My Evalutaion

By justoneguy

When I walked into the Evaluation room, I wasn’t nervous like I thought I would be. Somehow, it all felt very nature, very normal, and very right. I was going to prove that I was Hung today—prove that I was worthy to be a man.

Every guy learns in school how the population of the planet exploded 40 years ago. Something had to be done to control the population or all people would die. At first, most governments declared that each couple could only have one child. But, as in China years before, many couples simply had abortions until a male was conceived. I am always surprised that in a modern civilization like we have fathers would get so excited about having a boy to carry on his line—and that women would go along to the extent of aborting their girls. But that is what started to happen. If something weren’t done, the males would so out number the females that the structure of society would collapse. That was when it was decided that some sort of selective breeding should take place. Gene based breeding was outlawed, because of the obvious social and moral implications (read: Nazi). So, government decided that males should be evaluated—and based on this evaluation, some would be allowed to breed. The evaluation was sexual—how much natural sexual ability the male possessed. If a guy failed, he was castrated—and thus unable to breed in the future. The number of guys who fail is based on the percentage of males born at a given time. But it is usually around 20%. That means that about 1 in 5 guys lose their balls.

I’m 18 now, and I had to be evaluated before I could graduate high school. Me and a couple of my friends came down to the local clinic to get evaluated together—strength in numbers I guess. It is considered bad luck for a guy’s family to come with him to his evaluation. Lots of guys who flunk just run off after they leave the clinic. They’re not willing to face their family and friends now that they are Pretenders.

A Pretender—that is what guys who aren’t hung are call—guys who lose their balls. They're called that because the only sex they ever get to have is pretend sex on the evaluation table. When I got to the Evaluation room, I saw the tables in person for the first time. There were ten tables all lined in a row in the bright white-walled room. Each was attached to the wall at the head of the table. The sides of the table were white, but the top of the table is a tan flesh color. I could see that there is one table that was brown—in case a black guy needs to be evaluated I guessed. I couldn’t see the hole on the empty table on the end, but I knew there is one there. That is the whole guys pretend to fuck. Once a guy cums, the computer behind the white wall evaluates his performances based on the sensory data from the table’s tan “flesh”. If the male has preformed in the acceptable range, he’s proved that he is hung and gets to marry and reproduce. If he fails—he’s forever known by male society as a Pretender—because he only got to pretend to fuck.

I guess I should explain a little about what I mean by “hung” because it is really a slang term. That is what us guys say when we mean that we will pass the evaluation—we say that we are hung. Guys in school will often insult each other by saying that they are “hung like a lemming” or some such thing, meaning that they will fail the evaluation. Now, size isn’t supposed to matter in the evaluation. That is what any adult will tell a guy—if he asks, but few ever do. Asking if size matters to the test or stuff like that is a sure sign that a guy is poorly hung. The test is strictly based on how “turned on” the table gets from a guy’s pretend lovemaking. Of course, lots of guys claim that size is really the factor that makes or breaks a guy’s ability to stimulate the table. They say that it is just not talked about or denied to make smaller guys feel better about themselves (while they still got their balls) and not be too scared to be evaluated. I’m not really sure what I think about it myself. I’ve looked up information on size in medical books and such, and they basically say that my size is OK. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t nervous.

Of my three friends that came with me to be evaluated, one has already proven that he is hung. Richard was the first to be called back to the evaluation room, and he had already come back out by the time I was called. My friend Robert was called in just before me. And my friend Matt was still in the waiting room. I guessed he’ll be next. We’re all 18, the age a guy has to be evaluated. While none of us would admit it, we’ve all kinda put off being evaluated. Maybe a little nervous. But we’re about to graduate from high school now and it can’t be put off. Besides, I’d like to start dating unchaperoned, which isn’t allowed before a guy proves that he is hung.

As the nurse walked me toward the table, I scanned the room really fast. There were nine 18-year-old guys on the other tables; each propped up on their elbows or hands, each with their butts humping up and down on the table. I could see the backs of most of their heads bobbing up and down with their thrusts. Each had a slightly different hair color—some blond like mine, some brown, some black. And I could see each of their ball sacs between their legs, which were spread on the table as they put their weight on their knees. A few were loose, but most of the sacs were pulled up tight to their owner’s body. I remember thinking how weird it was that they all looked different. I had only ever seen my own sac. Some guys had tan sacs that sat right up against their body; some guys ball bags were pink. And some were smaller than others. Whatever the size or shape, one thing was for sure—no guy there wanted to walk out of the room without them. I noticed one black guy humping the table on the far side of the room. Among all the tan flesh and white walls, he stuck out like a sore thumb. The breathing in the room was like a chorus, a steady rhythmic pant punctuated be a deep throated groan or moan every few seconds. The nurse touched my arm, and I realized that I’d stopped walking beside him. I quickened my pace and catch back up. The nurse was a man, of course. No women are allowed near the evaluation clinics. This is a sacred male rite.

The nurse walked me to my table. It was marked “number one” and was on the far left of the room. I glanced to the table beside mine and realized that my friend Robert was already in the middle of his evaluation on the table right beside mine. I didn’t recognize him at first—never seen his ass before. Haha. But it was him. He is a thin guy, but with muscle tone. His hair is dark brown, almost black, and cut short. The rest of him is pasty white, but not as white as his ass, which is already bouncing up and down as he thrusts like a mad man into his table. I noticed that his ball bag was already tight against his body. I could see both of the orbs within clearly outlined against the wrinkled flesh between his straining legs. They were tanner than my own set—and looked noticeably smaller. I almost laughed out loud from the comic scene it all was. My friend Robert and I had hung out all through high school. But this was one situation I never thought I would see him in.

“Ok, John. The table is ready for you. I trust you can figure out what to do from here,” the nurse said before he turned and walked away.

I looked down at my table. The top of the table was not flat—it was lumpy, with two obvious mounds about 1/3 from the headboard. They were like the breasts of a woman; they flopped as if a woman is laying on her back on the table. And I realized—that is exactly what they are supposed to be like. I could see the hole now—the hole in which I will prove that I am hung. I slipped my finger inside the waistband of my clinic provided white boxers and let them fall to the ground. I was a little more nervous now that I was naked in the room. All of the other guys on the tables were busy of course, and not paying a bit of attention to me. But still, to have my stuff all out there and exposed in the room—I suddenly felt a little vulnerable. I sat down gently onto the tan top of the table. Wow. It felt just like flesh—and it was warm. I reached out and pushed my finger gently into the hole in the table. It was more like a slit than a hole, and inside it was warm—VERY warm—and wet. Oh God. My cock went stiff in an instant. I started to roll over onto my stomach, but a voice on a loud speaker interrupted.

“TABLE NUMBER ONE. ATTACH YOUR RING.”

The voice boomed. The rhythm of breathing and moaning faltered as I saw a few heads down the line turn toward me. The guy’s faces were strained and sweaty. Some didn’t turn, but I could see now that they were against the warm flesh of the table and their faces were pinched up tight. Wow, I thought, it must really feel good. But my ring, I could believe that I had forgotten it. I leaned over than got my ring from a pocket in the white boxer briefs I had discarded on the floor. We had been taught in school with a lecture and diagrams how to apply it. It was my pretender ring. A guy puts it around his ball sac, right up against his body. If he isn’t hung—I mean, if he fails the test—the ring activates and a tiny laser slices his sac off in an instant. The teachers wouldn’t really answer any more questions about what it is like if the ring activates, and not many guys asked. After all, asking would make every other guy tease you about not being well hung. But I knew from reading medical books that the laser cauterizes the wound instantly on both the sac and the guy’s body. (Of course, when this happens, the guy isn’t really a guy anymore, is he.) The books say that it is not as painful as one would expect, so no painkiller is needed.

A guy must put his ring on his own nuts. It is a sign of his confidence and that he is taking the evaluation willingly. Of course, there is no choice in being evaluated. Every guy has to do it. But applying your own ring is a sign of your confidence and manliness. The ring was very thin and is the color of flesh. No wonder I didn’t see anything around the other guys’ balls when I came into the room. I took the ring and slipped it over my balls. My sac was still really loose, despite my now straining erection. I pressed it right up against my body, at the very neck of my sac, and squeezed it tight. The ring seemed to tighten around my flesh bag. It was tight enough not to move but not enough to be uncomfortable. With it in place, I rolled over again and positioned my member at the hole. My cock was throbbing. I looked down and could see a tear of pre-cum at the slit of my cock head already leaking out. I lowered myself on the table and slowly slid my male tool forward until my throbbing knob popped past the tight outer lip of the hole. “ohhhhh, huhhuhhh, gggawwddd,” I uttered without thinking. God, it felt so good—so much better than anything I had ever felt—so much better than my hand. I pushed in a little more and felt the scar where I was circumcised slip past the tight outer hole. It was so wet inside. It seemed to get warmer the deeper I pushed. Something primal took over in my mind, and I began to grind slowly back and forth. I no longer thought about the table or the white room or the ring. In fact, I couldn’t even feel the ring anymore—just my nuts brushing the table beneath the hole I was plowing into. I propped myself on my elbows and humped back and forth. Before I realized it, my breathing and groaning had jointed the other 9 guys in the room. My mind was overwhelmed. My god, this has to be what a girl feels like inside—I couldn’t imagine anything that could feel better.

There I was, humping the table, my head looking forward to the white wall, but my eyes closed. Around me, the chorus of breathing and groaning swelled. “UURRrrrgghhh, Aaahhhhhhhhggg,” I heard one guy’s deep throated moan rise up above the others. Then: “Ohhohoh, huuuh, huuuuh, huuuuuuh, huuuuuuhhhhhh.” He had cum. I looked to my right and I could see his head thrown make against his shoulders, pointed up to the ceiling. But his eyes were closed. Then, he seemed to collapse on the table, his breathing still deep but no longer in step with the others.

“TABLE NUMBER THREE PASSES,” the loud speaker boomed. And the guy hopped up off the table with a yelp of joy. In a few moments, his white boxers were back on and the nurse was escorting him from the room.

As I turned my head back to the wall, I noticed that my friend Robert hadn’t moved or acknowledged what had just happened beside him of all. His head was on the table, his cheek pressed into the warm fleshy surface. His eyes were shut tight and his face was tense, as if he were concentrating. I started to wonder if I should concentrate. I hadn’t given much thought to how I should be doing what I was doing. Up until that moment, I had been totally overwhelmed by the shear pleasure of the table’s warm wet hole. I noticed the nurse bring another guy to table three, but it was not my friend Matt. I guessed that he would have to wait for the next guy to cream before he could feel what I was feeling. I suddenly felt kinda superior to him—like a boy thinks about a friend who he knows has never kissed a girl. I ground my pelvis into the warm flesh of the table a little harder; my mind was steaming of masculine feelings of power. My body was almost acting independent of my mind as it mindlessly thrusted in search of another stroke of pleasure.

Suddenly I heard my friend Robert’s grunts and moans increase and rise in pitch. “Ohhh, oh, oh, oh god,” he said. I turned to see what was happening. His head was no longer lying on the flesh bed, but was hanging almost limply a few inches from the bed. He was propped up on his shoulders, the muscles of his back straining as he humped. His eyes were shut tight; his face was almost a mask of pain. But I knew that it wasn’t pain he was feeling now. It was pleasure. The same pleasure that I was about to feel myself. Robert held his breath as his face pinched from the intensity of what his body was feeling. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the bed underneath. “Nuuuuaaaaggg. . . . AAARRRggggggguuuhhh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh.” And suddenly, his body colapsed down onto the table—his arms no longer able to hold the weight of his body. His back rose and fell with each of the massive breaths he too. His face was now completely relaxed, his eyes still shut. I could see his butt still grinding into the bed, but slowly and evenly now, not uncontrollably, as it had been a moment before. And I knew that my friend was, at that very moment, pumping his jism into the bed. His entire body in that moment was nothing more than one large pump of seed—the male muscles behind his balls performing the only function they had. And then he was done. Just breathing slowly and deeply, replenishing the oxygen he had lost during his strenuous orgasm.

“TABLE NUMBER TWO PASSES,” the loud speaker boomed.

Robert smiled then, although his eyes were still closed—as if he were still concentrating. And then he pulled himself up off the bed. I watched as he raised up. His thick bush of black pubic hair was tangled and matted with his sweat. I could see his balls, stilling looking kinda small to my eyes, beginning to loosen and hang behind his shaft. But it was his shaft, his shaft, my god, it just kept coming. He was pulling it out of the table’s hole as he raised up, but so far his shaft was still stuck inside. I watched in disbelief as more and more of his pasty white log was pulled from the whole. And then it popped free, the plump helmet of his schlong.

Damn, I’m sure my eyes registered my reaction. And I’m glad that he was not looking at me and didn’t see my face. I thought, “holly shit! Is that what a dick is supposed to look like?” Robert’s dick was at least 7” long and about the same thickness as my own tool. Damn, it looked so much longer than my own 5.5” piece. I had never seen another hard dick other than my own. And while Robert had often bragged about being hung, I didn’t realize how much of a difference it made—to the eyes. . . or the bed. A cold chill hit me then. I thought about Robert’s long hard member being thrust into the hole on his bed. It had reached depths of his bed that I never could. My own manhood, which was even now buried balls deep inside the silky wetness of my bed’s hole, could never touch the places in the bed that his could—without effort. Would it matter to my test? Does being “hung” make a difference to the examination. All our teachers said that it didn’t. I watched as the nurse walked forward and cut the ring from Robert’s loosening nut sac. His dick was drooping down to the floor then, but had lost little of its impressive length or size. I looked back at the wall and tried to concentrate on my own thrusting, hoping that my masculine body was producing as much pleasure to my bed as Robert’s had. I wondered if he saw my balls as he was pulling up his white boxers and getting ready to leave the room. Maybe he thought to himself how much bigger they were than his own.

It only took a minute for the nurses to switch a new hole into the second exam table. The one that Robert had fucked and that was still filled with the fluids his masculine muscles had pumped seven inches deep inside of it was now on its way to be cleaned. When the table was sprayed down, the table was ready for the next test. I tried to concentrate on my work. The grunts and moans and heavy breathing of the room filled my ears. I looked down the row of tables, which I could now see more clearly without Robert’s body in the way. All along the row, guys my own age, my classmates, where humping and grunting. I could see the black guy’s butt rise and fall in long slow thrusts out of time with the lily-white butts around him. I could see the guy at table three now, and I recognized him. His name was Josh and he was in my history class. He was propping himself up on his hands, sweat beading over his body and falling down the long way from his chest to the table. I could see the thick tangle of his brown sex hair scrunched up against the entrance of his table’s hole. He was fucking it fast, his butt flying up and down like a jackrabbit. Maybe his is kinda short too, I thought. Otherwise, he’d be long stroking it like the black guy. The thought lightened my mind a little. I wondered if the other guys were having any of these thoughts—these worries and wonderings about how they were doing relative to the other guys in the room. They didn’t seem to. They all seemed to be concentrating squarely on the task at hand. I decided that I should too. After all, the test is between me and the table, to pleasure it as well as I can, not between me and the other guys.

I looked down at the fleshy table under me then and focus anew on the task at hand. The silky inside of the table was surrounding my member completely and tightly. It seemed to be moving inside, rolling around my manhood as I thrusted in and out. With each pass of my thrust, I felt the ridge of my arrowhead tip pop against the tight outer lips of the hole. I tried to grind in harder on each thrust, trying to make my pubic bone grind the table’s “clit” like I had seen Josh doing.

Then I heard the door open. A new subject was being lead to table two. When the nurse started to walk away and the new guy was preparing to mount his table, I couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder to see who it was. It was my friend Matt. And my eyes bulged out again. My friend Matt was a big guy, tall and heavy. But he didn’t have a gut or anything. He just ate well and was naturally tall. I had seen this when we played shirts verses skins basketball after school. He had dirty blond hair like me, but had darker eyes. (Lots of girls have commented on my eyes, which are a crystal blue.) And as he saddled up to the table, I saw his manhood for the first time. My God! It was a little longer than mine but was shorter than Robert’s long pike. I would guess between 5.75” and 6”. But it was THICK. It looked like a fat slab of salami. God, how thick was it? Looking back, I’d have to guess that it was at least 5.75” around. Could it have been 6” around? I don’t know. But it was wide and thick. The head on the end of it was blunt and wide, and I watched as he positioned it at his table’s warm wet hole. He pushed his weight down and finally, his fat mushroom popped past the lips of the hole. “Ohhhhhh, ohhhhh yyyeeeeaaaaah,” he said. Then he pushed forward more and slid his thick meat in until his dark blond pubic bush met the table. Lowering to he elbows, he turned to his head to look forward. And when he did, his eyes met mine. And he grinned—the grin of a stud who was feeling the feminine pleasures that await him for the rest of his life for the first time.

I looked away quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong idea about me watching him in his virgin humping. But the image of his tool was in my mind—and Robert’s spear as well. All the jokes and comments of middle school and high school flooded into my mind. When Robert and Matt had joked about how they were well hung, that is what they were talking about, that is what they meant. I continued to pump my own thinner and shorter manhood in and out of my table. But my mind was own what my friends had given their tables. After all, a man’s dick is the physical expression of his masculinity. Could my physical masculinity compete with theirs? Could my manhood produce the kind of pleasure in the table—and therefore in a woman—that theirs could? God, I wished I could go as deep into a girl and stretch her as wide as my friends could.

I lowered my head to the warm surface of the table. And on my next out thrust, I felt the spear head of my penis pop free from the warm wet hole. And at that moment, I suddenly felt an amazing tightness behind my balls. The masculine muscles underneath my body started to contract. OH MY GOD, I was cumming. “Oh, oh, oh god,” I said involuntarily. My muscles were spasming—but my cock was outside the hole! Every fiber of my being compelled me to get my cock back into the hole of pleasure. I was cumming—and I wasn’t even in the hole! I thrust forward in an almost insane instinct to push my prick back into the warm wet hole. I felt my throbbing spear head bang into the clit of my table’s hole. One more ram, and my hard spear was enveloped once again in the red-hot fire of the hole. “Oh god,” I groaned above the chorus of breathing. And I felt my first spasm of cum shoot from my balls into the hole. My pelvis ground into the hole in uncontrollable passion. The sperm filled the hole, and I felt it rise up along the sides of my organ, making the hole even more slippery against the over-stimulated head of my male prong. And then, it was over.

Every muscle in my body was perfectly relaxed. I lay on top of the table, my body pressed into the warm flesh of my inanimate lover. I could feel the hole still slowly quivering against my erection. I became aware of how much sweat was beading on my forehead when a large drop ran down my eyebrow and dropped onto the table. My head was facing the right, so when I opened my eyes, I saw Matt, already humping his own table with abandon. I could clearly distinguish his deep heavy groans from the other humpers lined up down the room.

And as I watched their white (and one black) butt pop up and then thrust down like the hammers on piano strings, a strange thought occurred to me. Only Robert and one other guy had cum since I started my test. That meant that out of the 9 other guys humping their tables, 7 had been at it longer than I had been—much longer.

Where was the voice on the loud speaker? What?

CLICK.

I heard a high pitched clicking sound. Like a small squeaking crunch. What was that? I lifted my head from the fleshy table, my mind slowly coming down from the pleasurable high I had just experienced. Nothing else in the room had changed. As my body shifted on the fleshy table, I felt the sweat that had dripped off me pool around my limbs and body. And against the inside of my right leg, about halfway between my hip and knee, I felt something hard but yielding bounce against me. Whatever it was rested against my inner thigh for a brief moment, then rolled down to my knee.

That was when the wave of nausea hit me. I felt a radiating, searing pain shoot up from my groin, as if my balls were locked in a vice. My legs were shaking. I reached my right hand up under me, passed the hole with my erect pecker still sticking within, and up to my taint. By the time I reached my butt hole, I knew. They were gone.

My body convulsed. My hand, up under my body, shook and slapped against my throbbing taint. My softening pecker shifted in the hole and fell out. My eyes felt like they were rolling into the back of my head—but I could still see. The chorus of moans and groans continued unabated. I felt drool pulling around my mouth as my body uncontrollably pressed it into the table’s flesh. I felt my loose balls rolling between my legs, banging into them as my body expirienced its emasculation. But I couldn’t cry out. “Mmmmnnnmm, mmnubbbaaallsssss,” was all I could hear myself say—and I’m not sure that I made any sound out loud.

I don’t know how long I was on the table, convulsing and spasming, drooling and mumbling. But I felt the nurse’s hand on my shoulder. I felt a sharp prick in my rear, and my convulsions slowed. I moved my mouth and raised it from the pool of drool. My body ached horribly. I couldn’t move my legs. But a dull numbness was spreading over me then. At first I didn’t know what was happening. It was like I had just woken up, and didn’t know where I was. The nurse helped me role over on the table, and I felt my left knee rest on the bag of balls rolling on the table. I felt it squash against the yielding flesh of the table. Then my knee lifted up and the nurse reached for my male bag. I was in shock, that is the only explanation I have for why I didn’t cry out in agony or pain. Even though the numbness was spreading wider, my mind was in agony as I realized what had happened to my male body. The nurse sat me up on the table, and I looked down. My cock was limp and spent, the fluids of the hole and my own sperm still clinging to it. I could see my own bush of pubic hard wet and matted—just like Robert’s had been when he left the table. But below that, there was nothing. I realized, for the first time I was sitting up and I could not feel my balls against the bed. My head hung and I started to cry. The nurse fumbled with my feet and then pulled my up by my shoulders. I was surprised that I could stand, but there I was, wobbling as if drowsy. Then he pulled the white boxers up my legs, and I realized that he had slipped them over my feet before standing me. I felt the elastic band brush over my butt and come to rest on my thin waist. “There are no balls inside my boxers,” I thought to myself. For the first time, my boy’s underwear did not cover a boy’s parts. They just concealed my slimy flaccid penis, which was already soft from its last erection.

The nurse began to lead me from the bed and towards the exit. My groin arched as I shuffled my feet against the cold floor. But it was a dull arch now, a pain far away—like the pain of being hit in the balls half remembered. I glanced back at my friend Matt. He was up on his elbows, humping his butt in and out of the bed with reckless abandon. I could see his fat sack off balls, which looked bigger than my own set—I mean the set I used to have—even though they hung from a body and between two legs that were much bigger than mine.

As I walked from the room, feeling my slimy soft dick cling to the white boxers, I looked at all the sacs that were between the legs of the males being tested. Some of them were tan; some of them were pink. Some of them were tight and wrinkled; some were still flapping around between their owner’s legs.

When I reached the door of the examination room, I hear the loud speaker announce: “TABLE NUMBER NINE PASSES.” That would have been the black guy, I thought.

Epilogue

I went home after I failed the test and was nutted. I didn’t really know what else to do. I had of course heard stories of poorly hung guys with no balls running away and living in group homes. But I guess I didn’t have the guts to go out on my own. My friend Matt passed his examination. The four of us left the clinic together. They of course knew that I had failed, and they tried not to talk about it. They were my friends after all—even if I was a Pretender and they were Hung. But they couldn’t help but talk to each other about the tables and how good it had felt to hump them. I joined them in the conversation. After all—it had felt good. And now that the painkillers they gave me at the clinic had kicked in, I was free to think about the pleasure of the experience. I didn’t feel all that differently, to be honest. But it didn’t last long.

I continued to get erections of about a week and a half after my testing. The first night I dreamed of the table and how it felt to hump it. I woke up with an erection, but when I jacked it, I couldn’t cum. Over the next few days, my erections became fewer and less firm—until eventually, I couldn’t achieve one at all. From that moment on, I was a permanent sexless being. I still remember vaguely was an orgasm felt like. Sometimes I feel a tightness behind where my balls once hung and half remember the feeling of orgasm and ejaculation. But I don’t long for women or sex anymore. Now I only long for the memories of manhood and the pleasure that I know comes with it. I guess it is hard to explain. But I don’t long for the pleasures of sex—I long for the longing of it.

It didn’t take long for my penis to shrivel. When I was a male, it had generally hung about 3 inches down from my groin. But after a few months without an erection, it shrunk to about an inch and a half of wrinkled pink flesh. I found that I couldn’t even piss standing up, or I would hose down the fly of my pants. My pubic hair began to fall out as well. I guess pubes always fall out, but in my case, none grew back to replace them. I noticed that my muscles began to fade and that my body took on a more flabby, feminine appearance. And I didn’t have to shave ever again.

My friends Robert and Matt still hung out with me that summer. I went to the park with them where we all three used to play basketball with some other guys from school. I didn’t play with them anymore, of course. I couldn’t run up and down the court more than a few times without getting tired. I just sat on the sidelines and watched—and would occasionally get the ball if it rolled out into the woods. I would watch my friends Robert and Matt play hard on the court, getting sweaty and showing off their muscles with their shirts off. Girls would often walk by in the park and stop to look at the guys playing, and they all tried hard to make an impression. I would watch when Robert or Matt jumped up for a rebound—I would watch their manhood within their loose basketball shorts flap around inside the thin fabric. I thought of their hung members—and the nub between my legs that only pretended to be a dick.

One time at the park, it started to ran really heavy all of the sudden. Us guys were drenched and we took shelter under a small picnic area. Five girls from the local college came running by. They were jogging and were caught out in the rain. We all watched them as they ran up from afar—wearing white tank tops drenched with rain. I watched the guys stare at their approach, eye’s ablaze with desire, mouths almost hanging open. I looked at the crotches of Robert and Matt’s basketball shorts, and could see the bulges within begin to form. Robert’s was long and stuck out so much that he slyly reached down to adjust it upward so it couldn’t be seen as much. Matt’s bulge was shorter but large and thick in its own way. His shorts were white and wet, and I could see the purplish pink hue of his bulbous mushroom head press against the fabric. When the girls ran up under the shelter, the guys all migrated over to them and started talking. As I watched them from the sidelines, I thought about how Matt and Robert stood a good chance of getting lucky tonight—how they could soon be pushing what god had given them between their legs into a moaning, warm, hot, woman. Oh god, I wish I was still male!