I had, in defiance of both common sense and published rules, ridden my bike through the mall. A couple of buddies had held the doors open for me and I had locked up the rear brake several times to leave ugly black skid marks on the polished floor. Unfortunately, I had been recognized by one of my teachers and was apprehended and forced to go back and clean the marks from the floor with a rag and some smelly solvent, then re-wax the floor. I was also banished from the mall, and in addition, Dad had confiscated my beloved bicycle for an unspecified period of time.

That was six years ago when I had just turned thirteen and I hadn’t thought about that day in a long time. Now that I have lots of time to think, that memory is just one more thing that I dig up to help kill time. Time is something that I currently have a lot of, particularly at night; the Clark county jail is never quiet enough to sleep, and the lights are kept too dim for me to read, so thinking about the past and my future is all I have to do.

I finally doze off, only to awake a few minutes later with an erection. I would like to drop my pants and jack off, and there is no law preventing me from doing so, but there are cameras everywhere, even in the showers, and just knowing that every act is caught on film for the guards future enjoyment keeps me from doing so. Instead, I think back about the first time I masturbated, almost six years ago, and also the last time, a month ago. Next I try to calculate the total number of times. Let’s see, six years more or less, and at least once a day, so roughly twenty-two hundred pops. How much goop, I wonder? Pints? Quarts? Gallons?

That train of thought is replaced by reminiscing about fucking. I remember the first time most vividly: How a buddy set me up with a sure-fire chick who was hot to trot, and about how I had to fumble with the required rubber, and about how great I felt as I rolled off of her, totally spent and sure that it’d been just as great for here too, until she picked up the phone and made another date for later the same evening. Next I tried to recall every piece of ass I’d gotten in high school and since; who, where, and when, and could only come up with about a dozen total and wished I could go back and try it again.

This train of thought is killing time but doing nothing for my erection, so I roll towards the wall and slip my hand into my skivvies and am suddenly startled by the fine stubble that has replaced my once luxuriant pubes. My dick immediately starts to shrink and my thoughts drift to blowjobs and their consequences.

Fourteen-year-old kids back then weren’t proud about jacking off and usually wouldn’t even admit that they did it, let alone brag about doing it, but Kurt and I both knew that we both did it and he’d suggested that we do it together. It seemed kind of weird to me, but he kept pushing it so after a couple of weeks I agreed to join him in an old barn and give it a try. My cock was bigger than his and Kurt wanted just to see how one that big felt, so I reluctantly agreed to let him jack me off. The next week he wanted to do it again and insisted that I lie down on my back and close my eyes, and this time it wasn’t only his hand that touched my cock. He swallowed my load, and then suggested that I return the favor. I declined the invitation and despite his cajoling and pleading and threats I never went back to the old barn with him again.

I felt sort of tainted and unclean for a while after that, but I also had to admit that it felt mighty good, and I jumped right on board the first time a chick volunteered to clean out my tubes and it soon became the preferred method of getting my rocks off. I must have had a dozen lines that I used to con chicks into blowing me: It’ll make your boobs bigger, cure your pimples, prevent pregnancy-that one actually worked, make your period easier, and my favorite, make me the happiest guy in school. One way or another it worked, because word soon got around that Abbott would buy you dinner and take you to a movie and not even try and fuck you if you just did him one little favor.

I was sixteen when the problem started. Sally Ann required some strong persuasion before she went down on me, and then told her mom about it afterwards and I got hauled in on a Sodomy charge. I had to change schools and attend a bunch of special counseling sessions, but was told that my record would be sealed as long as I didn’t commit another offense. I was hooked on blowjobs by then and wasn’t about to go back to just plain old fucking, but I made damned sure that my partner was willing. The problem came about a year later when Doting Daddy happened to sneak up on my car with a flashlight to find Darling Daughter kneeling on the floor with her head between my legs. The poor innocent virgin changed her story and claimed that I’d forced myself on her and I became an alumnus of the prestigious Maple Lane Reform School.

Maple Lane housed, guarded, and sort of educated about six hundred adolescent boys. No matter what you may have heard or suspect about reform schools being hot beds of sodomy, I’m here to tell you that it wasn’t that way at Maple Lane. Discrete masturbation was tolerated, but the kids were constantly monitored and homosexual activity was banned, and any kid that attempted an assault or liaison would be locked down in solitary.

I got sprung from there on my eighteenth birthday and hauled before a judge, who informed me that I was free and that my record would remain sealed as long as I didn’t re-offend. It seemed like an eternity since I’d last had a good fuck or a blowjob, and I took up right where I had left off a year ago. I had a pretty good time for about six months, at which time I got a little bit too insistent.

“Six months ago I told you that your record could remain sealed,” the same judge that had sentenced me to Maple Lane lectured. “You chose to ignore the consequences, so now I have no choice but to add your previous convictions to this one, and under the new Three Strikes And You’re Out law you are now a sexual predator, and the law requires me to sentence you to spend the rest of your natural life in prison.”

The Public Defender lawyer had told me that this would likely be the outcome and that there was nothing that anyone could do to help me, but the judge’s announcement still came as a shock. “There is an alternative program,” the PD broke into my thoughts. “It is completely voluntary, and would mean that you could be released in as little as a year.”

“What?” I thought that it was a done deal and that I’d just been sentenced to Life Without Parole.

“If you agree to submit to castration, that’s physical castration, not chemical, the judge can commute your sentence.”

“What?” I was still at a loss for intelligent words.

“You surely know what castration is, don’t you?” He asked, as if there’s any guy on the planet that doesn’t know that castration means getting your balls cut off. “Well, a new program allows serial rapist and molesters, such as yourself, to submit to voluntary castration in lieu of life in prison. You have to think it over for a month, then you will have to spend at least another eleven months in prison, until all of the residual hormones are flushed from your body. Then you are eligible for parole, but if for any reason you re-offend then you go back to prison, forever in your case.”

I was so dumbfounded that I didn’t get most of what else he told me, but after the courtroom had cleared the judge repeated the PD’s offer and explained it in more detail. “You can submit a sperm sample,” he informed me. “It can’t be used until after five years. You will be prohibited from taking hormone supplements or undergoing replacement hormone therapy, and you will never regain any semblance of your present sexuality. Is that clear? Anyway, I’m giving you ten days to decide, and then at least another month will have to pass before the procedure is performed. Before your release you must also complete a trade school training program.”

I pondered the choice for every second of the ten days before agreeing to let a doctor cut my nuts out. It didn’t seem to me as if I really had a choice: I’m rather small, and prison is no place for a person of my stature, and I have no intention of spending the rest of my life on my knees with a cock in my mouth or ass.

On the day I made my decision I was shown to a cubical and given a small sterilized glass beaker and a disinfectant swab and told how to produce a sperm specimen. Yeah, right. Anyway, that was the last time I jacked off, and may well be the last time period.

Early this morning I was summoned to the infirmary, where faggoty male nurse used dull electric clippers and then an equally dull razor to remove my pubes. After that I submitted to an EKG test and met with the anesthesiologist, who informed that the procedure, as he called it, would be done under a local anesthetic and that I would be only mildly sedated and would remain awake while being castrated. Neat huh? Then the doctor came in and explained how my dick would be taped up against my belly and disinfectant swabbed all over my crotch before he slit my sack open and removed the contents. “You will probably feel a slight tugging sensation, but that’s all,” he reassured me.

“ One other thing,” the doctor added as I was rising to leave, “Tomorrow will be stressful for you, so be sure to get a good night’s sleep.”

Yeah, right.