“You said ‘he’ll always have one when he needs one.’ You mean, one is all he needs?” I retorted, flicking a little of what Howard was spreading right back at him.

“Oh hell no!” Howard exclaimed, “Hell, sometimes he goes through three or four a night. I wish I could still do that.”

I’ve always disliked parents who promote their sons-or daughters- promiscuity. I didn’t expect my teenage son to be celibate, but I did expect him to be considerate of his partner’s feelings and not engage in casual sport fucking. Howard used his son to bolster his own sagging ego and to try and relive his youth, and he was always coming up with some kind of crap about how Ron was some kind of special. One month Ron was the greatest athlete that the school ever produced and he could win every game single-handedly if only the dumb-ass coach would give him a chance to play. Next month his kid was a world-class stud, and after that he was the toughest badass that ever lived.

“My boy isn’t afraid of anything or anyone,” Howard claimed. “He’s cool as ice and he never runs away from anything.” My son claimed otherwise; that Ron was basically a chickenshit bluff artist that wouldn’t challenge anyone who wasn’t smaller than he was.

“Everyone’s afraid of something at some time or another,” I offered. The shadow on the x-ray or the lump in the prostrate or the polyp in the colon brings a cold sweat to every guy.

“Not Ron. No way,” Howard spoke up. “Hell, they could have named all of that No Fear stuff the kids used to wear after him.”

“Bullshit,” I countered. “I’ll bet I could psyche him out to where he pisses himself or crappes his pants with out touching him or even saying a word to him.”

“How much you want to bet?”

“A hundred bucks, and I’ll give you ten to one odds,” I said. Howard and I made about the same amount of money, but he was always broke. He’d sell his wife’s pussy or his kid’s balls for a thousand dollars.

“You’re on!” He said quickly. “How do you want to work it? Remember now, you said you wouldn’t touch him or say a word to him.”

I explained what I had in mind and what he’d have to do. “How in the hell could I do that?” He asked.

“He’s only fifteen, right? What does he weigh, one-thirty?” A big tough guy like you shouldn’t have any trouble, and besides that, you can always offer him a part of the grand that you’re sure you’re going to win.” We shook on the deal and I gave a hundred dollar bill to George, a co-worker who would hold the bets while Howard wrote a check for the same amount.

The plant where we worked had a first-aid room complete with overhead light and examination table, and it was there that the wager would be settled. The kid’s pants would prove who won the bet and an inconspicuous video camera would allow Howard to witness the event.

I don’t know how Howard coerced or cajoled his son into participating, but on the appointed day I entered the room to find the boy secured to the examination table as agreed; hands and feet bound under the table and head slightly elevated, wearing only underwear. His shorts looked to be a size too small, making his bulge somewhat prominent but by no means of epic proportions. A wisp of hair peeked out of the waistband and more of the same covered his muscular thighs. He was about the same maturity level as my own son.

The terms of the bet only gave me a half hour so I wasted no time. I produced a can of shaving cream, shook it a few times, and sat it and a disposable razor on the table between the boy’s thighs. I then left the room and returned with a surgical tray, which I placed on a small counter next to the table. I then produced a folded pamphlet and briefly showed it to the boy before putting it in the pocket of his carefully folded trousers so that the title was clearly visible; After Your Castration: Dos and Don’ts.

“That doesn’t scare me.” The kid’s voice was scornful, but I couldn’t help but notice the waver. Next I removed two round containers from my coat pocket and set them on the table so he could read the labels; For immediate incineration. Contains human tissue. I took a felt tip marker and wrote Left on one of the containers and Right on the other, set them back down and smiled at the boy. He was now very uncomfortable, probably wondering how far I’d go with the charade. I was reaching for the bandage scissors to remove his shorts when my cell phone rang.

“Yeah,” I said, stepping into the adjoining office “It what?” I said loudly. “Howard’s check bounced? You mean, that asshole wrote a bad check and reneged on the bet? Okay, well fuck him. He called the tune now he can pay the piper. Yeah I know he’s only fifteen, but I don’t give a fuck. Our bet is off and now it’s going to be for real. Yeah, see you later.” I came back into the first aid room and just stood there looking at the boy for a few minutes, before letting out a heavy sigh and leaving the room. When I returned a few minutes later I was wearing a surgical mask and latex gloves and was holding a rubber tourniquet and a bottle of disinfectant.

Now he boy was pleading with me, saying that it’s all supposed to be some kind of joke and that he’s willing to admit that he lost the bet, and to please, please, mister, just let him go. I shook my head slowly, side to side, as if expressing regret for what was about to happen. I picked up the bandage scissors and placed the blunt end under the open leg of his shorts. It was now or never. My agreement was to not touch the kid, and I was running out of options. I could slice open his shorts, one leg at a time, but that was as far as I could go.

His whole body trembled, and I smelled it first, then saw a lump form in the seat of his skivvies at the same time the front became sodden as he voided his bladder. The nearly transparent wet cotton revealed that the kid wasn’t going to win any wet shorts contests, and he would have to be a hell of a grower to need Magnum condoms. I turned towards the camera, looked into the lens. “Pay up,” I said, then bent to release the boy’s bonds.

Howard stormed into the room a few seconds later and surveyed his kid, who was crouched on the table still, still sobbing. He had experienced what is probably the ultimate humiliation for a fifteen year old: He had lost his cool and messed his shorts. I threw the kid a towel and pointed towards the small bathroom, but he didn’t even move.

“You stupid little son of a bitch!” His father chastised him. “You could have gotten us a thousand dollars, but no, you broke down and shit yourself like a little bitty baby! I told you that you didn’t have anything to be afraid of, he wasn’t going to touch you, but you blew it!”

The boy finally gathered up his clothes and slunk off to the toilet, still sobbing. He came out just as George handed me my money and Howard’s check. “I hope this will clear,” I joked, stretching the paper as if it were rubber.

“I’ve never passed a bad check in my life, and I don’t intend to start now!” Howard declared indignantly.

The boy looked incredulously at his dad as he finally realized that he’d been royally duped. “I hate you Dad, and you too, who ever you are,” he said with a hatred that I didn’t think was possible for a kid so young.

I guess I should feel guilty about inserting the wedge that eventually split them apart, but my son said that the boy already had issues. Nonetheless, it came as a complete shock five years later when the boy, now a strapping twenty-year-old man, tied his own father to the very same table and slowly removed the very same testicles that had spawned him. He’s still in prison but he’ll be released eventually, and I plan on being far away when that time comes.