls” she giggled, and ran off.

I’d never thought much about my own body before, but I was now very much aware that I had a bottom, or “bum” and also a cock and balls, which people wanted to see.

What began at home, continued at school. I was pretty miserable there. The work was boring and difficult. I didn’t understand Rugby Union, which we were made to play three afternoons a week. Worst of all, junior boys were voice-tested for admission, as sopranos, to the choir of the cathedral in the town and I couldn’t sing – my voice was weak and husky. (That was then. Since getting neutered, I’ve become the leading treble. Perhaps I should say leading castrato.)

They were also obsessive about “regularity” at school; that is, going to the toilet. To make sure of this, junior boys were put through a strange ritual every Sunday afternoon when nothing much else ever happened. We lined up outside Matron’s surgery in the basement, shirts tucked up, and with shorts and underpants folded and over our left arms. One at a time we went in to see Matron, who would make us bend over. She had a rubber tube coupled to the cold tap above her sink, with a nozzle on the other end. I used to dread having the nozzle poked up my bottom, and the gush of icy water into my bowels when Matron turned the tap on. I’d had enemas before, but I still think Matron wanted to see if she could fill up a boy like a water balloon and see if he’d burst!

Opposite Matron’s room was another door leading to a row of dark latrines, lit by a single hissing gas jet. After ten minutes, timed by Matron’s watch, she would call out “Next boy!” and we were allowed to go and relieve ourselves. It wasn’t easy holding all that cold water, and premature expulsions meant another dose.

Sexual curiosity occupied our vacant hours. One night, the boy who slept in the next cubicle to mine – his name was Ekins- said to me, “Do you know how to make your cock go stiff?”

“Well, it sometimes goes stiff by itself” I’d replied.

“All you need to do is keep on pulling” said Ekins. “Then when it’s stiff, you can shove it up your girlfriend’s cunt and shag her.”

From Ekins, some time later, I got a strange message. Newcomers to the school, like myself, were secretly scrutinized by senior boys for suitability as “House Tarts.” The message I got from Ekins was that a very senior prefect, Ramsay, the captain of football, liked the look of me and wanted me to be his “flower.” What this meant, he wouldn’t explain, but if I agreed, I was to meet Ramsay in the town at three-thirty next Sunday afternoon.

Ramsay seemed kindly enough. He was a broad-shouldered, tough-looking youth of eighteen. He first took me for an enormous cream tea, with strawberries. Then he proposed a short bike-ride.

In plain language “flower” means “bum-boy”, and Ramsay had worked out that I would just have been on the receiving end of Matron’s enema-syringe a short time before. As I was soon to find out. We rode to the edge of the town, to a building site, deserted on a Sunday, with new bungalows nearing completion. Ramsay hid his bike, and mine, in a shed and beckoned me into one of the bungalows. His big hands were on my shoulders. He towered over me. “Scott” he said in a strange husky voice “I want to put my penis up your bottom.” He meant he was going to, whether I wanted to or not.

I took my shorts and pants off and knelt on all fours on the dusty floor. I felt something, Vaseline or ointment, being smeared round my bum-hole, then the sound of Ramsay unzipping his trousers. Something hard and hot touched me down there, then a feeling of stretching, stretching, stretching as if I would split open. Slowly the older boy’s big rigid penis filled my behind. The stretching feeling was replaced by something different – he seemed to be touching something deep inside. I quite liked it. Of course I’d felt it before, it wasn’t my first time, but he was a bit bigger.

Ramsay’s fingers were round my cock, working my truncated foreskin up and down until it went hard. They’d had me circumcised some years before, to keep me from “fiddling with it,” but that hadn’t worked. After the stitches had been taken out (the itching had almost driven me insane), I’d fiddled with it just as much. There just wasn’t as much extra skin to fiddle with.

“Is that nice?” he whispered.

His breath was coming in gasps and suddenly he gave a groan and I felt something hot spurt into me. It was all over quite quickly.

“You know, Scott” Ramsay said slowly, as we tidied up “I could get very keen on you.” Then we biked back to school, by different ways.

Ekins spoke to me later. “Alright with Ramsay, was it?”

I nodded.

“Right the way in?”

I nodded again.

“Not a word to anyone” said Ekins, “Ramsay could be expelled from school and go to prison. And you’d be in trouble too.” Ekins told me that he’d been another prefect’s “flower” the previous term, and like me, used to have to take the older boy’s penis up his bottom. He never said if he liked it or not. I don’t think he did.

For the rest of the term, Ramsay used to send for me to meet him on Sunday afternoons – after I’d had my bum washed out. Sometimes he would take me out to tea, sometimes he would have bought me a present. Once it was a Mont Blanc fountain pen. The best. But always, we would bike off to some remote spot where he would put his penis up my bottom. I remember thinking “If my insides were like a girl’s, I should have a baby.”

By the end of the term I’d learned a lot about sex – why my penis went stiff – how, if I ever had a girlfriend I could shove it “up her cunt” and give her a baby. How it was possible also to shove it up another boy’s bottom, I knew at first hand.

My fortnightly letters home didn’t mention any of this. The replies were no big deal – all I ever got from my parents were copies of a newsletter they sent to all their friends, about their church work in up-country RSA. They never mentioned me at all. From Aunt Jennifer there were no letters from one week to another. I was left to my own thoughts and ideas.

Then, in the winter holidays, Uncle Max came into my life.

He was no more an uncle than Jennifer was an aunt. He was some kind of officer. I heard him called “Major.” By this time Jennifer was hardly ever around, and in the evenings, more often than not, I would find Uncle Max in Jennifer’s lounge reading the newspaper over a drink. People said he “got on well with boys” and things certainly began well. When Charlie was given a model train set, Uncle Max insisted I should have a locomotive of my own – a big one, and freight cars, which he paid for himself.

One day he told me that a famous train was coming through on the line that ran near Jennifer’s house and why didn’t we walk down the field to watch. Going across the field I noticed two horses behaving rather strangely: one was standing still whilst the other seemed to be trying to clamber up behind. Just what it was trying to do I couldn’t quite make out.

“Uncle Max” I said “Look at those horses. The one on top seems to be having problems. What are they doing?”

“The chestnut is a mare, or more likely a filly” said Uncle Max “and I guess she’s just come into season, ready to mate. The bay is a gelding – a male horse that’s been gelded, or as we should say, castrated or neutered. He’s trying to mate with the mare, and of course, because of his operation, he can’t.”

I must have looked puzzled, because Uncle Max went straight on. “If a male horse isn’t wanted for breeding, but only for riding or work, he is gelded by a vet at three years old, when he’s full-grown, that is. The vet has special instruments for removing the horse’s testicles – you’d call them his balls, I expect. After that, the horse is unable to mate with a mare however hard he tries. Look, he’s given up now.”

The bay had lost interest and ambled away. I was fascinated by what Uncle Max had just been saying. “Uncle Max, is that operation ever done on humans?” I asked. I’m still not sure what made me say that, but the thought of it felt…interesting.

“Oh yes, quite often” he said. “In the East it’s done on slaves, who have to look after a lot of women, to make them unable to have sex – you know what I mean? Of course you do. And it’s done on boys, too, to help them to sing better. Look, here’s a picture.”

From his notecase, Uncle Max took a print of an oil painting. There was a nude boy, bound and lying on a table, with a lot of people dressed in clothes of a long time ago. Uncle Max explained that the boy was an artist’s model, and he was going to have his balls taken out to keep him looking young and beautiful. “Only these days” he said “it’s done in a much simpler way. Doctors can inject a drug into a boy’s balls which makes them dry up. The effect’s just the same as having them taken right out.”

If I had ever been “tarty” at school with the likes of Ramsay, I was even worse by now.

“Uncle Max” I said in a winsome way, “Will you show me exactly how a boy gets to be neutered?”

Uncle Max looked round. Not far away was a small brick building. I don’t know what it was but it seemed deserted and empty. “Let’s go in here” he said.

He made me take my shorts and pants down. Very, very gently he took one of my balls between finger and thumb. “The doctor will take your little balls, one at a time, like this, and put the hypodermic right into the middle of each one.” As he spoke, he eyed my penis, which had gone rigid with excitement. “I love feeling boys’ balls,” he said.

“Do you think I could be ‘done’, Uncle Max?” I asked.

“I think you are just the right age,” came the answer. “Then you’d be like Peter Pan.” He continued to stroke my balls. “Smooth as a peach,” he murmured in a strained voice. Suddenly he took my penis in his mouth and began to suck it. I closed my eyes, imagining I had it inside a girl.

I now did the unforgivable thing. “Uncle Max,” I said, as enticingly as I knew how, “There’s something you’ll enjoy much more than feeling round my balls and sucking my cock.” I figured if Ramsay liked to it, Uncle Max would to.

I got down on all fours on the dirty floor. Uncle Max said nothing, but faced with my open bum-cheeks, found temptation too much. I think he was surprised how easily he got it in, but it wasn’t as big as Ramsay’s and I’d been getting plenty of practice. He groaned and shot his load into my guts and I felt him go limp. His penis stank when he pulled it out again, but that was his problem. It wasn’t a Sunday enema-day at school, after all. Me, I was getting a bit tired of being a bum-boy. I wanted some action!

Opportunity knocked a few days later. I told you how at bath time we all ran around with no clothes on. This had never changed. That evening, I’d been giving my penis a good pull and it stuck out two inches in front of me, hard as a rock. I’d been told that it should have been bigger, but it wasn’t. I was on my way across the landing, still rampant, when Sue came out of her room. She was going on fourteen now and her boobs had started to come. She wasn’t completely naked: she had on some new undies Jennifer had bought for her, a black bra and tiny little knickers to match.

Sue saw my rigid penis and began to laugh. “That’s a good one” she giggled. “You’re growing up fast, Simon.” I think she was being sarcastic.

“I want to stick it in you” I said.

Sue looked around, then took my hand and led me into Jennifer’s bedroom. Neither of us had seen Jennifer all day and guessed she was away for the night. Sue pushed the door to. “You mustn’t put it right in,” she said. “I’ll let you rub it against mine, but only outside my knickers, and only the back way.” I nodded agreement. “Alright,” I whispered.

Sue got down on all fours. There was a ribbon of black nylon between the cheeks of her bum, but through it I could see her bum-hole, and the two fat lips that hide that other hole that girls have - her cunt. I put my penis between her bum-cheeks and began to rub it up and down. “You’re well on now,” came Sue’s voice. The feeling in my penis was getting stronger every second – I felt it was going to burst. There was only that strip of nylon between me and Sue’s body. If only I could work it to one side and get my penis between those bulging lips. If only I could make something come out, when I was inside her. I would empty my balls into her. I could give Sue a baby!

I didn’t hear the car stop. I only heard the footsteps on the stairs when it was far too late. Jennifer stood in the doorway. “Hello, you two” she began. “What are you…” her voice changed. Her face turned white, red and white again. “My God – Sue! What are you thinking of? Simon, you little rat – you filthy, filthy…”

She was shaking with rage. She had been wearing a shoulder-bag and she began lashing me with the strap of it, across my body, my face – everywhere, and all the time hissing and swearing. Through this I heard other sounds, big heavy footsteps, and a man’s voice. “Jen, what’s going on? Jen! Jen, what the fuck are you doing? Get off him, Jen – go downstairs – we’ve got to talk. You two – get to your own rooms at once.”

It was Jennifer’s brother-in-law, known as Uncle Carl. I hadn’t seen much of Uncle Carl because his work took him out of the country much of the time. He had a lot of money and drove a new Jaguar XJS. He’d also been the first one to ever put his penis up my bum, but that had been when I’d first arrived and long before Ramsay. He now took charge of the situation. There was a lot of talking downstairs, Uncle Max’s voice saying goodbye, and his car starting and driving away. The lounge door closed but the voices went on, till I fell asleep.

Next day when I got up, everything was quiet. Downstairs, Jennifer had left a note saying she’d taken Sue, Victoria and Charlie to their seaside bungalow for a few days. Mrs. Shepherd – Jennifer’s cleaning lady – would give me my meals. Uncle Carl would be round later. I wasn’t sorry not to go to the seaside bungalow; it was a boring place with nothing to do.

Later that morning, Uncle Carl found me kicking stones round the patio. He was a big tall man, six foot two I’d guess. He liked to wear tweedy things and always smelled of after-shave. He took me into the house. “Well, Simon” he began. “I’ve talked to Jennifer, and I’ve also talked to Uncle Max. I think you’ve got problems. Yes?”

“Yes, Uncle Carl” I agreed.

“You’ve begun to behave in a certain way, which you are not going to be able to stop, unless something is done about it. And you can’t go on as you are, or you will have really big problems. (He dragged the word ‘big’ into B-I-I-G). “You might even be sent away somewhere, somewhere nasty.”

“There’s something that can be done and I want you to agree. Now, you know that when a young horse starts to grow up, he can be altogether too frisky and badly-behaved, so he has a little operation to make him more docile…”

“I know all about that” I interrupted. “Uncle Max explained it.”

“He did, did he?” replied Uncle Carl. “In that case, you know it can also be done on boys, except it’s just two little injections. You know where?”

“Into my privates” I said.

“Right. And then all your problems will disappear because you won’t feel any urge to behave like that, ever again. Agreed?”

I was quite fascinated, in some strange way, with the idea of having things done to my ‘privates.’

“Agreed, Uncle Carl” I said.

“Right, then. Now – get this, Simon – it won’t hurt! Really it won’t. Just two little injections and if you don’t cry or make a fuss, we’ll go right away and get you a new PC, for your own personal use. You can choose. That’s a promise.”

“A new PC in trade for my balls?” I asked dubiously. “That’s hardly fair.”

He seemed to think about this for a moment. “What about a trip to Disney, then?” He counter-offered.

I fell for it.

“When am I going to have it done, then?” I asked.

“Three o’clock this afternoon. It’s all arranged. We’ll go in the Jag.”

After dinner I went to get some clean clothes on. With my shorts and pants on the floor, I played with my penis till I got an erection- the last I would ever have. I fingered my balls. Just two little injections. “They prick a boy’s balls” Uncle Max had said. “They prick a boy’s balls and then they dry up.”

The clinic where I was to be “done” was quite a distance away. As we sped down the motorway Uncle Carl told me about the future. “You’ll be starting a new school in September,” he said. “The one you’ve been at – well, it’s been doing you no good at all. The new school, in fact it was my old school, is in Sussex on the far side of Brighton. I’ve a cottage not far away, where you can stay in the holidays, and if I’m not there, an old friend of mine, Wing-Commander Knight-Fox, has a house in the New Forest by Lymington Haven.”

I wasn’t too sure about this part.

“He’s got three boys of his own and they’d love to have you I know. You’ll be able to learn how to sail, and shoot.”

“Am I not going back to Aunt Jennifer’s?” I asked.

“Definitely not.” (This was the answer I’d hoped for). “Too much baggage there, if you know what I mean.” (I didn’t). “I’ve got all your stuff in the back, not forgetting your train.”

And then we were there: a long low brick building, “The Greenside Clinic.” There were brass plates on the door reading “Dr Miller”, “Dr Storrs”, “Dr Belmarsh”, “Dr Metcalfe”, and “Dr Hearn.” Uncle Carl pushed the swinging door open. A nurse appeared. Uncle Carl gave his name, and mine. The nurse looked on a computer screen.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Another dear little boy to be neutered. This way, Simon.”

In a side room, the nurse made me take my shorts and pants down, and go for a pee. As I returned from the lav, she cried out “Look! Look up there!” and as I looked up to see what it was, I felt what seemed to be a wasp-sting on my leg, near the top. The nurse was smiling. She had a hypodermic in her hand. “Just a little Novocain” she explained. “When you are numbed-up, we’ll go and see the doctor. He’s nearly ready for you.”

Dr Belmarsh was a middle-aged man who said very little. Clearly, neutering boys was just one of many bits of minor surgery he did every day. He put me into a strange chair with stirrups that held by legs apart, and a seat that tilted me backwards. The nurse stood behind the chair, holding my shoulders firmly down.

“Now,” said the doctor very quietly, “just look up – look at the video.”

This time there really was a video, of the Monaco Grand Prix. My groin was completely numb by then. I neither felt, nor saw, what the doctor was doing down there until the nurse said, “There! All over!” and helped me down from the chair. On a table I noticed a tray with two empty syringes and a small box with the name “Neutersol Plus” and “Keep Refrigerated.”

I’d had my balls pricked. I went to get dressed.

“I’ve had my balls pricked,” I kept thinking, even though I couldn’t feel them. It was very strange.

Uncle Carl was waiting. The doctor spoke to him before we left. “There will be some local irritation at first. Make sure he stays quiet. If he’s in discomfort, give him Ibuprofen. Testicular reduction will begin in three days and should be complete within a month. It’s not usually necessary to clear up the scrotum; over time the loose skin should be taken up by normal growth. Penile shrinkage may take anything up to six months but erections should cease long before that. If the shrinkage causes problems with excess skin, we can always circumcise it away. They should have taken more off the first time, you know.”

“And at a much later date we can discuss HRT to induce secondary sexual characteristics. The loss of the primary ones is irreversible, of course.” In other words they could put hair on my chest, but nothing, ever, would make me able to fuck girls.

We went out to the car. “We’re going to my London pied-a-terre for a few days,” explained Uncle Carl. “It’s tiny but we’ll manage. There’s always something to do in London. But the first thing we’ll do is go and choose that computer.”

I got the computer. Disneyland never happened.

That all seems so long ago. What else is there to say? All in all, things have worked out OK. Uncle Carl always did everything he said he would, more or less. His friends, the Knight-Foxes, were lovely people. I liked my new school too. It wasn’t long before I found other boys who had had the same experience as me, and we shared a lot of things.

Firstly, our high voices - which we had to moderate because they made us conspicuous. Then, surprisingly, sex!

One weekend I was invited by another boy, Mark Maitland, who had also been neutered, to stay at his aunt’s London flat. There was a girl there, Wendy, and another girl. You would be astonished at what filthy things girls can do – much filthier than boys! This was another shared secret – that girls will let you do anything, if you can’t possibly get them pregnant. Our tiny penises seemed to drive them wild. We were exotic boy-eunuchs, trained to give girls pleasure!

We all became very good at something. I became leading chorister – my singing voice began to improve from the moment of getting my balls pricked. Mark excelled at all sorts of athletics. The Roebuck twins were great at swimming. We formed a sort of club and admitted other boys who had lost their balls in other ways. Colin Hislop’s had withered away after a bad attack of mumps. Manchit Khannah’s had been chopped off in some sort of ritual, in his native India. It hadn’t prevented him becoming a demon fast bowler, though. With our skills, we were starting to earn certain privileges. It wouldn’t be long before boys went deliberately to get their balls pricked, to gain admission to our circle...

An electric bell rang loudly.

“Time’s up- stop writing!” called a voice – the voice of Mr. Meredith, the invigilator, pop-eyed and bald-headed. I had dreamed the whole two hours away, and all I had to show was a blank sheet of paper with my name on the top. Mr. Meredith shook his head sadly. “You know, Scott,” he said “Sometimes I wonder if you are quite with us.”

I almost began laughing, but stopped in time. He was right, wasn’t he? I wasn’t totally there. Something was missing. A little pouch and two blobs of gristle, on strings.

“Something the matter, Scott?” asked Mr. Meredith.

“No, sir.”

“Well, you can do the essay tonight instead of watching the school film. Alright, you can go.”