I turned seventeen in June of 1966, and back then that was just about the best age a kid could be. The Pill, the Summer of Love, and Women’s Lib were all in the future, but there had been an awakening of curiosity among young women that made them more accessible that ever before, and I was going to be a Senior next year, which was the top of the food chain for school boys. Vietnam and the Draft, or college, were just a blur in the distant future and in the meantime there were lots of minimum wage jobs available that gave an unencumbered teenager plenty of disposable income. Beer was cheap, and even if you did get caught with it the police would just take it away from you and dump it out, and probably even take you home if you were driving.

That was also the year that I castrated Tom Wilson. There have been others since him: The haughty Viet Cong Colonel in Tran Hau that had demanded his rights, the retarded neighbor kid that I had caught stroking his cock in my sleeping daughter’s bedroom closet, and the drunken Montana cowboy who had just sideswiped my new truck all come to mind. They all had the same quizzical expression when I gently cupped their testicles in my hand, which turned to consternation and pain as I clamped down and tugged, followed by abject terror as soon as they saw the knife and realized what was going to happen, and lastly, the grimace of complete, total despair as I laid the bloody remains of their masculinity on their heaving chests. All were memorable events, but it was my first castration, that of Tom Wilson, that is permanently etched in my mind.

I didn’t like Tom Wilson the first time I saw him. I was in the Sixth grade, and he had just transferred in from another town. He was short, rather swarthy, had curly black hair, and was an extremely good student - the exact opposite of me in just about every way. The first time we stripped down for PE another difference became obvious. The rest of us were just hairless eleven-year-old children, but he had crotch hair and his prick and balls were bigger than anyone else’s. I don’t know if he was older than me, or just an early bloomer, but either way I hated him for it.

He also had a superior attitude and he made a point of letting the other guys know that he was more of a man than they were, and he even demonstrated it by showing us that he was capable of erection. A guy didn’t want to be standing at the urinals taking a piss when Tom would come in. Instead of just opening his fly and hauling it out, he would unfasten his pants and pull his skivvies down to make a big production out of it. He would usually turn to make sure whoever was beside him got a good look, and he would make a big deal of shaking it off when he was done, throwing a few drops of residual piss on the guy beside him like a dog marking his territory. Sometimes, if he were really feeling like an asshole, he would intentionally miss the urinal basin and nail someone in the shoes or pant leg with the first part of his stream. I would have beaten the snot out of him if fighting hadn’t been such a strict taboo in my family.

By the end of the seventh grade most of the rest of the guys’ nuts had dropped and we were probably as bad as Tom had been last year, but now we didn’t seem to care or notice since we were all obsessed with masturbation and general adolescent disgusting behavior. That was about the time that Tom figured out that he would always be short, and that pissed him off royally. He was like a lot of short guys in that he felt he had something to prove, and what he wanted to do in the worst way was get me, the biggest kid in the class, into a fight. I went to my dad for advice. “You’re bigger than he is, right?” Dad queried.

“Sure,” I replied. He’s about the smallest guy in the class, and I’m the biggest.”

“Well then,” Dad explained. “Here’s how it works. You’re bigger than him, and I’m bigger than you, so if you kick his butt then I’ll kick yours. Understand?” I couldn’t argue with logic like that, so I continued to ignore Tom’s insults and taunts.

The next year, sometime in the middle eighth grade, I discovered girls. They had always been there, of course, but now they had somehow changed from undesirable playmates to people that I wanted to get to know a whole lot better, and I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask about them. There wasn’t any such thing as Sex Ed back then, and most of what a kid knew came from other kids who knew as little as he did. Dad gave the standard birds and bees talk, but it was so vague and lacking in detail that it didn’t help much.

Fortunately I had a mentor. Uncle Walt, Mom’s younger brother, was what would now be called a Male Chauvinist Pig. He was thirty years old or so and lewd and crude. He slipped me his old copies of Penthouse and Playboy, and made sure that I knew about rubbers and the reproductive function. “Every month that you don’t get laid is another month wasted, boy,” he was fond of saying. “Get it wet as soon as you can—you don’t know what you’re missing. Hell, if I was your age again, knowing what I know now, I’d have screwed every girl in the school by now.” Although I appreciated Uncle Walt’s moral support it went unheeded, and I wasn’t destined to lose my cherry until I was sixteen.

The big problem was that Tom and I both had our eyes on the same girl and he had a little bit of a head start on me. Also, by now he had the start of a moustache. It wasn’t much more than just a shadow on his upper lip and he wouldn’t be allowed to cultivate it, as facial hair was prohibited even for high school kids back then. As soon as it got too noticeable he’d have to shave it off, but it was still something that I wouldn’t have for several more years and Sally thought it made him look ‘manly and sexy’, or so I heard from another girl. Tom also had another edge on me, psychologically at least. Even though I was half a foot taller he had bigger genitals. I hadn’t seen him with a boner since the sixth grade but now he undoubtedly had me beat. His dick hung lower than mine and was thicker, and he had bigger balls too. Also, while my pubic patch was confined to my crotch he had dense hair all over his thighs and even some on his belly. That pissed me off. I felt that if I had what he had that Sally would like me better than him. He somehow sensed my insecurity and played on it, mocking me every chance he could about how I was underdeveloped, as he called it, and would most likely never be normal. I could tell by looking at the other kids in PE that I was normal and that he was the aberration, but that still didn’t gain me any points with Sally.

Still, I resisted the urge to pound him, and if he hadn’t been so bold as to kick me in the balls he’d very likely still have his. All boys in the same grade took PE together back then, so all twenty of us were on the field playing football when he did it. We didn’t have helmets or pads or anything, so we played flag football, where a guy had to snatch a strip of cloth stuffed into the back of your pants to score a ‘tackle’. The luck of the draw had us both on the same team, the ‘skins’ as opposed to the ‘shirts’, and a kid on the other team had fumbled the ball. I was right on top of it, and a bunch of kids were on top of me in the dogpile. I was curled around the ball with my head tucked down and most of the other guys were hollering about whom had possession of the ball, when something went into my nuts so hard that I damn near passed out. The pile finally cleared, and everyone was waiting for me to uncoil and get up, but I couldn’t move. I had puked out the tuna fish sandwich that I’d had for lunch and I had released the ball and had both hands clenched tightly to my belly. The teacher finally came over and figured out that I’d taken a pop to the balls, and he had another couple of guys walk me to the locker room.

I was still too fucked up to straighten up so the school nurse came in. She wanted me to drop my shorts and jock strap so she could check me out but I was too embarrassed, so they finally they called my Mom to come and get me. I didn’t even change out of my gym clothes. Later on in bed with an ice pack I got looking at my gym shorts. There was a clearly distinct stain right in the crotch that matched the textured toe of the Keds that we all wore back then, and even though there was no way I could prove it I was sure who it was that had put it there.

A week later my nuts were still sore and slightly swollen, and Tom pointed to them and commented that now that my balls were up to par he’d think of someway to make my cock bigger too. I knew exactly how he could make it bigger and I told him to go ahead on it, and he got pissed. He followed me off of the school property and swung on me. It was just the opportunity I’d been waiting for and we went right at it. Unfortunately for me he was a tough little bastard and the fight ended in a draw and I limped home to face Dad’s wrath. I beat him home though, and took off on my bike. I parked in an alley and bent the front wheel and handlebar, and scuffed the seat up some and then pushed it home, whining that I had crashed it. He bought the story—sorry Dad, if you’re reading this, it was the only time I ever lied to you—and even ‘loaned’ me the money to fix it. I was technically the winner the fight because Tom had challenged me, swung first, and failed to kick my butt, so he left me alone for the rest of the year.

The next year we were in high school and subject to a whole new set of rules. There were way too many big, tough juniors and seniors to keep from offending and we therefore had no time to fuck around with each other. It also helped that we shared no classes, not even PE. The high school was much larger and the freshmen and sophomores were lumped together in four PE classes. I knew from talking to my buddies that were in his PE class that he still had an attitude. They reported that he still thought that he was hot shit, and he was now gunning for another larger boy, a junior, that had somehow got his attention or offended him in some way. Thus it was that we didn’t tangle with each other that year.

The next year we were both sophomores, and this time we had PE together, and it was obvious right away that Tom hadn’t changed a lot. He still faced the center of the room to undress and once naked he made sure that everyone got a good look at him. He was even hairier than when I’d last seen him and it was plain that he had to shave every day. He wasn’t much taller, not over five-five, but he had lost most all of his subcutaneous fat and now was extremely lean and wiry and had the bulging muscle structure of a wrestler. His cock and balls were less impressive, to me anyway, than they had been when he was younger. Maybe that was because my own had finally caught up to the rest of me, so in addition to being six inches taller than Tom, I was also better hung.

He was still an arrogant asshole and he proved it after PE while we both in the shower. “Hey Miller,” he asked through the clouds of steam. “Your balls still hurt?”

“Kiss off, Asshole,” I responded, calling his bluff.

“Yeah, well, big talk for a baby-face like you,” he retorted. “What do you do anyway, pour milk on your face and let the cat lick it off along with your fuzz?”

He had me there, all right. I shaved about once a month rather I needed to or not, and it would be several more years before it would become a daily necessity. I didn’t even take a razor with me when I got on the bus to go to boot camp and I was eighteen then. I wanted to take him on again, even if it meant getting my clock cleaned by both him and my old man, but I resisted the temptation and tried my best to just avoid him.

Tom turned sixteen in December and immediately got his drivers license and had apparently unlimited access to a little Karmann-Ghia, a privilege that contributed to his untimely loss of his balls. I had a learner’s permit, but wouldn’t turn sixteen until the next summer and he rubbed it in pretty hard.

I also was madly in love. Teresa was also a sophomore and she seemed to like me a lot. We made out when ever we could and we even got as far as French kissing, which was pretty heady stuff for a couple of kids back then. I wanted to get a lot more intimate, of course, but despite Uncle Walt’s coaching I wasn’t anywhere close to getting her pants off. We were walking home together one afternoon and got caught in a sudden thunderstorm. Neither of us had an umbrella; they were too uncool for hipsters like us, and guys didn’t wear hats or hooded sweatshirts back then but she had a little plastic hair deal that she put on and we let the rest of us get wet.

We were still a mile from home when Tom pulled up in his little two-seat Ghia and gallantly offered a ride. To her, of course. The only descent thing for me to do was to let her accept even though she offered to keep walking with me. Naturally they hit it off. She dumped me and within a month she found herself in a family way. She split for the East Coast to live with an Aunt or something and I never saw her again. Tom’s rich daddy bought her off and Tom was all smiles as he went about looking for a new girl friend.

“Hey, Miller,” Tom confronted me right after Teresa had left. We were in the shower again. He thought his naked body was somehow intimidating and he usually waited until he was naked in the shower or locker room to start flicking shit at people.

“Huh?” I answered.

“I was going to thank you for not popping Teresa’s cherry when you had the chance, but I guess it was probably because you don’t know how. Want to go on a double date sometime? Maybe I can give you a few hints,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear over the din of the shower room.

The room suddenly grew quiet, and I would have flown into him right then except that the teacher’s PE assistant, a big senior from the football team, stepped between us to de-fuse the situation.

“It’s not over, Asshole,” I muttered as I left to towel off and dress. Looking back, I think it was that exchange that guaranteed that he would lose his balls. Before then we could have just avoided each other and gotten along, and given enough time perhaps even become friends, but hat insult, added to the others, sealed the deal.

I couldn’t get to sleep that night and lay awake along time before employing a sure fire method of inducing drowsiness. I started out thinking about Teresa, and what it must have been like to make her pregnant, but my thoughts eventually shifted to Tom and what it would be like to have his balls in one hand and a knife in the other. I woke up the next morning with my tee shirt firmly glued to my belly.

That night was the start of my obsession with castration, and many a late night orgasm was fueled by the thoughts of cutting Tom’s nuts off. I thought about girls and sex too, of course, and I eventually surrendered my virginity to a partner who was both older and experienced. That seemed to break the ice and I gained even more experience in horizontal dancing, but all I had to do was think of nutting Tom and I’d get a boner just as quickly as I would by touching a girl’s naked body. I started packing a knife in case I ever got the opportunity, and as soon as I got my driver’s license I carried around a few other items that I thought might come in handy.

Tom was totally unaware of my ambitions, and he continued to harass me and generally act like an asshole. It was easier to ignore him now because I had something on which to focus: A firm plan to deal with him permanently.

Opportunity finally knocked during that magic summer of 1966. I was out cruising in my dad’s Buick and came across Tom’s little Ghia parked by the side of the road.

“The battery’s dead,” Tom announced. “You have any jumper cables?” Everyone was supposed to bend over backwards to help Tom; after all he was the richest kid in school.

“Yeah, they’re in the trunk,” I answered helpfully, as if I had forgotten all of his previous insults. I got out and opened the trunk, and pulled out a baseball bat that I had put there for just this kind of situation and bopped him on the side of his head. He started to fall and I just pushed him into the cavernous trunk of the big Buick and slammed the lid.

Other contributors to this archive have described their victims tied spread-eagle and naked with huge sperm-filled balls hanging down between their legs like ripe fruit begging to be harvested. This wasn’t the case with Tom. He regained consciousness to find himself on the forest floor fully clothed, with his hands tied together over his head and affixed to the base of a small tree and his feet, also tied together, secured to another nearby tree.

“Hey, Asshole,” I asked him once he was fully coherent. “Remember back when you kicked me in the balls?”

“Jeez, Miller, that was years ago. We were just kids then having fun, you know?”

“It wasn’t much fun for me. I hurt for over a month,” I informed him, and then reached down and unfastened his pants and pulled them and his shorts down around his thighs. His balls were sucked up tight and were nearly buried in the thick carpet of black hair, and I had to actually feel around some before I had both of them gently grasped in my hand.

“Hey!” Tom said, bewilderment clouding his face. “Knock that off. Are you some kind of queer or something?”

“Or something,” I answered. His expression abruptly changed to pain as I tightened my grip and tugged on his most sensitive parts. Then the noise started, pleading, begging, offering me any amount of money, everything he had if only I would quit hurting him. He only had two things that I wanted, and no amount of money was enough for their ransom.

Until he saw the knife I honestly believe that he thought that I was just tormenting him. It was just a cheap folding pocketknife, but I had spent many hours practicing until I could extract it from my pocket and flick it open with one hand, and as soon as he saw it he started to scream. That was of no concern to me, as we were quite a ways away from anyone who might hear.

There seems to be a widely held belief that males who know that their castration is imminent become erect and shoot the biggest loads of their lives at the moment of their unmanning, but Tom didn’t. Fear had shrunk his cock to the level of complete insignificance, and it now looked even smaller than it had in the sixth grade. That wasn’t true of me, however. I started getting hard as soon as I pulled his pants down, and by the time I was ready to nut him I was stiff as a board, and I had the most intense orgasm of my life as the knife severed his scrotum. I paused for a few seconds for my vision to return to normal before I calmly placed the remnants of his manhood on his heaving chest. I then cut his bonds, got in the Buick, and drove away. I honestly didn’t care if he lived or died.

No good deed goes unpunished, as they say, and the police knocked on the door late that night and took me into custody. Tom was unconscious when a guy and his gal found him, but he came to in the hospital and named his assailant.

There was no trial. I was guilty and not afraid to admit it. The judge referred me to the Washington State Corrections Department until my eighteenth birthday, at which time the situation would be evaluated. Thus it was that I became an alumnus of the prestigious Maple Lane High School. I could fill a whole book about my experiences in that institution, but I’ll skip all that here.

On my eighteenth birthday I appeared before the same judge. He had affidavits from all of my buddies attesting to the long-term abuse that Tom had heaped on me, and also affidavits from Tom and his parents demanding that I be sent away for the rest of my life. The judge simply washed his hands of the whole mess and released me and sealed my record on the provision that I join the Army or Marine Corp. The Army didn’t ask and I didn’t tell. They were too hungry for replacements in Viet Nam to question further the sanity of any able-bodied kid who wanted to enlist.

Like I said, there had been others, and there will very likely be more, but is the first one that I remember most vividly and to this day I have never had an orgasm as intense as the one I experienced when I castrated Tom Wilson.