|
Home Wasted Years The first thing I need to tell you about my little story is that it begins over fifty years ago, in 1951, when I was eleven years-old. I'm an old man now. I started to say Senior Citizen, but, hell, sixty five is old, particularly since this story is about me as a kid. I needed to tell you when it happened so I wouldn't get all those questions and what if's-you know the ones I mean-Why didn't you try HRT, or some other options which are available now, but of which no one had clue, fifty years ago. If HRT existed in the 1950's, it sure as hell wasn't available to a kid in Kansas, a kid whose parents couldn't even afford braces for his teeth. Actually, I didn't grow up in Kansas. I was born in Texas, a small town in East Texas, where I lived until, because of the Korean War, my dad had to shut down his little beer joint and find other work. It seems that so many of his customers had been drafted he could no longer make a living from it; but my story does begin it that small East Texas town, when I was eleven. That's when I went through puberty. Puberty sneaked up on me, catching me unaware, probably late in the fifth grade. I say probably, because I don't remember exactly when my cock first grew or hair grew around it. Because of a three incidents in the summer between the fifth and sixth grades, I know puberty had struck by then-and must have happened earlier-because my dick was fully grown by that summer, and I had hair around it. In my elementary school, we didn't dress out for P.E., so, unless you sneaked a peak at the boy next to you in the restroom, you didn't have an opportunity to see another boy's cock. Remember, we're also talking about the days before Internet, dirty movies, and Playboy. I had two sisters, but no brother. My cock was the only one I ever saw. As far as I knew, it only had one use and one advantage. I could stand to pee. My sisters had to sit. Not that because I had sisters, I knew something about girls. I didn't. I only remember seeing my sister naked twice, when she, my younger cousin, and I had a little game of show me yours and I'll show you mine. She hit puberty young, too. At ten, she already had hair. The cousin was only nine, so his cock was tiny, and he was hairless. That was one of the incidents, although the other two preceded it. I only remember that it had happened later because of a comment my sister had made, "I've got more hair than you do." She did, but I had shaved mine off shortly before, and it hadn't grown out fully yet. I shaved it off twice when I was a kid, once when I was eleven and once when I was thirteen. Remarkably, we had our second show me yours session, with the same cousin shortly after I had shaved my cock hair when I was thirteen. She probably thought I was lying about having as much hair as she did. Anyway, I was fully into puberty by the first show me yours session. Maybe it was puberty's hormones which made me want to play the game in the first place. I don't remember being particularly curious about what either she or my cousin had before. Although I was probably aware of it before-I think a kid would notice that he was suddenly growing hair around his cock-the first thing that sticks in my memory was a campout in the yard of a friend's house in the summer after the fifth grade. I wouldn't be twelve until the following November. Five of us spent the night in a tent in John Wilkins' back yard telling jokes and playing strip poker. Most of the dirty jokes went clear over my head. I was that naive. All of us, during the strip poker game, had to strip at one time or the other. We made the usual comments about who had hair and who didn't. I did. As far as I remember, the only one who didn't was Tommy Crowley. No one played with his cock. No one admitted to having jacked off, which, actually-if it was mentioned-went over my head. The only dirty joke about sex I can recall was some obscure reference to leaving bread on the front porch. To this day-even knowing what I now-I don't know what was funny about the joke. Bathroom humor was our idea of a dirty joke. If any of my friends had jacked off, he didn't mention it that night. Later during the summer I was at the city park. Just two of us were there, a boy, younger than I, who I didn't really know, and don't ever remember seeing again. He was much more knowledgeable about sex than I was, though and was determined to impart some of that knowledge to me, speaking in a conspiratorial tone while looking around, even though he and I were the only two in the park. He never said anything directly, just hinted at things, leading me to believe that something coming out of a man's dick would give a woman a child. I had no clue at the time how children were made. Sex education didn't exist in East Texas in the '50's. I know this is hard to believe, but things have changed in fifty years. The boy aroused my curiosity. I remember going home afterward and flopping my cock back and forth, but I didn't pump it. I didn't think to that. I just flopped it back and forth. It became hard, but nothing else happened, so I soon lost interest, not trying any form of masturbation again, not until I was fourteen, when I lived in Kansas. To this day, I wished that boy hadn't been so obscure. With a little more of a hint, I could have had my first climax three years before I did. Three years of climaxes, one each day. That's about eleven hundred-maybe more-I could have had. Damn that kid. I hate him still. One or two straight forward words, instead of all the beating around the bush, and I would have known how to do it then. During the sixth grade that fall, I was well in the throes of puberty. My cock was hard all the time. I remember it pressing against my jeans in class. I even remember one boy who, noticing my hard on, smiled and gestured toward my erect penis with his eyes. My father closed down his beer joint, honky tonk, as it was called in East Texas, and took a job at a defense plant in Grand Prairie. We moved to Dallas, where we lived in some apartments for a while. The only discussion I remember about sex or cocks (actually, we called them, dicks, peckers, or peters, not cocks. In Texas, in the 1950's, cock was used more often to refer to a woman privates rather than a man's) was with another twelve year-old who lived in the apartment next to me. We talked about how ours got hard some times and asked the other if he had hair around his. We took a bath together at my house and compared our cocks, but neither of us became hard during the bath. I'm certain he was as naive as I was. His name was Al. I liked him. In a short time, we had become good friends, but he moved shortly afterward. A couple of months later, we moved to Grand Prairie. Not much happened in Grand Prairie to remind me that I was pubescent. I shaved my pubic hair once, my sister, cousin, and I had the second game of show me yours, and I began to grow hair on my knuckles. I hated having hair on my knuckles. I still do. I remember sitting in class in the seventh grade, pulling it out with my teeth. Then we moved to Kansas. It would be my fifth school in three years, three elementary schools in the sixth grade, junior high in the seventh, then the eighth grade in Arkansas City, Kansas-and that's Ar-Kansas City, pronouncing the last part of the name like the state, Kansas, not like the state Arkansas, which is pronounced Ar-kan-saw. Ark City, as we called it, was on the southern border of Kansas on the Arkansas River, (also pronounced Ar-Kansas) right across from Oklahoma. We moved there in the summer. I was thirteen. I would be fourteen the following November. Kansas kids knew a hell of a lot more about sex than Texas kids the same age. Maybe we were too deep inside the Bible belt in Texas. From other kids who lived around me, even though they were younger than I was, I heard jokes which were actually about sex and talk about blow jobs-what ever that was. Billy lived across the street. We only lived in that house for the summer, moving before school started, but, if I had a friend in that neighborhood, it was he. Billy was about two years younger than I was. We spent most of the time on activities which didn't involve talking about sex. That really only came up on one campout at one of the neighbor boy's house. It's probably obligatory for boys to talk about such forbidden subjects on campouts. I do remember the girl next door-when she had a friend over visiting-asking me about my balls. I played innocent, pretending she was talking bout some kind of sports balls I might have, while I knew, all the time, what she meant. She was ugly anyway. I wouldn't have wanted her, even if I had known what she had between her legs-well, that might not be true. A horny kid's cock isn't too discriminating, but, at that time, I didn't know you could stick it inside a girl. I actually didn't learn that until much later-not until it was too late. At the end of the summer we moved to a house across town. We lived there for the rest of the time were were in Ark City. My friend in that neighborhood was Bobby Thompson. At eight, he was six younger than I. We were buddies, though. I was undoubtedly immature-definitely unsophisticated sexually-for my age. We built a fort next to an old chicken coop in my backyard and participated in activities more appropriate for ten to twelve year-olds than for the thirteen year-old I was at the time. We even had a secret whistle. Whenever I went outside, I would whistle it, "bob-bob-white." If Bobby heard it, from his house down the alley, he would answer and come over. Although-because he was so much younger-I didn't consider him to be my best friend, he probably was. I really didn't have any my age. I liked another older boy, but he lived farther away and came over rarely. Another boy who lived somewhere in the neighborhood-actually I never knew where-came over frequently, but he was a real jerk. He once took my puppy, putting it in a trashcan because I'd pissed him off. I had to kiss his ass the next day, pretending I didn't know he was the one who had taken the pup. He brought it back later that day, saying he'd found her in the garbage can. I thanked him. I didn't want him to do it again. I began having wet dreams shortly after school started, dreaming each time I was sitting in class in my underwear. Is that a universal dream? Do all boys dream that dream? I was never completely naked, but embarrassed because I was in my underwear, while everyone else was dressed. Everyone was staring at me. That's when I awoke to find my underwear wet and sticky. I wasn't sure what had happened. I damn sure never told anyone, especially not my mother. I probably didn't have more than a couple because I soon learned how to jack off. After I learned how, I never left my cock alone long enough for enough pressure to build up for me to have a wet dream. It wasn't long after school started that I learned how to jack off. Kids in the eighth grade in Kansas talked about it all the time. I even remember one kid, who spent the entire lunch period-every day-telling dirty jokes surrounded by other kids like me. I never heard him repeat a joke. In Kansas, we dressed out for P.E. and took showers afterward. It was the first time I was ever in a room with a bunch of other naked boys. I was fascinated by sight of all those cocks, and always looked forward to showering. It was a hell of an experience for a naive Texas boy. I probably spent longer in the shower than any of the others. It was in P.E. that I learned how to jack off. I'd been hearing about it, but I had no idea how to do it. That sounds stupid, I know. How could any boy not know how to jack off? But, I didn't. Honest, I didn't have a clue. I would have done it earlier, had I known. A boy was sitting on some parallel bars. I don't remember his name, but-to this day-I can still picture him in my mind, remembering exactly how he looked, the color of his hair, his features, the expression on his face-everything-as he sat, straddling one of those parallel bars. Placing his two hands on the bar he was straddling, he began moving them back and forth on the bar, beginning at his crotch. A light went off in my brain. That's how it's done. I was eager for school to be out so I could hurry home to try it. I rushed home after school, probably running most of the way, and went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, lay down on the bathroom rug, dropped my pants, and began mimicking the boy, using my cock as he had the bar. Shit! What an feeling! I felt weak afterward, but I don't know whether it was because it was my first time, or because of what I'd heard boys say. They'd said it made you feel weak afterward. Actually, that was the only time it ever did. I don't think I did it again that day. It had been too profound of an experience-but I did again the next day-and the next-and the next. I don't know whether I ever went a day without jacking off, although sometimes I felt guilty because I felt the need to do it so often. I remember my mom, after I'd just come out of the bathroom-after I'd just beat off-saying something about how playing with myself would make me nervous. I pretended to have no clue as to what she meant. I was spending a lot of time in the bathroom. Of course, I was doing it elsewhere, too. The chicken coop was a good place. It was empty. I could go in there, jack off, spilling my spunk on the ground, without worrying about mom finding evidence of my sinful behavior. A dutiful son, I wouldn't want her to worry that I might become nervous, but, if jacking off would make me nervous, I'd just have to become nervous; because, I wasn't about to quit. I liked it. I liked it a lot. It was shortly after I learned how to do it that I had my first jack off experience with another boy. That was Billy. It was soon after school had started and I had walked over to his house on the other side of town. Somehow, we were supposed to go swimming. It's still hot in September in Kansas-very hot-and the swimming pool was still open. His parents weren't home. He told me about how his grandmother didn't particularly approve of me because I was older than he, but he was the one who brought up the subject of wet dreams, about how his first one had surprised and even frightened him, how he'd almost mentioned it to his mother. He talked about his sister and about how she had got her period-then he brought up beating off, my favorite subject. Naturally, I admitted I'd done it, too. He told me about his parent's vibrator, how he used it when they weren't home and I asked me if I wanted to see it-if I wanted to try it. I did, of course. We went into his parent's room, lay down on their bed. I pulled down my pants, exposing my already hard cock. By that time he had the vibrator out. It was one of those little vibrators which just had a little ball on the end. He turned it one, placing it on the underside of my cock, right below the head. It was taking too long I guess, because he said, "Here, let me try it on mine." "No," I replied. "Not yet. A little longer." I came, spurting onto my stomach. He didn't do his. Although I didn't care at the time-having my climax was all that was important-I later wished I'd seen him do it; because I'd never seen another boy cum. To this day, except in movies, I haven't. After I cleaned myself off, we went swimming. He teased me the whole time, making spurting sounds and motions. That was the last time I remember ever seeing Billy. I never went over to his house again. I beat off in front of Bobby all the time. I tried to pump his, but, at eight, although his little pecker would get hard, nothing would happen. I wasn't showing him anything he didn't already know, however. He told me about other kids in the neighborhood who tried jacking off, even though they hadn't yet reached puberty. Apparently, a group of them were in a circle jerking on their peckers, when one spit into the middle. At first, some of the others had thought he had cum, but it had just been spit. None of them had been old enough yet. He told me about another boy, one who lived nearby. David was his name. David only had one leg. The other was a prosthesis, but other than a limp when he walked because he kept outgrowing his wooden leg, you would never know it. He could climb trees or do anything any other boy could do. Although at least two years younger than I, he could also cum. Bobby told me David could shoot from one end of the bathtub to the other. I was jealous. I could never shoot more than a couple of inches. Bobby even told me about this girl at the elementary school, across the street form my house, a rather slow witted girl, who would put out, but, at that time, I still had no idea that one actually stuck his cock inside a girl. I thought he just put it up to her hole and jacked off, squirting it inside her from the outside. It didn't sound exciting enough for me to try it, especially not with her. She was ugly and never too clean. Bobby and I asked her once whether she wanted to do it, but she said she didn't. I don't know what I would have done, had she agreed. I know this sounds stupid, especially in the context of what fourteen year-olds know today, but I was naive. Dances for junior high kids were held at a community center downtown every Saturday night. I went to them. I even had a girlfriend for a while. At least she was my girlfriend at the dances. I think she went to a catholic school. I never saw her elsewhere. One night another boy and I were horsing around. I don't remember exactly how it happened, but we threw some fake punches at each other-you know, the kind where you barely touch the other guy. We weren't angry. We were just playing around, laughing while we were doing it. Shortly afterward, one of his friends confronted me. They were all a couple of years older than I was, at least sixteen, because this guy had his own car. Even in Kansas, even in the '50's, you had to be sixteen to drive. You could ride a motor scooter at fourteen, but you had to be sixteen to drive a car. He wanted to fight me because I'd hit his friend. He said that friend had been shot the year before and I could kill him if I hit him. Hell, I'd never hit him. The kid even said we'd been playing around. It didn't matter. Whenever that guy, Darrell Johnson, saw me, he came after me. I had to stop going to the dances because of him. He wouldn't leave me alone. He was in senior high, but the junior and senior high schools were next to each other. Once he saw me in the stairway and knocked the books out of my hands. Once, when I was walking home from school, he drove past in his car with several of his friends, stopped and beat me up. I never knew when I was going to run into him. At least I thought I was safe from him at home. As it turned out, that's where I was in the most danger-in my own neighborhood. I had gone over to Bobby's house. Between Bobby's house and the next, set back behind the two houses, was a garage. Darrell and his friends were there, working on Darrell's car. Adjoining the garage was a store room. They'd been sitting inside in lawn chairs drinking beer. He called me over when he saw me. I went. I had no place to run. At first, he just talked; but at some point during the conversation, he said, "I think you ought to suck my cock." Turning to one of his friends, he said, "You sucked my cock, didn't you, Sam?" "Yeah, but you made me. You would have beat me up, if I hadn't," said Sam. It was obvious to me that he was embarrassed by his admission. "Well," Darrell said to me, "now, it's your turn. He unzipped his pants. Before he could take his cock out, I said, "No. I'm not going to." He hit me. I tried to run away, but he was too quick for me, too big-too strong. One of his friends closed the door to the shed. Darrell dropped his pants. He was already hard. "You're gonna suck it-or I'll beat the shit out of you." He hit me again. I guess he thought I'd had enough and would do it. Apparently it had taken much less with Sam and others. He held my nose until I had to open my mouth. He stuck his cock into it, saying, "If you bite me, I'll kill you." I bit him anyway, not that hard actually, not enough to do him any harm, not even enough to bring blood; but it hurt, I guess. It was hard enough to hurt. He didn't kill me kill me-but he did cut off my balls. "You son of a bitch," he screamed, pulling his cock out of my mouth. "Hold the little bastard down," he said to his friends. They did. "What are you going to do?" asked one. Darrell had already pulled a switch blade out of his jeans which had gathered around his ankles. I guess the boy remembered his threat to kill me if I bit him. "I'm going to cut off his balls," said Darrell. I think that prospect excited the other boys, because none of them argued against it. Killing me might have been too much, but I think all of them wanted to see Darrell cut off my balls. How many times in your life could you see that? I screamed. He'd convinced me that he would do it. One of them stuffed a rag into my mouth, one those red shop rags they had used while working on the car. I can still taste the oil that was on it. Darrell undid my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and slid them, along with my white cotton briefs, down below my knees. He was still naked below the waist himself He hadn't bothered to pull up his pants. The other boys laid me down on the ground. Darrell knelt between my legs. I've read fictional stories about how boys, about to be castrated, become hard, even ejaculating when they're cut. Let me tell you-from personal experience-it doesn't happen that way. I wasn't hard. I was scared shitless. All my energy was directed elsewhere. I was geared up for flight, not for sex; but they held me down. Four of them held me, one on each arm-one on each leg. They were all bigger than me. I struggled, trying to get away, but I couldn't. Darrell didn't say anything else then. He just split open my sack. God, it hurt, but not as much as what followed. My balls dropped out. In spite of the pain, I was watching. I couldn't tear my eyes away. I could see my balls, hanging by their cords, from by split ball sack. He had split it from top to bottom. It was hanging to each side, leaving my balls in full view. I craned my neck up to watch. If it hadn't been for the pain, I would have thought it was a nightmare, but you don't feel pain, not the pain I was feeling, in a dream. "Shit," I heard one of them say. "Look at that. Are you really going to cut them off?" "Do it," I heard Sam say. Although I wasn't paying attention at the time, he was probably hard and about to cream his jeans. I felt Darrell grab my balls. How do I explain-to someone who's never felt it-what it feels like to have someone grab your bare balls with his hand? Imagine how it must feel to have someone grab hold of your eyeball. I'm sure that couldn't feel much worse. He grabbed them and pulled, and with one quick motion, no more than a flick of his wrist, cut them off, closing his fist over them. Even when he cut them off, I didn't close my eyes, although it hurt worse that anything I'd ever felt. I stared at his closed hand-the one that held my balls. "God Damn," one of them said-I don't know which one-"you did it. You really cut them off." "Come on," another of them said, tugging at Darrell's shirt. "Let's get out of here." Opening his hand, Darrell dropped my balls onto the ground between my legs, then pulled up his pants. They quickly left, leaving me in a pool of my own blood. I didn't cum when he cut my balls off, either. I pissed. I even voided my bowels, shitting all over myself, but, I assure you I didn't cum. No one who's forcibly castrated would. Maybe someone who wants it might, but I sure as hell didn't want it. I didn't cum. I never have since. I don't remember whether I had jacked off that morning. I hope I did. If not, I must have the day before. Until then, I had never gone a day without doing it. I don't know what I would have done, if Bobby hadn't come over after they left. I was in shock. I couldn't have walked out of there on my own. Maybe I would have bled to death, maybe I wouldn't. Bobby took one look at me and left. I later learned he'd run to his house to tell his older sister, who had called for help. An ambulance came for me. I barely remember it. I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. I remember being wheeled into the hospital room, being placed on to a bed in the emergency room. A doctor came in. He yelled some instructions at a nurse. He clamped something on my bleeding cords, hemostats, I think. A nurse started an IV of plasma, to tide me over until they typed my blood. "This is going to hurt just a little," I heard the doctor say, as he jabbed a needle into my groin. I didn't really feel it. Compared to having your balls cut off, a needle prick is nothing. They cleaned me up. Worried about infection-my shit had been spread all over my groin-they didn't stitch my sack up-just tied off my cords and trimmed them some, so they were short enough to retract into my body. I developed an infection. It was touch an go for a while. I guess I almost died. Because they had to keep my scrotum open, they eventually had to cut it off. I wouldn't even be able to have fake balls implanted. Everyone could tell at a glance that I was ball-less. Darrell and the other boys went to a reform school. I later heard-from somewhere-that they were out by the time they were eighteen. Not much punishment, I thought, for what they had cost me. We moved from Ark City soon after it happened. My father had been working at a defense plant, and the contract had ended. We moved back to Texas, to Fort Worth, this time. I've never been back to Ark City since. As I've said before, HRT wasn't available then. If I had no balls to produce testosterone, I was shit out of luck No other source was available. My dick never became hard. Before I'd always awakened with an erection. Now, I never did. Sometimes, if I really tried, it would become semi-erect, but, even when I persisted long enough to have what might have been called a climax, nothing came out but a little clear fluid. Before long, I lost the desire to try. My cock, shrunk and hung limply from my groin. I'd always been a skinny kid, not muscular. Over time, I gained some weight, but fat, not muscle. I don't mean I became fat-I didn't-but I developed a layer of fat. My hips looked more like my girl's than like a boy's. I even grew tits, not much, but they were noticeable. My sister used to tease me, offering to loan me one of her bras. I never took my shirt off in public. Life as a ball-less boy wasn't easy. Word that I had no balls spread around my school in Fort Worth. I was in the ninth grade, high school, by that time. I don't know who told, probably some teacher who had heard. It was in my records. I looked different, but some fat kids had tits as big as mine. Without testosterone, I wasn't as strong as the other boys. Built like a girl, I wasn't much stronger than one. I had no friends. Who wants to be friends with a ball-less boy? I think most thought I was queer, which, in Texas, in the '50's, wasn't something you wanted people to think. I wasn't, though. I wasn't anything. I had no sex or sexual desire. I was an it, not a boy or a girl. My cock was only good for peeing, and it had become so short that I sometimes had trouble taking it out of my pants. Often I just sat and peed like a girl. Of course, the other boys were curious. More than once in P.E. they held me down, stripped me, and stared at my empty groin. I was a freak to them, available for their amusement when nothing else was. I don't know when HRT became available, but by the time it did, I was no longer interested. I'd been a eunuch too long. Who wants to go through puberty at forty? Besides, what did I have to offer a woman? I could never father a child. Certainly, I wish I'd never been castrated, but as they say, shit happens. I guess you have to play the hand you're dealt. I've been fairly successful in my life, making enough money that I'm comfortable in my old age. But, you know-if there's anything I regret-it's those years I wasted between the time I entered puberty and the time I first jacked off. If only I'd known how to do it, I could have been doing it all that time. All those orgasms I could have had-while I had balls. |