“It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt,” my Seventh grade teacher used to preach, and he’d deliver the sermon any time a kid threw a pencil, tipped a chair up on its back legs, stuck a leg out and trip another kid, popped another guy in the balls, or any of the fun things that young adolescent boys are prone to doing.  He’d issue the missive and then launch into a lurid description of how he’s seen a kid lose an eye, break his neck, knock out his teeth, or get permanently disabled because of some childish prank.  It didn’t slow us down a damn bit, in fact we modified his favorite phase to include the codicil  “and then it’s a real kick in the ass,” and then went ahead full speed.   Maybe if I’d listened a little closer I’d still have my balls.

            It started out as just one of the stupid things that newly pubescent kids do.  I lived out of town and my dad ran some cattle, and he had an elastrator that he used to band the bull calves.  The elastrator was a plier like tool with four prongs protruding out the end at a ninety-degree angle.  A little rubber band was loaded onto the prongs, and squeezing the handle expanded it to about a two-inch square.  The band was then put around the ball sack of the calves, and shortly thereafter their nuts would fall off and they would become steers.  He bought the little green rubber Cheerios that the tool applied by the dozen, so there were always a few around.  About the time my nuts dropped and I started jacking off, I wondered what it would be like to band myself.  It wasn’t supposed to be permanent or anything like that, it was just for fun.  Well, I got it around my balls, let the handles loose and rolled the band off of the four little prongs.   I was already hard and I blew my wad without even touching my cock.   Then my balls started hurting like hell and I damned near didn’t make it from the barn to the house to get Mom’s fingernail clippers.  The pain in my balls from the band was bad enough, but the snap that it made when I cut it loose made me holler out loud.  Good thing I was alone in the house at the time.

            You’d think that once would have been enough, but I was a horny little fucker and had to try it again, this time on a buddy, who as part of the bet then did the same to me.  The bet involved who would shoot off first, and then who could last longest with the band on, and even though I banded him first I lost and had to let him squeeze my balls.  We did it again one other time before he decided that it wasn’t much fun, and I had to go down to the farm store and use some of my own precious allowance money to replace the bands that we’d squandered.

            I can’t adequately explain the fascination, but just thinking about a band around my balls was enough to get me hard, and the more I though about it the more important it became to do it.  I finally abandoned the elastrator in favor of cheap and readily available rubber bands, but the permanence of being banded for good was still a fantasy that fueled my nightly masturbation sessions for most of the next year.

            The final straw came when I got into my dad’s collection of old True magazines.  True was a man’s magazine, and although it didn’t have girlie pictures like the contemporary Playboy it did have a lot of pretty risqué stories, including some about supposedly true crimes.  One such story involved a cop who came home to take a shit and found his wife fucking around.  He pulled his .357, locked his wife in the bathroom, then handcuffed the already naked interloper to the headboard and tied his legs to the other end of the bed.  He then took a hunk of latex tubing and banded the guy’s nuts before getting back into his police car and finishing his patrol shift.  The guy ended up castrated and I stuck a couple of pages of the magazine together with my jizz.  I don’t remember what happened to the cop.

            Although we lived in the country Dad worked in town as a bank auditor and commuted back and forth every day except for Wednesday, when he drove a hundred miles South to audit the Centerville branch.  He’d spend the night there, and then do the nearby Waynesburg branch Thursday and come home that evening.  I didn’t learn until later that he was also doing a deep probe of the assets of the Centerville branch manager after-hours at the Friendship Inn.  I was fourteen that summer and old enough to look after myself and feed the cattle for a day by myself, so Mom usually left early Wednesday afternoon and spent the rest of the day with her sister, or so I was told anyway.

            Young, horny, and left alone for an afternoon and evening.  What could go wrong?  I had thought about it all week, and as soon as Mom’s car left the driveway I hotfooted it for the barn and got the elastrator from the cabinet and one of the extra bands from my hidden stash.  My plan was to do just what the cop had done in reverse.  I stripped down, secured a piece of stout cord around each of my ankles and sat on the end of the bed and tied the ends of the cords to the legs of the bed.  I didn’t have handcuffs, of course, so I improvised by using hose clamps.  I threaded the end of each hose clamp through the end links of two short pieces of light chain and then clinched a clamp around each wrist, leaving the ends of the chains hanging.   Once clinched, the hose clamps would have to be cut free, but I had a pair of cutters on the nightstand. 

            I loaded the green band on the prongs of the tool and closed the handles.  My balls had evidently grown some since I had last played with the thing.  Earlier, both balls had easily passed though the loop, but now I had to very gently coax them trough one at a time and even then it was a tight fit.  The fact that I had a boner also hindered my progress, but I finally managed get the band around my bag.  I released the handles and rolled the band off of the prongs.

            Working quickly, before I shot off, I scurried to the end of the bend, grabbed an open padlock in one hand and the key in the other, and locked the ends of the wrist chains together around the rail of the headboard.  I had practiced all week and I knew that I could easily insert the key and open the lock when the time came, but now I relished the slight discomfort of the band and the sight of my usually pink nut sack turning dark red.  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would have been like to fuck the cop’s wife.  I didn’t know if the guy had already finished fucking her or if he’d been interrupted, but because I had a hard on I  fantasized that I been bucked out of the saddle before coming.  I pulled against the cords securing my feet and the chain around the headboard as hard as I could as and felt the first convulsions of the impending orgasm as the pressure built.  I hadn’t jacked off in four days and when I finally came it was so intense that a big stream of my jizz flew up and hit me in the face.

            I suddenly felt weak and light headed and I closed my eyes for just a second, and dropped the fucking key!  I heard the metallic ‘clink’ as it ricocheted off of the bed frame, then the duller ‘clack’ as it hit the hardwood floor.  My nuts, now that the orgasm was over, started hurting like a bitch and I knew right then that I was really and truly fucked.

            I tried first to pull my hands free, hoping that maybe I could somehow pop one of the hose clamps or break the chain, but all I succeeded in doing was to scrape the skin from my wrists on the sharp edges of the clamps.  Next I tried to snap the cords holding my feet, as if that might somehow help.  No luck there either.  I screamed and hollered, of course, but the nearest house was a quarter mile away and even so the old guy that lived there was deafer than a post. My head was elevated on the pillow, and I could look down my belly past my now limp cock and clearly see my balls, which were compressed into a lump the size of a doorknob and were turning blue. 

          The worst part was the pain.  A lot of people seem to think that once banded the balls go numb.  That may be, but my belly hurt like hell.  It was just like taking a hard thump in the crotch.  You probably know what I mean.  First of all your nuts hurt, but after that the pain radiates to your belly and gradually dissipates.  Only mine kept coming in waves, as if I was getting kicked in the nuts every time I tried to breath or move.  I’d heard about coyotes and other wild animals chewing a leg off to free themselves from steel traps, and believe me, if I could have reached either of my wrists I would have chewed a hand off to ease the pain. 

            I passed out for a while, and woke up when I heard the phone ringing.  I could see by the alarm clock that it was Five, and that meant Mom was calling, probably from the motel room where she was bedded down with ‘her sister’, to tell me she wouldn’t be home until morning.  I had been banded since just after Noon, and when I looked down at my balls I just about passed out again.  They were now jet black and covered with big black blowflies.  I wiggled around to shoo away the flies, and was immediately rewarded with new spasms of pain.

            I passed out again, and again the phone woke me up.  Now it was just after Eight.  The flies were back and I shoed them off, and was again rewarded my more of the incessant pain. 

            The next thing I remember was Mom screaming and clawing at my bonds, then more pain, and when I woke again I was in a hospital bed and the pain had been displaced by kind of a hazy, floating, fogginess.  My prick or something down there felt a little funny so tried to reach down and scratch my balls like I did every time I awoke, but discovered that my hands were taped to the sideboards of the bed and that I had an IV stuck in one arm.  Suddenly it all came back to me, and when I fully grasped the enormity of what I had done I broke down and bawled like a baby.

            I stayed in the hospital for two days, and it was the worst two days in my life.  All the nurses and doctors would look at me with the kind of pity that I thought would be reserved for patients who were terminal with cancer or something.  Also, back in 1963 medical facilities weren’t nearly as discreet as they are now and I know for a fact that at least one of the nurses blabbed all over town that some dumb kid had nutted himself.  It was during those two days that I heard through the rumor mill about my parents.  Dad was right in the middle of ripping off a piece when Mom called his motel, and she could plainly hear the branch manager moaning in orgasmic delight in the background.

            The bank canned the branch manager but Dad lucked out and got transferred to a new district and I went with him.  Mom got the house and farm and she lived there with her new husband until she died. 

            I started high school in Clinton City, and my new doctor put me on weekly hormone shots, and for all appearances I was a perfectly normal teenage boy; my growth and development looked perfectly normal, I sprouted a beard, thought a lot about girls, and jacked off nearly every night. I was shooting blanks, of course, and although the hormone shots gave me a perfectly normal boner I never had enough courage to get naked with a girl. To protect my dignity the doctor also signed a form prohibiting me from participating in PE or sports of any kind, and as a result none of my new classmates ever saw me naked and I don’t think any of them even suspected that I had been castrated, even though I was probably the only guy in the 1967 class who was still a virgin by graduation.

            I got called up for the draft the next year, and despite a signed statement to the draft board from my doctor I had to go take the physical.  I was a tall, muscular and hairy eighteen year old with a scraggly beard and the interviewing doctor didn’t believe I was a eunuch until I dropped my skivvies and showed him my nutless crotch. I got a card a little later indicating that I was 4-F, or not available for military service.

            I had just about given up on ever finding a mate when I met Ellen.  She’d been married before and knew what a guy’s balls were all about but didn’t care if I had any or not, as she couldn’t conceive anyway.  We adopted a couple of kids and as soon as the boys got close to puberty I took them aside and made sure they knew all about the real facts of life and all that shit, and I also made damned good and sure they knew the consequences associated with fun and games, and although I doubt that it really sunk in I know that seeing my nutless crotch at least scared them a little bit.

            Twenty-five years ago a lot of my co-workers and other buddies started getting vasectomies.  They would take a week off and come back to work and describe how they had been bedridden for a couple of days and that their balls had swelled up like lemons. I just kind of laughed when they described the discomfort, and they all me to yuk it up, that my turn was coming.

            Oh yeah; although we live on a small farm now and raise a few cattle, I always call the Vet out to castrate the calves.  I won’t have anything to do with an elastrator and refuse to allow one to be used anywhere on my property.