Bradley's Cure (Complete story)

Author's Note: As those who know me may already realize, I am in the habit of attending the local stock car races every Friday evening during the summer. In the Pure Stock 4-cylinder division, the current point leader, and one of the best drivers in the class, is 13 year old Bradley McCaskill. Bradley has spent his life around cars. His dad owns a service station, the old fashioned kind where one can simply buy gas and have it pumped by a gas jockey, get a car repaired, overhauled, or whatever automotive needs are required.

Bradley's dad also races, although lately he has stopped racing himself to give him more time and money to support his son, who I believe has a real future in racing, considering the success he has already enjoyed at such a tender age. I do not know Bradley personally, so naturally this story is based solely on Bradley's existence, watching him scurrying about in the pits, driving his car, seemingly learning more about the sport week after week, and my active imagination. I have sat in the stands and watched this kid's every race, watched him develop week to week at an alarming rate. He is one impressive young teen.

The beginning of the story, the introduction of 12 year old Bradley into the racing game, and the last part, the story of Bradley's final race of the year, are fact. The middle, about how he came to be so focused, so centered, so calm and calculating... well, I'm sure each reader can make up his own mind what is fact and what is fiction. I just felt driven to write this little one-part tale. I hope you enjoy the story.

Oh, and Bradley, and I say this from the heart, you're one hell of a driver!

Bradley was about as nervous as he had ever been. It was the middle of July, he had just turned 12 last week, and he was driving in his very first race at the County Speedway. His father, also his pit foreman and lead mechanic, had told him he was ready. "Damn, son, you've been ready for a year!" he had exclaimed when Bradley was finally given clearance to race in the Pure Stock division.

Bradley had been around cars and racing his entire life. He had started hanging around his dad's repair garage when he was only four, had actually been a helpful assistant since he was 7. By age nine Bradley was racing go-carts regularly and having a lot of success. He did all his own mechanical work, including stripping the engine of his go-cart after every race and making it ready for the following week.

Bradley's father Barry had been racing stock cars most of his life. He did ok, but he was never great. There was always something, it seemed, to keep Barry out of the top contenders. There were always budget problems, which of course limited the number of new tires he could buy, the number of times he could strip the engine and replace any worn or questionable parts. But there was more standing in the way. He never would have admitted it, but deep down Barry knew he didn't really have the skill, the feeling, the passion to be a top contending driver. But Bradley was different and Barry knew it.

Barry could see the concentration on his nine year old son's face as he zoomed around the racetrack on his go-cart. He was certainly aggressive, a necessary trait for a successful race driver, but he wasn't reckless. His turns, passes, stops and starts were smooth and graceful. He seemed to have a feel for his machine, seemed to know precisely when he was taxing it to the limit. He could get every last horsepower out of that little go-cart without over-revving it, breaking the tires loose, burning up the breaks. Watching the boy's face as he raced was truly an experience that Barry never tired doing; that look of pure determination, concentration, constant analysis. So when Bradley turned 10 Barry made his son a proposition.

"How'd you like to start building your own car?" he said as they were loading the go-cart on the trailer after a race.
"A car?" Bradley responded. "What kinda car, Dad?"
"A stock car," Barry replied.
"You mean a real one? Like yours?"
"Not exactly like mine," Barry said. "I don't know if you're ready yet for a V-8, and I'm not sure they'd let you run it on the speedway. But I know they let 12 year old's drive the stock 4 cylinder class. So if we start now, it'll take us a good year to get the car built and all the bugs out of it. I can get you on the track to practice and get the feel of it, so as soon as you turn 12 you'll be there. So what d'ya say?"

Stupid question, or what? What would any ten year old say, given a proposition like that? Of course Bradley would do it! He eagerly agreed to cut back on his go-cart racing because there simply wouldn't be either the time or money to do both. He readily committed to keep his school work up, take part in the building of the car, and to be absolutely obedient when it came time to learn to drive it. This was gonna be so great, he told his father.

Over the next two years Barry and his brother John taught young Bradley everything they knew about race cars, cars in general, racing. They managed to secure two sponsors, bought a Toyota in fairly good condition, then proceeded to strip all the insides out of it, reinforce the frame and front end, then installed the required roll bars and other protective equipment. True to his word, Bradley took part in every aspect of transforming the little Toyota into a racing machine.

By the time he was 11, Bradley was ready to hit the track. His heart was pounding as they loaded the car on the trailer and headed for the Speedway for their first run. Barry's experience on the track served him well as he negotiated with the owner for track time, assuring the man that this was merely a driving lesson and that the laps would be slow, Barry would be with his son in the car, so there would be no danger on the deserted track.

Shakedown of the newly built race car and its young driver went on the entire summer and fall of the year Bradley turned 11. By the end of the season he was practicing with other drivers so he could learn to pass, to block other cars safely, and to avoid slower drivers instead of getting caught behind them. Barry's position in the point standing slid even further down as he concentrated on Bradley and his car. Barry's own car went neglected, and more often than not on Friday night's, the car didn't even finish the race because something had broken. He was going to show the world in no uncertain terms that he could produce a worthy driver even if he couldn't drive well enough himself; and Bradley was showing every indication that he would indeed be a worthy driver.

Bradley continued his intense training all winter, after most of the other drivers had put their cars away for the season and gone on to other things. But not Bradley! By the time he turned 12, for his debut race, it would already be July and he'd have to win every race to make an impressive point standing. It wasn't clear that he could win the point cup if he did everything perfectly, but that didn't stop Bradley. He was going to make an impressive showing, no matter what!

When the new season started, Bradley wanted to be in the starting lineup. There were several new cars, bringing the total in his Strictly Stock 4-Cylinder class to over 40, but the Raceway management said no, that even to allow him to race at 12 was pushing it, but 11 was out of the question. Bradley coaxed and begged, whined and wheedled, but to no avail. So he continued to work the pits tirelessly at his dad's races and ran his car during practices when there were few if any other cars there. Barry's point standing began to improve. Bradley's little Toyota had been tuned and adjusted to perfection, so now the pit crew, including Bradley, concentrated on Barry's Chevy Monte Carlo, and their efforts paid off. He still wasn't winning as many races as he would like, but he was doing better.

But now Bradley was 12, had been 12 for four days. It was Friday night and he was sitting in his little red Toyota, waiting for the announcer to call for Strictly Stock 4-Cylinder practice. And he was scared to death. He thought this would be a piece of cake, but now that he was minutes away from his call, he was shaking all over and trying to hide his nervousness from his mom and dad. Who was he, a 12 year old kid, to go up against all those other drivers? They were anywhere from 20 to 50; some of them had been racing for years! Would his car hold up? What if someone hit him? What if someone spun out in front of him? This was it! This wasn't spinning around the track all alone, this was the real thing!

"Ok son, that's your call," Barry said as the Late Model Sportsmen cars spilled into the pits from the track. "Fire it up and we'll push you back. Just get in the lineup and follow the others out on the track. Don't push it too hard, just see if you can keep up with the faster cars until she's warmed up and you get the feel of her. Go get ‘em, boy!"

This was a far cry from go-cart racing. Bradley thought about those days as he sat in his Toyota, the engine idling smoothly, waiting for the flag to enter the track. The go-cart had been so easy! A highly tuned single cylinder engine, automatic centrifugal clutch, gas pedal and brake pedal, and that was it! That go-cart had been so low to the ground all he ever had to worry about was his tires losing their traction and breaking away. There was no transmission, no clutch, no gauges or tachometer. All he'd had to do was put the gas pedal down all the way and keep it in a straight line, correct when the tires skidded, and keep from running into someone. But now he had gears to worry about, clutch and brake, accelerator, and all the gauges that would tell him, if he were to watch them, if all was well. But Bradley wouldn't watch the gauges because his ears would tell him if things were well. He had a feel for that little engine; if he listened closely enough it talked to him. He could tell just by listening if it was running right, if it was revving so high the power was dropping off, if something was wrong. Then the caution flag dropped and he was on the track, along with 25 other cars.

Bradley managed to heed his father's advice for the first 5 laps and simply hold his position, but he knew he could do more. Coming out of turn 4 he pressed the pedal down and passed two cars. He was directly behind one of the point leaders and bearing down on him. When the other car backed down for turn 1, Bradley held the accelerator down for a few more feet. As they entered the turn, the little red Toyota blasted past the leader, tires screaming wildly, and Bradley knew that he was doing what he'd been born to do. He had four more practice laps, and he led the way. "YESSSSS!" he screamed to himself as he headed back to the pits. He knew he would win this race!

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Barry demanded as Bradley rolled into his allotted pit position and shut the car down.
"I had to know, Dad," Bradley answered. "I had to know if I could pass him. It's ok, really. The car handled like a dream!"
"You need more experience," Barry lectured. "There's just so much you don't know. You're not gonna get anywhere in the point standing this year anyway, so just go out and have a good time, get to know your car and the track. Consider the rest of this season part of your training, and don't worry about winning or even placing till next year. You're doin' fine, but don't push it."

As Bradley emerged from the car and took his helmet off, he knew that his dad just didn't understand. He and his little car were one when they were on that track. They were a unit, a well oiled machine, and there was no way they could do anything other than their very best! He didn't argue because he knew his dad would not understand. And his mom! Now there was another story. She was behind him, had supported the effort from the beginning; but like all mom's she was so afraid that he'd get hurt, she had never even considered the possibility that he would try to win his first time out. But Bradley knew he could do it, and he fully intended to let the world know that Bradley McCaskill had turned 12 and was now racing!

There were so many cars in the Stock 4-Cylinder and Economy Street classes that there simply wasn't time in an evening to do time trials for all of them to determine position, to they ran heat races: 5 laps for Stock 4-Cylinder and 7 for Economy Street class. Being the newcomer and at the bottom of the point standings, Bradley found himself in last place in the first heat.

In the five laps of the heat, Bradley worked his way up to 3rd place. He was determined to win, but he had lost track of the laps and simply didn't press hard enough. It was probably a good thing; had he pushed harder he might well have overdone it. But Bradley had learned another important lesson: keep one eye on the lap counter. "That's five eyes I've gotta have," he giggled to himself as he pulled into the pits. "I gotta keep one eye ahead of me, one on the tach, one on my rear view, one going from side to side, and now one on the lap counter."

When the 25 lap feature started, Bradley found himself starting in 7th place out of 20 cars, which his father told him for the first time out was better than he had dared hope for. "Just keep the pressure on the guy in front of you," Barry advised. "Don't be in too much of a hurry to pass, just keep the pressure on him and let him make the mistakes." Bradley did exactly that, and by lap 15 he was in 3rd. He started riding the bumper of the second place driver, who happened to be the point leader. The strategy worked perfectly as the driver of the car became completely unraveled that he was being pressured by a 12 year old. He pushed the accelerator harder, waited another second or two before braking for the turns. Next thing he knew his rear end had broken loose and he was going into the turn sideways, with that young upstart passing him smoothly.

Unfortunately Bradley was a little too excited, a little too anxious and he didn't quite clear the car he was passing as it careened into the inside wall, then bounced off directly into the driver's door of Bradley's little Toyota. The damage wasn't too bad, certainly not enough to knock him out of the race, but Bradley was furious! He'd had fantasies for weeks about his first race, about how he would wind up taking the checkered flag in his perfect little red car, without so much as a scratch on it. And now the driver's side was all pushed in, mangled, scratched and dented. Then as he fought to keep the car on the track, another piece of his father's advice came to him.

"One of your best friends on the track," Barry had said, "or worst, depending on how you handle it, is your temper. If something happens that makes you mad, you can use that surge of adrenaline to focus your senses, squeeze every last drop of performance out of your car, or you can lose control, do something stupid, push too hard. And make no mistake, son, there will be lots of times you'll be so mad you'll want to spit on every driver on the track. Learn to control that temper and there'll be no stopping you!"

"I'll do it," Bradley whispered to himself. "I'm not gonna let you get to me, you son of a bitch! I'm gonna win this race!

When the green flag waved to end the caution and finish the race, Bradley was riding the bumper of the leader. He was one of the more experienced drivers, had a great car, and was not easily rattled. But Bradley was mad, he was hungry, he was focused. He stayed right on that bumper, waiting for a mistake. His muscles were tensed like steel, ready to make whatever avoidance maneuver he had to when the leader made a mistake; but the mistake he was waiting for never came.

On lap 23 Bradley knew he would have to make his move or settle for second place. He did just that, on turn 3. He was passing on the outside, neck and neck with the leader. He knew he had to get past him on the turn because the other car had slightly more power. If he wasn't ahead before they came out of turn 4 he would lose him on the straight and might not get another chance. So he pushed harder. Just when he thought he had him, his rear tires lost traction and he slid sideways.

Somehow Bradley managed to regain control and avoid a caution flag; but he had lost three places in the process. When the checkered flag went down he was still in fourth place, and Bradley was devastated! He was almost in tears as he headed into the pits and pulled into his allotted parking place.

Bradley's parents, on the other hand, were overjoyed! "You were so great!" they practically screamed as he crawled out of the car. "Fourth place on your first time out. That's incredible!"
"But... I wanted to win," Bradley complained. "I was so sure..."
"You'll win," Barry assured him. "It's just a matter of time, son. You're one helluva driver!"

Bradley did win; three times in the remainder of the season. And when he didn't win he placed somewhere in the top 5, which Barry, and no small number of the other drivers, all assured him was absolutely remarkable, given his age and experience. He became even more in tune with his car; he knew every ripple on the track; he got to know the other drivers; their weaknesses, their strengths, when he could pass them and when he couldn't. By the end of the season there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Bradley would be a strong contender next year, when he had a full season to accumulate points.

Bradley began growing at an incredible rate over the winter. That was fine with his father because he fit the car better, the special mounts under the seat in the Toyota could be removed, the seat could be pushed back further and Bradley could still see and reach the pedals. It was obvious that young Bradley was hurtling headlong into puberty at an early age and an alarming rate.

Puberty can be a very traumatic time for a boy. Some boys, many of them in fact, glide through the year or so of emotional and physical changes unscathed; others have a terrible time. They become confused about their sexuality, their status with their peers. They sometimes become very self conscious about their own bodies, if they measure up, are all the changes they are experiencing obvious or invisible to all who care to look. Still others, and Bradley was one of this group, the changes were far more subtle. In fact it could be said Bradley's changes in attitude, desires and priorities, happened so quickly and quietly that Bradley himself was not even aware they were happening until the die was cast.

When the spring racing season began, Bradley had grown almost a foot. He stood just over five feet, was as handsome as a god, and was determined to show everyone at the County Speedway that he was the best in his class, possibly the best in all classes. He didn't have a steady girl friend, but there was a cheering section in the stands that comprised about a dozen squealing 12, 13 and 14 year old females, all screaming their heads off when the little red Toyota fired up and entered the racetrack.

Bradley could seemingly do no wrong. He won his heat, which placed him in 2nd place in the main event. He held his position until lap 20 before he made his move, which he reasoned would give him lots of time to recover and try again if his move failed to pass the leader. But the move didn't fail. When he pulled to the outside of car number 66 on turn 3 he was calm and cool, perfectly under control. When he exited turn 4 Bradley was leading, and he held his lead and took the checkered flag.

After the race, Bradley was nowhere to be found when it came time to load his car on the trailer. He had been swarmed by his admirers, swooning and gushing over his victory. His dad was more than a little pissed off when he found his son in the middle of a swarm of girls, while others had to load the car on the trailer. Nevertheless Bradley had done well and no one could deny him his victory.

As June approached, Bradley found himself in 1st place in the point standings. But more and more Barry noticed that his son would do a little grandstanding every time he approached the track. He would squeal the tires when he started, move up through the traffic more erratically, and, probably worst sin of all for a race driver, look to the stands on the front straight to see if his cheering club were all watching him. He started to lose races. On two nights in a row he ran the entire race in third place, then with only three laps to go he made his move, but his concentration wasn't there. He went into the turn too fast and spun out.

The night he turned 13 was the final straw for Barry. He wasn't racing at all any more, choosing instead to spend all his time with his son: maintaining the little Toyota; coaching, tuning, repairing damaged fenders. As Bradley pulled out on the track that night for his 5-lap heat race, the track announcer made a big deal of the fact that it was his 13th birthday. Bradley saw about 20 girls, mostly classmates and their friends, stand and cheer, scream, wave as Bradley passed. He won his heat that night, the second of two, and he was once again placed in second to start. He HAD to win this race!

When it came time for the 40-lap feature, Bradley was ready; or he thought he was. He pulled out onto the track and accelerated, glancing toward the stands to see if his cheering section was still there. It was, and it had grown. When his eyes returned to the track he was heading directly for a car that had died. Somehow he avoided it, but the experience had scared him. He had to somehow keep his mind on his task: to win this race.

When the green flag dropped, Bradley tried right away to take the lead. He had his own agenda now, and that was to lead the entire race. His father had told him repeatedly that leading an entire race was putting far too much pressure on himself, that he should put that pressure on the leader and then make his move late in the race; but there were all those fans, cheering him to victory. He could imagine what a big man on campus he would be if he led the entire race. He wanted that glory!

Bradley still didn't have a steady girl friend, but there were three girls at school whom he'd had his eyes on. Needless to say they all had their eyes on Bradley as well, along with about 40 others. But it was important to Bradley that those three in particular see all his victories, all his triumphs. He already knew that two of those three girls were at the race, but the third, his favorite, was still an unknown. She was not a race fan, but he had made sure she knew he was racing tonight. Still he hadn't seen her, didn't know if she was there or not.

Bradley failed in his bid to take the lead on the first lap. He remained in 2nd place until lap 5, when he tried again. Unfortunately he tried a little too hard and he spun out, ending up slamming into the inside wall on turn 2. That was bad enough, but one of the rules of this raceway was that any driver who causes a yellow flag has to go to the rear of the pack. No problem though, he still had 35 laps to go. But if he had been in tune with his car, if he'd been aware as he used to be, if he'd read his gauges as he'd been taught, he would have known that he had ruptured something in his cooling system.

When the race resumed, Bradley wasted no time working his way back to 5th place. And that's when he completely lost power, spinning out on turn 3 and striking the wall again, hard! He tried to restart the engine, but it wouldn't even turn over. Bradley had blown an engine!

"You've just got to get control of yourself," his dad lectured as they surveyed the damage after Bradley had been towed to the pits. The engine was absolutely ruined.
"I know, Dad," Bradley whined. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I wanna win so bad! But..."
"But it's more important to you who's watching, right?" Barry offered.
"Not exactly," Bradley said. "But I just... I mean, I try to concentrate on my driving, on my car like I used to, but..."
"But you have to take your eyes off what you're doing to see where the girls are and what they're doing, right?" Barry suggested.
"Yeah, Dad," Bradley admitted. "I don't mean to do it, but it seems on every lap I find myself looking at the stands."

Barry ran his hands over his chin, over his three day beard. "We can fix the engine, son," he declared. "All I gotta do is get another Toyota engine and tune it up and put it in. Your car will be ready for the next race, but the question is, will YOU be ready?"
"I don't know what you mean, Dad," Bradley said, confused. "Why wouldn't I be ready?"
"Because fixing your problem isn't so easy, son," Barry observed. "Your problem is your hormones going wild, and there's no easy fix for that. I suspect in a year or two, maybe up to five or six, you'll get control of them, but in the meantime your hormones are controlling your life. You're one of those unfortunate boys, just like I was, that puberty is gonna be real rough for you."

Bradley felt a cold chill down his back. He wasn't sure exactly what his father was saying, but it sounded a lot to him as if his dad had just told him that he could kiss the next two years, maybe as many as six, of his racing career good-bye. "What can I do, Dad?" he pleaded. "I want to win so bad!"

Barry regarded his son. He was such a beautiful boy! But Barry had two other sons, older, one already married. But Bradley was so incredibly special! He was everything that Barry had wanted to be but knew he never would. He knew that Bradley had a brilliant future as a race driver, but it was obvious that the boy was suffering so badly from testosterone poisoning that he would simply not cut it until puberty had settled down, and even then the future was completely unknown.

"How bad do you want to win?" he asked as he looked his young son in the eye.
"More'n I ever wanted anything!" Bradley answered without hesitation. "I can't wait two years, Dad! I just can't! Isn't there anything you can do?"
"There is one thing," Barry said haltingly. "It involves some minor surgery, and it'll change your life forever. But I just don't know..."
"Can I still drive after?" the concerned youth asked. "Will it hurt my ability to drive?"

"It won't affect your ability to drive either way," Barry replied. "Your driving skills are just fine, son. It's your concentration that's all fucked up, and that's being caused by your hormones. But once your hormones are gone, they're gone for good."
"If it'll help, I wanna do it," Bradley stated desperately. "The sooner the better. I've gotta win the championship this year!"
"But you're only 12!" Barry reminded him. "You've got a whole lifetime..."
"I'll be 13 before the season is over," Bradley interrupted. "An' next year I'll be 14, then 15. Before we know it I'll be 20 and I'll still be racing on this piss-ant little track. By the time I'm 18 I wanna be in NASCAR. I wanna have that surgery, Dad. If you think it'll help, I want it NOW!"

"I don't know," Chad McGinnes said as he took a pull from his beer. "I mean, he's pretty young. Are you sure he knows what he's doing?"
"He doesn't even know what we're talking about yet," Barry McCaskill replied. "I told him there's surgery that can help, but I haven't told him what it is."
"Don't you think he's figured it out?" Chad observed.
"It's possible, but I doubt it," Barry answered. "I don't think he even knows what the problem is yet." Barry was sitting in a late night bar, sharing a beer with his lifelong friend Chad McGinnes, pouring out his woes about his son. He had headed for the bar as soon as Bradley was in bed, knowing Chad would be there waiting for him.

"Did you take him to the doctor this week?" Chad asked.
"Uh-huh. And as you asked, I got the testosterone readings. I got the lab reports this morning."
"WHEW!" Chad whistled when he saw the lab report. "With testosterone levels like that it's no wonder the kid's fucked up! That shit's eatin' him up!"
"I know," Barry said. "That's why I've gotta do something. Puberty robbed me of my chances, and I'm not about to let it rob my son."

Barry's claim to fame in middle school had not been car racing, but baseball. He was an incredible pitcher, and one of his team's star batters. Everyone thought he had a brilliant future in professional baseball, until puberty and all its ravages hit him full in the face. Before he knew it, he was more interested in what girls were watching, how he could look more like the all American jock, than he was in winning games. He had become totally obsessed with sex, girls, getting off, to the point where he was beating off several times a day, spending hours during school thinking of ways to get this girl or that into bed. Before he had settled down he had lost enough key games that he'd been replaced as the team's pitcher, even failed to make the team tryouts in high school, and his career was over before it had even got started. Chad, considerably older than his friend, had watched it all happen; so he knew that Barry could see the same thing beginning to happen in his son, and he knew why neither of them could allow that to happen. Like his father, Bradley simply wasn't college material. It wasn't that he was stupid, not by a long way! But he simply didn't have the academic bent to apply himself to be anything but mediocre in a career like Engineering, Law or Medicine. Bradley was a race car driver, and a good one. That was his absolute best shot at a bright career, and the only chance, it seemed, for him to be happy.

"He doesn't race next week, does he?" Chad inquired.
"No, the track is closed for the 4th of July weekend," Barry responded. "That's why this would be a good time, so he won't miss any races. According to what you're telling me, he'd be healed enough to race in a little more than a week."
"Ok, I'll set it up for Monday morning. But you've got a lot of talking to do with him between now and then. No one's gonna touch that kid unless we're all sure that he knows all the facts. This could come back to haunt us all, you know."

What Barry McCaskill didn't know, in fact no one in the universe did, was the primary reason for Bradley's having lost his concentration on that night. Yes, his attention had been distracted for over a month, he had been confused and disoriented, but that wasn't the primary reason. Bradley had been talking to Michelle, the girl of his dreams, that very afternoon. He didn't have all that much confidence with girls, which of course was not that uncommon in 13 year old boys. So Michelle had taken the offensive and called to Bradley to wish him well when she'd seen him at the mall. "You score a win in that race tonight," she had told him, "and you'll score again the first time we get a chance. I really like you, Bradley, and I'd love it if you were my first."
"Y-you m-mean..." Bradley had stammered.
"Yeah, I mean," Michelle had giggled. "You win that race and it's not gonna be the only win you have."

That promise had sent Bradley right off the deep end. He almost lost control of his car in the practice laps because he'd been so busy adjusting his painful erection he'd totally taken his eyes off the track and almost hit another car. Then when his race had started, it took every bit of strength he had to keep his mind on the task at hand. Bradley hadn't the faintest idea that his engine was overheating badly when it blew. If he had noticed, had just glanced at the temperature gauge even once, he could have pulled into the pits and had the upper radiator hose taped, and he might well have finished the race. He might even have won!

"By the way, is the boy shooting yet?" Chad asked.
"Oh yeah," Barry replied with a grin. "His mother's been complaining for six months about his stained sheets, underwear, socks stiff with cum, just about everything. That kid's been cumming at least once a day, and probably more. I've even heard him beating off in the middle of the night."
"Is he... is he still a virgin?"
"Shit, I dunno, Chad. If I had to guess I'd say yes, but I really don't know."
"How much has he grown? I mean... err... the business end of him?"
"Fuck, man, I don't know! I haven't seen him naked since he was like nine or so."
"So you don't know if he's sprouting hair yet?"
"No, man! What d'ya think I do, spy on my son all the time?"
"Find out what you can before Monday," Chad ordered. "The doc's gonna want to know. As for his pubic hair, the size of his dick, that shouldn't be a problem finding out ‘cause you're gonna have to shave him Sunday night."

Saturday afternoon, Barry and his son went looking for an engine for Bradley's car. That wasn't the only reason, by a long sight, that Bradley found himself in the pickup alone with his dad, but it would do. "I've got an appointment set up for you on Monday," Barry said as they drove. "Between now and then, we've got to be sure you understand what the doctor is gonna do, and why. I want you home all day tomorrow, and I want you to think about this real careful. I've got a list of web sites I want you to visit. They might be able to give you a better understanding of what's in store and what it means. By the way, I haven't said a word about this to your mom. I'll leave it up to you whether to tell her or not."
"It don't matter," Bradley said confidently. "If it'll help me get my concentration back, it's gotta be good for me, right?"
"There will be side effects," Barry said uncomfortably. "Everything comes with a price, Brad."
"What kinda side effects?" Bradley asked, getting a little concerned. "Like, I'm not gonna be a cripple or anythin' like that, am I?"
"Not exactly," Barry answered. "Some men in your position might consider themselves a cripple, but it's all in your perspective."

Concerned now, Bradley looked deep into his father's eyes. Barry had pulled the truck off to the curb and shut it down. There was no sound save the labored breathing of Barry McCaskill. "What're you gonna do to me, Dad?" Bradley asked.
"How bad do you want that championship?" Barry evaded.
"You know I want it more'n anything, Dad," Bradley answered.
"But how bad? You told me you were willing to do anything, Bradley. You said you would make any sacrifice. Did you mean it?"
"Yeah, I meant it. At least I think I did. You're scaring me, Dad! What're they gonna do?"
"Bradley, son, we're not gonna do anything unless you're ok with it. But if you want to get your concentration, your focus back, there's only one way. Son, we've got to cut your balls off."

Bradley's chest collapsed as all the breath in his lungs left him in a loud WHOOOSH! For the next half minute or so he was totally paralyzed. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't move. "C-cut my balls off?" he finally gasped. "Y-y-you mean C-C-CASTRATE me?"
"That's what I mean, son. Your hormones are driving you nuts, just like mine did to me at your age. I was one of the best pitchers my coach had ever seen when I was your age. Then puberty struck and my baseball career got all messed up ‘cause I was so obsessed with gettin' laid, jerkin' off all the time, and I was ALWAYS hard, just like you are right now."

Bradley quickly rearranged himself self-consciously, trying to hide the erection that was so intense right now it was hurting him. "I'm sorry," Barry went on, "I try not to notice because I know it's embarrassing for you, but the truth is I HAVE been noticing. You're almost always hard, aren't you Bradley?"
"Well... er... yes sir."
"And based on the stains on your sheets and underwear, you're beating off at least once, and probably more than once, every day aren't you?"
"Y-yes, sir," Bradley admitted as his face flushed so red if he'd had a cut on his cheek he'd have bled to death.

"Have you ever noticed how many more dead squirrels you see on the road in the spring?" Barry said, "or how many more deer are killed on the highway in the fall?"
"Well, yeah," Bradley answered, "now that you mention it I have noticed."
"That's because it's their mating season, Bradley," Barry told him. "Sometimes during mating season the males go completely off their game. They get a whiff of a female in heat, and nothing else in the world matters but finding that female. Some animals get real nasty and will fight anything in their path, including a moving car or truck. That's what's happening to you, Bradley. You are being overwhelmed by your testosterone. It muddles your mind, confuses you, throws your sense of priorities all out of whack."
"Really?" Bradley said as he began to understand what his dad was telling him.

"I hate to ask you this," Barry said as he eyed his son closely, "But if I don't, the doctor will. Bradley, have you been... err... I mean, how much experience have you had with girls?"
"Not much I guess," Bradley replied. "I mean, I've danced with a couple girls at school, and... well... I've kissed a couple girls..."
"So you haven't... I mean..."
"No, Dad!" Bradley said forcefully. His painful erection felt as if it might be getting ready to explode.

"And other boys?" Barry pushed.
"What about them?" Bradley asked defensively.
"Have you... err... have you done anything with other boys?"
"We... unhh Dad, why's that important?" Bradley could feel himself leaking precum like a fountain. He glanced down and saw a wet spot growing in his shorts. He didn't want to admit that he and two of his friends had done some experimenting, had had the odd circle jerk. And he certainly wasn't ready to admit how much he'd enjoyed those sessions.

"The doctor's gonna want to know," Barry replied. "I just thought you'd rather tell me than tell the doctor. I'm just trying to help you see what your hormones are doing to you. You have done something haven't you?"
"Y-yes, sir," Bradley confessed guiltily, "we've fooled around a little. But I'm not gay, Dad! I'm NOT!"
"I didn't say you were, son," Barry said, realizing that he had crossed the line. He had gone so far over the line he didn't know if he'd ever get back. "Bradley, that's my point," he said, trying to recover. "Boys your age often fool around, investigate, experiment, and it doesn't mean they're gay. But I'd love you even if you were gay. Being gay isn't a bad thing, son! I'm just tryin' to find out..."
"I'm NOT GAY!" Bradley said again emphatically.

"Just think about all of this, ok?" Barry said, knowing he'd not recovered and probably wouldn't. "If we... err... YOU decide to go ahead with the castration, the doctor can put in imitation balls so no one will know unless you tell them. We can take some of your sperm and freeze it so you can still have kids later if you want; you can even take hormone treatment when you're older, when your body can handle it better. So you see, there really aren't any ill effects that can't be dealt with. So think about it, have a look at the web sites - I'll give you the list when we get home, ok?"

"But what will it do to me, Dad?" Bradley asked as Barry fired up the pickup and headed for the junk yard where he hoped to get a good Toyota engine.
"You'll lose all interest in sex," Barry answered. "You might still be able to get hard, I don't really know. But you won't be going around hard all the time like you are now. And you won't be beatin' off all the time. If you can remember what it was like a year ago before the change started, it'll be kinda like that."

"Will I still grow?" Bradley asked with concern.
"You'll still grow, maybe a little more slowly, and in a different way. You will probably become taller and slimmer, your arms and legs will get longer, but you won't develop big muscles, you won't develop much body hair, probably no beard or mustache..."
"You mean I won't have to shave?"
"No, son, you will probably never have to shave, that is unless you take hormones later on. Then I don't know..."
"And... and my voice..."
"Your voice will not change, the way a boy's usually does. It'll change, get a little more mature sounding, but you won't develop a man's voice..."
"Kinda like a womans, right?"
"More or less," Barry admitted reluctantly.

Barry knew that some of the things he'd just told his son would not be unattractive to the boy. He knew that Bradley hated the thoughts of having to start shaving, and he knew Bradley didn't care one way or the other about big muscles because aside from racing and a little basketball and swimming, he wasn't really interested in sports. But that last point, his voice not changing, was going to be a big hitter and Barry knew it. But Barry didn't want any surprises. This wasn't a conspiracy; Barry wasn't even sure he wanted castration for his son; but it was an option and he felt duty bound to present it.

"Just think about it, ok?" Barry said as he pulled into the junk yard. "I'm gonna have to shave you... down there... tomorrow night at bedtime. We'll talk then, ok?"
"Think about it!" Bradley muttered. "Dammit, Dad, how can I think of anything else?"
"C'mon, son, let's go find you an engine."

Bradley sat in his bedroom, staring at his computer screen, a slip of paper on his desk with a list of about ten web sites printed on it. There had been no more talk of castration after they'd found what his dad said was a better engine than the one he'd had. Barry had ranted and raved all the way home, having found an engine out of a car barely two years old that would work perfectly in Bradley's little race car. The car had been totalled in a wreck; a wreck in which the car had been hit side-on as it sat sedately at the curb one Sunday morning. "The perfect situation," Barry had said at least ten times. "The engine hadn't even been running when the car was hit, so there's no chance it was damaged in the wreck!"

But Bradley hadn't really heard his dad; he was thinking of all the reasons why there was no chance in hell anyone was gonna cut his balls off. But why, he wondered, if he was so adamant that he wasn't going to do it, was he so damned hard? Why had he practically rushed to his bedroom and locked the door, not so he could begin the research his dad had instructed him to do, but so that he could jerk off? Why, as soon as he had fired up his computer and dialed into the Internet, had his dick got just as hard again? In spite of his firm decision that no one was going to castrate him, Bradley was incredibly turned on by the prospect.

In spite of his determination to refuse his father's proposition, Bradley was soon reading every morsel of information he could get about castration, and he was learning more than he'd ever wanted to know about castration. The first site he visited told the astonished boy about the Castrati of Italy. He read that as recently as two hundred years ago, it was common practice in Italy to castrate young boys, usually eight years old or so, to preserve their angelic voices. Lots of little boys, Bradley read, died as a result of their mutilation because the castrators of the day were often no more qualified than the local butcher. Boys died from blood poisoning, infections, or simply bled to death because the wound had not been cauterized adequately, if at all.

On another site, Bradley learned about all the societies in antiquity that had made a common practice of castrating their slaves. Most, but not all, he learned, were rendered sexually dysfunctional as a result of their castration. It was generally believed that a castrated slave would make a much better, more calm and subservient slave. They could be more easily trained and controlled, were even more content in their menial role than were whole males.

Somewhere early in his research Bradley learned that as a castrated boy, or man, he would be called a eunuch. He remembered mention of the word "eunuch" in the Bible and had often wondered what it meant. "I'll be a eunuch!" he whispered to himself. The thought drove his rampant desire over the edge again and he had to take a short break to relieve his aching boyhood. The resulting orgasm was one of the most intense in his young life!

Back at his computer, and it was now well past midnight, Bradley encountered the Eunuch Archive. There he found all sorts of stories, both fact and fiction, and he read a few of the shorter ones. The appalled boy learned that there were even today many eunuch wannabe's. He read about boys and men who wanted to get castrated simply because of a fetish; others felt that they should have been born female and the first step in many treatments and surgeries was to terminate the male hormone testosterone. The most effective and permanent way to do that, of course, was castration.

There were others, Bradley learned, who were either castrated or wanted to be to reduce their libido. He read about one man over 60 who said that he'd been ruled by his hormones his entire life until he'd finally had enough and got castrated. Bradley could relate to this man, because the past six months had been something of a hell for him, although he hadn't realized it until he'd started surfing the web that Saturday night. In his active mind he pictured the old man, walking around with a hardon all the time just as Bradley was now doing. He couldn't even imagine all the embarrassment of living his entire life that way. "Maybe being a eunuch isn't all that bad," he commented to himself.

Still curious, he browsed three web sites that dealt with the various medical reasons for, and the problems associated with being a eunuch. He learned about torsioning, a condition with no known cause in which the cords connecting the testicles became twisted, which in time would kill the balls. This condition sometimes resulted in pretty excruciating pain, so the balls, useless now anyway, were simply cut off. Of course there was testicular cancer, but the general consensus was that it seldom happened in boys as young as Bradley. There were other cancers, notably the prostate, in which it was generally believed that testosterone could make the situation worse. Castration in such situations had been routine at one time, but nowadays it seemed to Bradley the doctors were much more willing to gamble with the patient's life rather than castrate him.

Bradley noticed that it was 3 AM as he clicked on a chat room dealing with castration. He had already drawn the conclusion that attitudes over the past few centuries had done a complete about face. Whereas it used to be commonplace for just about any reason to castrate a boy, modern medicine now seemed to treat it as a taboo, almost a fanatical zeal to preserve the testicles no matter what. Bradley wondered about the changes in attitude, especially in these days of population explosion and increased emphasis on birth control.

<NeedCut> Hi, Bradley. How are you tonight?

<Bradley> Hi, NeedCut. I'm fine, how are you?

Bradley was rather shocked that he'd been greeted in the chat room as soon as he'd entered. He wasn't a regular in chat rooms by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't his first time either. He did notice, though, that he and the person called "NeedCut" were the only two in the room. The two chatters exchanged pleasantries, then NeedCut got right to the business at hand.

<NeedCut> So what brings you to the Eunuch chat room tonight? Are you a eunuch?

<Bradley> Not yet. I was just trying to get a little information. Are you a eunuch?

<NeedCut> Like you, Bradley, not yet. How long have you been interested in castration? >

<Bradley> About one day. My dad has asked me to find out as much as I can before they do it.>

Over the next hour or so Bradley explained to his new acquaintance the conversations he'd had with his dad, their reasons, and all that he'd learned since then by browsing the Internet. NeedCut was absolutely astonished, as well as more than a little envious, that Bradley's balls seemed to be doomed; a situation he would have loved for his own 26 year old balls. Finally NeedCut told him he didn't see the problem, that Bradley's situation was a dream come true for a lot of eunuch wannabe's.

<NeedCut> You don't know how lucky you are, Bradley. There are lots of us right here in this chat room who would die to be in your position. I would go for it if I were you before he changes his mind.

<Bradley> But I'm not sure I want to be a eunuch. I mean how do I know I won't regret it when I am like 20 or 30? What if I want babies?

<NeedCut> What's not to like, Bradley? You lose all that sex drive right now when you need your concentration on your driving. You can always get horny again later just by taking hormones, and you can even adjust how horny you get by changing the hormone dosage. As for having babies, that is simple. Just beat off a couple times for the doctor and catch your sperm in a cup. The doctor can arrange to have it frozen so you can use it later if you want it. Man, you lucky little shit, if I was in your place I would be sitting on that doctor's doorstep right now waiting for him to start.

Bradley noticed that it was now 6 AM, it was getting daylight out, so he thanked NeedCut for the chat and said he had to go to bed. He didn't bother to mention that what he had to do in bed that was more urgent than sleep was to jerk off again, for the fifth time.

When Bradley finally went to sleep, he dreamt of being a eunuch. In his dream he was a slave and had no choice, no forewarning. He saw himself lying on his back on the cutting table, arms tied by his sides and legs tied apart and to the legs of the table. In his dream it was a simple, almost magical procedure as the cutter simply took hold of his balls and sliced them off - scrotum and all, then applied a bandaid and he was a eunuch! He woke up from the dream, soaked with perspiration, thinking to himself that it would be much better to be a slave; then he wouldn't have to make the decision, it would be made for him.

When Barry knocked on his son's door at about 6 PM Sunday, Bradley opened the door to let him in, then quickly closed it again. "Your mom's gone out for a while," Barry told him. "So have you made a decision?"
"N-not exactly," Bradley answered. "It's not as scary as it was when you first mentioned it, but I still don't know..."
"Let's get you shaved while we talk about it," Barry suggested. "You can stop it at any time until that final snip is made, but the doctor won't even start on you if you're not shaved."

Barry gasped as he came back to the bedroom, having gone for a basin of water, a razor and some shaving soap. Bradley was lying on a towel on his bed, naked. His very substantial penis - about five inches of it - was standing at rigid attention. It emerged from Bradley's rather immature body in a small nest of soft black pubic hair, below which were a pair of pretty average sized balls - average for a man of 18 or 20 that is. He was so beautiful, Barry thought. Was he really doing the right thing here? Bradley's body was about as near perfection as he had ever seen, and he, Bradley's own father, was about to have that perfect body mutilated. Could he go through with it? Did Bradley really understand? COULD he understand at his age?

"Sorry about handling your... er... you know," Barry said hoarsely as he began soaping his son's most private area.
"It's ok," Bradley said. It wasn't ok, it wasn't even close to ok! No one had ever handled his privates since he'd stopped wearing diapers! But Bradley knew that the doctor would be handling him tomorrow, so he might as well get used to it. And that warm soapy cloth did feel so good on his groin!

"Any questions I can answer for you?" Barry asked as he shaved.
"I don't think so, Dad," Bradley said as he watched his recent acquisition, his bush, being cut away with the razor. "I think I've learned all I need to know now. I just wish someone could just tell me, either do it or don't do it."
"I know, son," Barry said as he tried to remain objective as he handled and manipulated the most beautiful penis, the most perfect set of balls, he'd ever touched in his life. "I know it's not fair to ask you to do such a thing at your age. I know you're just starting to enjoy your sexuality, and now we're trying to rip it away from you. But if your racing career is really that important to you..."

Bradley snapped out of his dreamy state as his father's last comment sank into his brain. He had completely forgot what this whole thing was about! Of course! That was the reason he'd been searching for! That was the justification to end all justifications! As a whole boy, hormones running rampant through his body, Bradley had no hope of that championship trophy this year. Even as a eunuch it was a stretch. He would have to finish every race for the rest of the season, and place in most of them, just to make up the points he'd lost so far this summer. Suddenly Bradley felt a peace envelop him; a peace and tranquility that can only come when one has worked through all the information available, then come to a conclusion. Bradley was going to become a eunuch! A eunuch race driver!

"Uhhh Dad," Bradley said tentatively as Barry finished the job of denuding his son's crotch, "when I'm a... after I'm castrated, will I still like girls?"
"I don't see why not," Barry replied. "It won't change your whole life, Bradley. I mean, if you're not gay now, castrating you is not gonna make you gay. If you are gay, that won't change either. All that's really gonna change is what you do about it. Is there someone, I mean, someone special?"
"Not exactly," Bradley said, wishing he'd not brought it up in the first place. "I just... I mean, I like looking at girls, dancing with them, and... and..."
"And?" Barry questioned, stopping what he was doing and looking his son right in the eye. "And what, Bradley?"

Much to his own humiliation, Bradley started to cry. The intense pressure, the strain of the decision he was facing, all that he had learned in his marathon Internet session, the fear of the unknown was all too much for the 13 year old, and he sobbed uncontrollably for over 15 minutes. Barry, never one to express a lot of emotion even though he loved his sons more than life, held his son tenderly and just let him cry it out. "In the meantime you go ahead and cry, son," he continued in the most gentle tone Bradley had ever heard. "You've earned the right. I've thrown a whole pile of shit on you all of a sudden."

It was almost an hour before Bradley could compose himself enough to talk coherently. "I'll call and cancel the appointment first thing in the morning," Barry said as he held his son, rocking gently back and forth. "It's just all too sudden. I shoulda known better."
"I'm gonna go through with it. I've got to, Dad. It's just..."
"You've got a girl friend, haven't you, son?"
"No, sir. But I was hoping... I mean, there's this girl at school, Kara is her name. I was hopin' in the fall, when school started... I mean... well... if I'm a eunuch, she won't want anything to do with me. She hardly notices me now. An' maybe I won't even care by then."

"Being a eunuch won't stop you from loving people, Bradley," Barry said as he heard his wife come in. "Actually you might be able to love them better, and certainly be more considerate if you... if you've got... I dunno... if you have that... that..."
"They call it the eunuch calm on the web site," Bradley offered.
"That pretty well sums up what I was trying to say," Barry agreed. "Without all those hormones running rampant in your body, forcing you to be a perfect asshole trying to prove yourself all the time, you can be the really nice person I know you want to be. Frankly I think girls, at least the ones worth a shit, will like that."

Monday morning at 8 AM, Bradley was back in his father's pickup, on the way to keep an appointment with the doctor who would castrate him. He hadn't slept very well the previous night, in spite of having had almost no sleep the night before that. He first dropped off fairly early after his parents had both kissed him good-night, but soon he was having a nightmare. In his dream he was a slave in one of the stories he had read on the Internet, lying on the table with a hundred people watching, begging not to be cut. No one even seemed to notice his pleas as the cutter approached, cinched his scrotum with a leather tie, then unceremoniously in one quick flash of his knife, rendered him a eunuch. He awoke in a sweat, and as he lay there awake he heard loud voices coming from his parents' room. They were not exactly angry voices, but they were certainly loud.

He went back to sleep. Immediately he was the Lycian Prince, another story he'd found both riveting and disturbing. He was attached to a guillotine device, his cock and balls protruding through a small opening, a bag of angry bees in a bag attached to his rampant erection, vibrating him closer and closer to orgasm. He knew when the orgasm came, the emission would trip the mechanism that would sever everything that would make him a man. The orgasm came and he saw the huge heavy blade descending. Mercifully he woke up again before the blade finished its fall. The loud voices were still drifting under his doorway, and Bradley knew his mother knew what he was planning.

He went back to sleep again. This time his dreams made him out to be a very small boy in a large family in Italy. There came a knock on the door, and when it was opened his mother took him by the hand, then released that hand to the stranger, who passed his mother a small bag that jingled. He looked back at his mother questioningly, but she had already turned her back as the strange man led tiny Bradley out of the house and into a waiting carriage. That very same night, little 7 year old Bradley had a meal more sumptuous than he'd ever had in his life, including a large glass of wine. When things started to go blurry, the little boy was picked up and carried to a large tub of very hot water, which served to make the boy even more groggy.

He didn't remember being taken out of the tub of water. Next thing he knew he felt a very sharp pain coming from his groin, and he looked down to see nothing but blood, a man picking up something that he somehow knew was a part of him and throwing it to a dog, who caught that something and swallowed it with one gulp. Bradley awoke again. This time the house was quiet. He sat and listened intently for subdued voices, but there was nothing. He dozed off again.

Bradley's final dream of the night was of himself, Bradley the eunuch, walking hand in hand with Kara, entering the school. He could hear the giggles and snickers of other students, but it didn't matter. Kara turned and looked at him, a wide, loving smile on her face. "The girls don't know what they're missing," she said as she kissed him lightly. "And the boys... well, the boys don't know anything at all! I'm so glad my sweetheart is a eunuch."

After the dream faded, Bradley slept peacefully. Unfortunately it was already 6:30 AM. A very short time later he was being shaken gently by his father. "It's time to get up, son," his dad said as lovingly as he had ever heard.

"She knows, doesn't she Dad?" Bradley said after they'd driven in silence for 15 minutes.
"What, son?" Barry said absentmindedly.
"Mom," Bradley said. "Mom knows, doesn't she?"
"Yes, she knows. I guess you heard us talking last night."
"Uh-huh. Does she hate me, Dad?"
"Good God no!" Barry exclaimed. "At first she hated me for even thinking of such a thing, but we talked and she's ok with it now. She thinks the same as I do, Bradley. She thinks you're one hell of a brave boy, and very dedicated to your goals to go through with this."

"Is she gonna be there?" the frightened boy asked.
"She was gonna come later and wait outside until you were in with the doctor. She didn't want to embarrass you," Barry said. "I hope that's all right."
"Not really," Bradley said. "Mom's been to all my races, right there in the pits waiting to give me a hug whether I won or lost. I'd like her to be with me... with US, Dad, if that's all right."
"I'll get her on the cell phone," Barry said. "Do you want to ask her to come?"
"I'd rather you did, if it's all right," Bradley answered. Somewhere in his mind he knew he was going to need all the courage he had, and he didn't want to waste any on things that could be handled by someone else. Barry seemed to understand that and called his wife.

Bradley was quite surprised when he opened the door to the doctor's office and found the waiting room deserted. Even the reception office, usually a beehive of activity any time Bradley had been to the doctor, was devoid of any inhabitants. Just as he was turning to his father to say they must have been in the wrong place, a small man in a white lab coat appeared out of a doorway. "Good, you're early." the man said cheerfully. "You must be Bradley, are you?"
"Yes, sir," Bradley replied nervously.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Bradley," the man said as he took Bradley's hand and shook it vigorously. "I'm Dr. Arnold. And you, sir, are Barry?"
"Yes, Doctor," Barry said as he shook the doctor's hand. "My wife will be here within a half hour."
"That's fine," the doctor said. "I'm not expecting anyone else... My assistant is in the back setting up. You'll meet her in a few minutes. I'll just lock that door so we won't be disturbed, then we can unlock the door for Mrs. McCaskill when she arrives. We're alone, so we can talk right here, if that's all right."

The doctor said that he'd got most of the information he needed from Barry, but there were a few things he'd like to clear up. He began questioning the tremulous boy, pointing out that he would try to clear up all the most personal questions before his mother appeared. "It's ok," Bradley said shakily, "I've got no secrets from either of my parents."

The doctor asked the most personal questions first anyway. Things like did he have a girl friend? A boy friend? Did he realize he'd more than likely be sexually dysfunctional after his castration? Did he realize his voice might never change without hormones? Bradley answered all questions honestly, and with a conviction and authority that made him sound much more confident than he was feeling.

"There's the question of your synthetic testicles," the doctor said as he scratched some notes. "Would you like them about the same size as the ones you have, larger or smaller?"
"I don't want any," Bradley said firmly and promptly. His father eyed him sharply.
"But Bradley, you could be subject to a lot of ridicule in the shower rooms at school," the doctor pointed out.
"Don't matter," Bradley said, trying to figure out why he'd said such a thing to the doctor. "My... my dad always told me I had to be proud of what I am. So if I'm gonna be a eunuch, I'm gonna be a proud one! An' besides, I been reading on the Internet that some people think they might cause cancer an' stuff."
"Very well, we'll leave the scrotum in case you change your mind," the doctor said neutrally. "It seems your son is very well informed," he said to Barry.

"I presume you want a sperm sample kept and frozen?" the doctor inquired.
"Yes, sir," Bradley replied, more out of deference to his dad than any real desire on his part.
"Can you do that on your own, or would you rather have some help?"
"H-help?" Bradley asked incredulously. "What kinda help?"
"I can make you ejaculate quite easily if you like," the doctor said in that same friendly, disarming, yet neutral tone. "It's whatever you find least embarrassing."
"Which one is better?" Bradley questioned.
"Well frankly," the doctor said, "I've found that a prostate induced orgasm produces a higher volume of semen. I can show you if you like. We can do the first one that way, then you can choose the method for the next three."

"I gotta do four?" Bradley said with alarm.
"Or more," the doctor said with a smile. "The more of your sperm we harvest, the better chance you will have to be a father later. After today there will be no more sperm."
"Why don't you let the doctor do it?" Barry suggested.
"Just come this way," the doctor said to the now shaking boy. "We'll leave your father here to let your mom in, then we'll call them when you're done."

Before he knew what was happening, and certainly long before he was ready, Bradley found himself stripped naked, wearing a hospital gown and lying on an examination table. The doctor's assistant, a nurse who had introduced herself as "Amy," had done all the routine things like temperature, blood pressure, pulse. She had taken several blood samples, given the terrified youth a mild tranquilizer to relax him, then left the room. Bradley watched with great trepidation as Dr. Arnold pulled on a rubber glove. "I don't suppose you've ever had a prostate exam?" the doctor asked as he lubed his finger.
"N-no, sir," Bradley answered in the strongest voice he could muster, which was barely audible. "I think I know what's coming though."

Bradley was accurate in his assessment of what would come next. The doctor inserted his index finger into Bradley's anus, then slid it in until Bradley thought it would come out his mouth. "Just relax," the doctor said as he gently rubbed the quaking boy's stomach with his free hand. "I know this will be embarrassing for you, but probably not as much so as taking a little bottle into the john and jerking off. When I begin to rub your prostate, which incidentally is rather on the small side, considering the stage of development of the rest of your genitals, you will start to feel as if you want to pee. Just relax and go with the feeling. Very soon after you will have an orgasm."

Bradley moaned loudly as the doctor found his target and began to massage it gently. The feelings the boy was having were unlike any he had ever experienced before. His cock literally sprang to attention, he moaned again loudly, then he was enveloped in his first of five orgasms. The doctor was ready with a small bottle, fitted with a strange looking scoop on the top which he fitted over Bradley's raging erection, and Bradley watched as spurt after spurt of his seed shot into the bottle, half filling it. "Good one, son," the doctor commented. "Good boy! I know this is not your favorite way to get off, but just enjoy it while you can."

Bradley did enjoy it, in spite of himself. He produced five gigantic wads for the freezer and could have produced another few, but five were all that were required. The doctor didn't bother to tell him that these might well be his last five orgasms in his life, at least as far as producing healthy sperm was concerned. He realized now that Bradley had researched the subject of castration thoroughly and there was very little he had to be told. So he simply handed the five bottles to Amy with instructions to take a small sample from each for analysis, then prepare the rest for immediate delivery to the freezer. The doctor also informed the appalled young teen that prostate stimulation might be the only way he could get off at all after he'd been a eunuch for a while.

"You know there is one other option," the doctor said as he and Amy prepared their instruments. "I understand from your father and his friend that you are a very good race car driver, Bradley, but you participate in few other sports, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir," Bradley replied.
"Well, in my limited experience with adolescents, it's their athletic activities that keeps them under control. Most boys produce too much testosterone, and they need some sort of outlet for all that resulting energy. I'm not trying to belittle the sport you love, I know it takes a lot of skill, concentration and dedication; but it simply doesn't burn off the energy and hormones the way playing football, hockey or basketball does. If you were to go out for, say, basketball, or perhaps swimming, you might very well find that castration would not be necessary."

Bradley looked at his father, then his mother. They were sitting on either side of him, each holding one of his hands. His mother had the strangest look in her eye that he had ever seen. "I can't," Bradley said shakily. "I don't have time, and I'm not really interested anyway." He shot another quick glance at his mother. This was the first time he'd seen her since she'd found out what he was facing. "I'm sorry, Mom," he added. "You know I'm not really into those sports, I wanna race!"
"He's right, Doctor," his mom said without taking her eyes off her son. "Bradley's no sissy, no wimp, but his forte is racing, not running up and down a basketball court or football field. He's very good at what he does and it's our duty to support him, and that's why I'm going along with this. If we were to force him to keep all those hormones and play some sport to burn them off, he'd only get more frustrated."
"Besides," Bradley added, "some of those jock type guys are the biggest assholes in the school! Everyone thinks they're so great just ‘cause they can throw a ball further, or sink more baskets, than anyone else. I don't ever wanna be like them!"
"I understand," the doctor said as Amy began swabbing Bradley's crotch with betadyne. "I would not be doing my job properly if I didn't offer the option, but I understand. Are you ready, Bradley?"
"Ready, Doctor," Bradley answered.

"We'll be leaving the scrotum, in case you change your mind later and want synthetic testicles," the doctor said as Bradley felt the pin prick of the anaesthetic needle in his scrotum. One, two, three, four times he felt the needle going into him. On the fourth one he finally got up courage to watch, and was shocked to see Amy pull a needle that was at least an inch long out of the top of his sac.

"Please take it off," Bradley said as his courage grew. "I won't be wanting fake balls."
"But the shower room at school," his mom said. "You know they're gonna make fun of you, Bradley."
"They will anyway, Mom," Bradley replied. "They make fun of me because they say racing is not a REAL sport. They call me a car jockey, a race geek, all sorts of things. An' if it ever got out that I had fake balls, I'd REALLY be in for it! I'm not gonna be ashamed of being a eunuch, so why would I try an' hide it?
"You heard him, Doctor," his father said. "Bradley's got a lot of guts to be here at all, so we're gonna do it his way."

Bradley was watching the doctor's every move now. There were tears in his eyes as he watched the doctor cut around the neck of his scrotum, then pull out his two large balls, clamp the cords one by one, then cut them off. That part of the process took far less time than Bradley was expecting. There was absolutely no pain, which was another surprise for the nervous boy even though he saw with his own eyes the nurse injecting the pain killer into him. "Ok, my brave little eunuch," the kind doctor said as he cauterized the cords, then released the clamps after he was satisfied they weren't going to bleed. "The hard part for you is over. Are you sure you want your scrotum completely removed?"
"Y-yes, sir," Bradley replied. Then he gasped as he felt the cords that had been the lifeline for his balls slither back into his body. It was the weirdest sensation he'd ever felt in his life, and it came from deep inside his abdomen.

It was almost two hours later when a very shaky Bradley was helped to his feet. He felt fine, was having absolutely no pain, but he was very weak and shaky. For reasons he could never explain he wanted his mother to help him dress. She did that, then helped him into the waiting room where he was to sit for at least an hour before he was allowed to go home. The date was Monday, July 1. Bradley's first race as a eunuch would be on Friday, July 12. "Your hormone levels will have dropped considerably by then," the doctor promised. "They won't be completely out of your system, but the levels will be significantly lower. You will more than likely not feel any different, but you will BE different."

When Bradley sat down in a chair in the waiting room, he was surprised to find a very pretty girl a little younger than himself sitting there, all alone. "Hi!" she said pleasantly when Bradley was settled in his chair. "My name is Ashley. What's yours?"
"Oh, hi!" Bradley returned. "Pleased to meet you, Ashley. I'm Bradley."
"You here for the same thing as me?" she inquired.
"I seriously doubt it," Bradley answered self consciously.
"Oh," she said with a giggle, "don't let these clothes fool ya. I'm not a complete girl - yet. An' the doctor said he had another castration this morning before mine. I just thought..."

Bradley looked at the girl, totally astonished. "You're... you're a boy?" he said with amazement.
"No, I'm a girl," she replied. "But I was born a boy. But the doctor decided to castrate me before my male hormones got a real good crack at me. He said it'll be a lot easier when my full SRS surgery is done if I've never had those hormones. That's why I'm here, to get castrated. We got here early, so my mom went to run an errand while we're waiting. I wanted to stay here and wait, ‘cause I was hoping to meet the other castration patient."
"That would be me," Bradley said self-consciously.

Bradley found himself being inundated with questions. Why had he had it done? Did it hurt? Was the doctor gentle? Was he as nice as he seemed to be? Did Bradley plan to become a girl? On and on it went, and Bradley, now something of a veteran, found himself answering all her questions, even very intimate ones, as honestly and frankly as he could. He knew that only an hour after his castration his hormone levels couldn't possibly have dropped, but still he felt different: more calm, more confident, not at all shy about answering questions that he'd never have answered this time yesterday. By the time the doctor came to get Ashley, the two young teens were fast friends. They exchanged phone numbers and addresses and promised to keep in touch, then Bradley wished Ashley luck as he left with his parents. He was feeling much better now, so he was thoroughly disgusted when his mom ordered him straight to bed when they got home. But fifteen minutes later, a very exhausted Bradley was fast asleep. This time he slept soundly, unmolested by dreams and nightmares.

Friday, Sept 6...

Bradley McCaskill crawled through the window of his little Toyota and strapped himself in. This was the second last race of the season, and the last race that would accumulate points. Bradley had worked his way back to the point leadership in his division, but just barely. Tonight they were awarding double points, which meant that Bradley, to assure the championship, would have to not only finish, but place in the top 5 in the main event. There were two other drivers, one 28 years old and the other 32, who were within grasp of the lead. Todd, the 28 year old, was so hungry for that cup he was willing to do anything to get it, especially if he could wrench it away from the upstart 13-year-old, who in Todd's opinion had no business on the track in the first place.

In spite of all the above, Bradley was not nervous. He knew he was good, knew his car was as good as any on the track, and he knew what he had to do. The testosterone was pretty well out of his system now, and he was enjoying no small dose of the eunuch calm he'd read so much about during and after his night of marathon Internet research. He fired up the little car as his dad and uncle pushed him back from his assigned spot in the pits. He had the pole position in the second 5-lap heat race; Todd had position 2.

As he pulled the little car around the track to take his position, he noticed the gaggle of girls that was his cheering section in the stands. One of them was Ashley, his fellow eunuch and SRS candidate. They were fast friends now; not lovers or sweethearts, but best friends. Ashley had not missed a single race since their surgery. Kara was there too. She was the only girl aside from Ashley, as far as Bradley knew, who was aware that Bradley was now a eunuch. You see, Kara was Bradley's girl friend now. It was very obviously not a sexual affair and they were both fine with that, at least for now. The young teens had a mutual respect, an admiration, a maturity in their relationship that allowed love without sex. Bradley smiled to himself as he pulled his mind back to the task at hand. They had received the signal to take their first lap around the track. If they were all in line as they passed the starting line, they would get the green flag. They were, and they did.

Bradley pulled ahead of the other 10 cars, Todd right on his back bumper. It was obvious that any win tonight was going to be well earned. Bradley felt a slight jar as Todd bumped him going into turn 2 on lap 3. Todd was trying to rattle him, to force him to over drive the turn and spin out. But Bradley just smiled and held his line, watching Todd closely for signs the 28-year-old had some other dirty trick up his sleeve. It was well known among the drivers that if Bradley was going to have problems, they would likely be on turn 2. "Not tonight," Bradley muttered to himself. He had never felt so in control, in spite of the relentless harassment of the older driver behind him.

On the beginning of lap 5 Todd made his move. He didn't simply try to pass, he knew he didn't have the power; and Bradley was pushing his tires to the limit of their traction. Todd knew if he could only make Bradley go just a little faster on the turn, his tires would break free. He bumped the little Toyota hard! If he could force the kid into the wall, Bradley would be out of the main event and Todd would win the point race easily.

Bradley was expecting the bump, but it was a lot harder than he'd expected. The Toyota went sideways on the track, tires screaming; Without waiting for the outcome, Todd began to pull around, to pass. He misjudged distance between his car and Bradley's and he hit the little Toyota again, this time hard enough to break the bumper mounts on one side. Bradley fought desperately, but calmly, to regain control. He was all over the track, but he was alone now. He didn't know what had happened to Todd, but the Ford Pinto was no longer anywhere near him; no one was.

By the time the little Toyota got back into a straight line, it was exiting turn 2, the closest car was at least 10 lengths back, and it was NOT the green Pinto of Todd. Bradley rolled to an easy win, his rear bumper hanging by its left brackets. If it had been dragging Bradley would have had to stop, but it somehow held, just an inch or two off the ground.

"You got him! Todd's hit the wall, hard!" Bradley's dad screamed as soon as he had pulled into the pits, the winner of his heat. Bradley smiled. He didn't wish anyone ill, but he knew that Todd would not give up as long as he was on the track. And besides, all Bradley had done was what he'd been taught to do: he drove defensively and cooly. Now he had only one contender to worry about, provided of course that he could finish the 40-lap main event.

Bradley crawled out of his Toyota and got his hug from his mother, then ambled over to the pit concession stand to get a hot dog. He was confident and poised, not the least nervous. Having added another nasty hot dog to his teenage belly which, like all teenage bellies, could handle just about anything its owner sent its way, Bradley crawled to the top of the trailer that hauled his little car to the track and watched the Modified 4-cylinder race. Everyone, it seemed, was excited and tense; everyone was trying to get that point leadership, to take advantage of the double points night and win the cup. Bradley watched as there were 7 major wrecks in the feature. As the last car exited the track, he jumped down to check his car one last time. His feature was next.

Bradley didn't have the pole, but he was number two and this, he knew, was just as good. The pole car was a Mustang. It was heavier than his Toyota and couldn't accelerate as fast. Bradley knew he could easily overtake first place on the green flag, if only he got his foot on the accelerator the instant the green flag fell. But then there was his father's advice, which he knew was good textbook racing. "Don't be in too much of a hurry to take the lead," his father had preached repeatedly. "Take a good firm position in second or third and ride out the race. Keep the pressure on the leaders, but there's no need for you to lead. You get no extra points for leading, only more pressure. Be patient, son. That's the secret of racing."

Bradley was in the process of making the decision to follow his dad's advice. He would hold his position and defend it, but he would let the other car take the lead and set the pace. But he didn't have all the information yet, so as he sat there, his little Toyota idling contentedly, Bradley McCaskill glanced in his rear view mirror. Cars were still circling the track, pulling into their assigned positions. He saw David, the 32 year old second contender for first place, directly behind him in position 4. Fine, he thought, he would just have to make sure David didn't get a good chance to pass. Then he saw the green number 5 pull into position 7. "Shit!" Bradley exclaimed. Somehow Todd had got his car running again. He knew that starting in 7th position in a field of 20 was no hardship for Todd. This guy was a good driver, and as ruthless as they come. Bradley knew he had to stay away from Todd or he'd be literally run off the raceway, the same as he'd tried to do in the heat race. Added to all that was the fact that Bradley's rear bumper was lying in the pits. Any serious contact with another car from behind could potentially put him out of the race.

Now he had all the information. Bradley processed all the data in his mind... calmly, coldly; so cold and calculating he almost frightened himself; but after he had mulled it all over in his mind he knew what he had to do, and he did it.

It took three laps around the track before everyone was lined up well enough to satisfy the starter. Finally the green flag fell, Bradley's foot already on the floor even before the flag went down. The little red Toyota jumped ahead of the pack, and Bradley was in the lead. He hadn't ignored his father's advice, but simply taken it with all the information at his disposal and made his decision. He had to keep a distance between himself and Todd, no matter what. The only way Bradley knew to do that was to stay in the lead. He knew when he'd made that decision that Todd would undoubtedly work himself to second, but he also knew all he had to do was keep a car length or so between himself and whoever was in second place, and he wouldn't have to worry about anything except keeping the little red car on its wheels and the tires rolling, not sliding.

"What is that kid doing?" Barry screamed in the pits. "I've told him a thousand times not to be so damned anxious to take the lead. He's got 19 cars behind him now, all out for his ass! And he had to set the pace, stay ahead of everyone and yet not spin out. He'll never do it!"
"He seems to be doing fine so far," Bradley's mother remarked as she watched her son complete lap 4.

The first wreck was in lap 6. Three cars hit each other and the outside wall, but Bradley, now at least 6 car lengths ahead, knew nothing about it until he saw the flashing track lights and saw the yellow flag. SHIT!" he exclaimed. A yellow flag meant he would lose his commanding lead. After the cars and debris were cleared from the track and the green flag descended again, the cars would be bumper to bumper again and Bradley would again have to work on increasing his lead. On the other hand, one of the leader's biggest problems was passing lap traffic: the slower cars that fall at least a lap behind. Bradley himself had lost the lead a number of times because he'd been blocked by a slower car as he tried to lap it. But after a caution flag, the cars were all lined up in one long line, so the leader had nothing in his way. For a few laps.

They did 4 laps under the yellow flag, which didn't count toward the 40 they had to complete, but it gave Bradley a chance to watch his rear view mirror to assess what he was dealing with. In second place, right on his bumper, if he'd had one, was Dave. Immediately behind him was Todd. As Bradley led the field past the stands he saw the flagman signalling one lap to go to the green flag, heard the PA system announcing "When the green flag drops, your leader, Bradley McCaskill, will lead the way and set the pace." Those comments, of course meant to crank up the crowd, did nothing to calm Bradley's frayed nerves. But what did help the young teen was his new self control. He thought of his penis, which had remained flaccid and well behaved throughout the ordeal, and his new self confidence. He knew he was good, knew he could do this, and he wasn't the least bothered, even affected by the screaming girls in the stands. He would simply do again what he'd already done: defend his lead and increase it by slowly pulling away from the pack.

When the green flag dropped again, Bradley was already accelerating. By the time he reached turn 1 he was already 2 car lengths ahead of Dave, who was having a great deal of trouble defending his position against Todd, who had his eyes on the lead. Bradley didn't smile, didn't frown, but just kept one eye on them while he concentrated on increasing his lead. He listened intently to the little engine as it screamed evenly, putting out every horsepower it could muster for its young master. He risked taking his eyes off the track for a second on the back straight to scan the gauges; everything was fine.

There was another yellow flag in lap 26. Bradley had increased his lead to 10 car lengths, which would be history when the race was restarted. But Bradley knew now that he could do this. The race was over half over, and he had read his pursuers accurately. Todd had managed to pass Dave now, but that was good news for Bradley. Todd was too emotionally involved; too anxious. Bradley had remained calm and calculated, and he knew he had this race in the bag. His worst nightmare still had all that testosterone to deal with; a problem Bradley no longer had.

Bradley did take the checkered flag. There were three more wrecks; three more restarts in which Bradley found himself inches ahead of his arch enemy, Todd. But each time Bradley had managed to pull away from the one who wanted this race more than life itself, and he did it with nothing more than cold, calculating control of his emotions and concentration the likes of which he'd never known before. Todd totally lost control in lap 33 and could not continue. When Bradley crossed the finish line on lap 40, taking the checkered flag, he was at least 6 car lengths ahead of his closest contender Dave; Todd had been towed to the pits and was out of the race.

He did another lap, then stopped at the finish line to receive the checkered flag to make his victory lap. Then he proved to all who cared that there was still some boy in him. As he popped the clutch, the tires on the little Toyota squealed loudly, leaving two very long streaks of black on the track. The proud young eunuch then made his lap, holding the fluttering flag out the window with his left hand, then stopped again in front of the stands and unsnapped his safety harness.

"Sorry, baby, I gotta do this," Bradley whispered as he kissed the hood of his little car, and then he was standing on the roof, arms held high above his head, fingers in both hands held in the "V" for victory sign. Thirteen year old Bradley McCaskill, in his first full year of racing, was season champion!

Well, that's my story of Bradley. Where he goes from here is anyone's guess, but I would not be at all surprised, some time in the next ten years, to see the name Bradley McCaskill in the lineup of the Daytona 500. If he does go that far, we all know now that he has a secret - he has the eunuch calm and he has learned how to use it to advantage. Beware, Earnhardt Jr, you have a disadvantage I seriously doubt you are willing to overcome.

The End... or maybe the beginning???