“CUT! CUT! CUT!” The Director from Hell commanded. “Jesus, Jeffrey. You’ re getting castrated here. Can’t you show a little more anguish? You look bored, like it’s something that happens every day.”

“Yes sir,” I answer meekly, rising up off of the table to stretch for a few minutes before the next attempt. The director had a tiff with his boyfriend or something and has been acting pissy all morning. I’d like to walk off the set and tell him to shove the whole thing up his ass but that would be the end of what little career I have.

Most people think that acting is easy: Just be yourself, read a few lines, and end up with a pile of cash for doing basically nothing. That ain’t how it works, folks. Four years of school, low-pay or no-pay summer jobs in nowhere towns doing unheard of plays, trying to survive by bussing tables or working as an usher, maybe picking up a commercial or two while waiting for the Big Break and sudden fame and stardom or at least a steady part in a daytime soap has led me to lying on a table pretending that I am getting my nuts cut off.

I would like to believe that this might be my Big Break but the reality is that it’s just a bit part in a low budget film, and that the only reason I got the part is because I have a pretty face. I am twenty-three years old but look eighteen and with the proper make-up can pass for sixteen. I am playing the part of Jeffrey Allen, an eighteen-year-old straight college student abducted by a gay serial rapist. We did a brief office scene where the guy offers me a job, another in his car where he slips me a drugged drink, and now we are in his kitchen where he is going to nut me and then fuck me in the ass.

This will be an R rated film so there isn’t any real nudity. One scene had me bent over a table, legs spread wide, with stout, albeit fake, ropes securing my wrists and ankles. There is a brief shot of my bare ass but my genitals are unseen. That’s just as well; I am way under qualified to be a porn star, and although there are roles in those flicks for normally hung people, appearing in one is usually a kiss of death for someone who aspires to becoming a serious actor.

The star of this production is Chad Egan. He somewhere in his mid forties and had been in the trade since childhood doing mostly low budget films like this one, but he does have a pretty good fan base. He is tall and has a rugged handsomeness that makes him irresistable to most women and some guys. He is wearing a beige modesty brief that sags low in the front, barely concealing his massive genitalia. The director is immensely pleased with Chad’s performance and doesn’t seem to see any part of him except for his crotch.

The ropes were removed for the next scene, which is the actual castration, and although it is assumed that I am still naked and tied up I have handholds to stain against instead of fake ropes binding me and I am now also wearing a modesty brief. The scene starts with a tin pie plate, a knife, and a piece of latex tubing lying on the table in front of me. I am still woozy from the drug, but come to full attention as I realize my predicament and visualize what may happen to me. Chad picks up the piece of tubing, stretches it a couple of times and walks behind me, leaving only his bare chest and my face to fill the screen. He is supposed to be tying the tourniquet around my bag and I am supposed to be acting like it’s real and that I’m suddenly aware of what is about to happen. He takes the knife to me and then drops two blue-gray slightly bloody objects into the pie tin in front of my face for me to contemplate while he pretends to be between my legs humping me in the ass. My lines are simple; a few short speaking lines in the early scenes and then a lot of begging and screaming as I get nutted, and finally just silent resignation as he penetrates me. My lines really aren’t that important; they can be dubbed in later. My real acting is supposed to be through my facial expressions and the director isn’t happy.

“Let’s try again, everybody,” the director directs. “And Jeffrey, please remember that you are being deprived of your very essence of manhood as well as being violated in a most despicable manner and are also probably being infected with an incurable disease. Please show a little more emotion.”

I got castrated three more times during the next hour. I heard six distinctive plunks as my testicles -actually made of painted wax- hit the tin pie plate and I felt the star place his hands on my butt three times to roughly shake me, imitating the act of anal rape.

“CUT! CUT! CUT!” The director hollered, stopping the camera and releasing the cast and crew for a few minutes rest. “Okay, everybody, let’s take a short break and try it again. If someone would cooperate we could all be out of here,” he said, giving me a dirty look that was taken in by everyone on the set. I came damned near asking the rump-ranger for some pointers on what getting ass-banged really felt like. He should know.

“Jeffrey,” the director said, using my character’s name as always, “how about we use the ropes on your hands and ankles this time. Perhaps the feel of the restraints will help you emote.”

“Okay.” I answered, somewhat reluctantly. It wasn’t a subjugation or bondage thing; actors are immune from those hang-ups about stage props. Instead it was a safety issue. All restraints had to be fake so that a quick escape could be made in the event of fire or earthquake. Special breakaway ropes were available just for that purpose, but they were expensive and this was a low budget production. The use of real ropes or handcuffs wasn’t legal and a fire code inspector could fine the shit out of both the company and me if we got caught. I knew there would be a knife handy in case of emergency, and after all, rules are made to be broken so I agreed and spread out on the table. Two stagehands found some rope and soon I was bound tightly to the table, just as I had been for my other scene, but this time with real rope and real knots.

“Scene thirty-six, take five,” the director’s assistant announced, holding his folding reader board up to the camera. “Quiet on the set. Action!” He slapped the board shut and the scene started.

Chad walked up and picked up the knife. Shit! I thought. Another retake. He was supposed to grab the piece of tubing first, but the well-trained professional veteran actor had fucked up. At least it wouldn’t be me that the director would bitch at this time. The director didn’t stop the scene, though, and Chad calmly walked behind me with the knife, apparently unaware of his mistake. I felt a sudden tug on the waistband of my jockey shorts and then cool air on my ass as they were cut free. “What the fuck?” I hollered, getting pissed off. There is supposed to be at least a semblance of propriety and decency on the set, even during scenes such as this, and this asshole had just crossed the line. Forgetting I was bound I tried to get up. I didn’t give a shit if he was the Star. I was still going to punch his lights out, but the ropes that bound me to the table made it impossible.

Chad calmly laid the knife and shredded shorts in front of me and picked up the latex tube and stretched it a couple of times, as per the script. “Put that down, you son-of-a-bitch!” I admonished him. If he could fuck around with the script so could I. It was only then that I noticed that the front of his shorts were tented out with an erection. He strode back behind me, and for the first time since early adolescence I felt another guy’s hand grab my balls. “I’ll kill you, you cocksucker!” I said, meaning every word.

“Enjoy this, pretty boy, because I sure as hell am,” he said both to the camera and me as he abruptly pulled down on my balls and stretched the tubing around them. Ten or eleven years ago Kenny, my best bud at the time, bet me that I couldn’t walk around the block with a rubber band tied around my nuts. I dropped my pants and grabbed my balls, pulling them down so he could apply the rubber band. It started hurting like hell immediately and I only made it a hundred yards before ducking behind a nearby hedge and freeing my nuts. I now recognized the same crushing, pulling pain as had gripped me back then.

“Stop it, you bastard! Let me up!” I hollered. He didn’t even hesitate; he just finished winding the tubing around my scrotum before retuning to front stage for the knife. I forgot my lines and I forgot what all I said, but I know I screamed and begged and hollered for help as I felt the point of the knife enter the tender skin between my balls. It was over with in seconds. First one, then the other of my bloody orbs plopped down in the tin pie plate six inches from my nose, splattering my face with little droplets of my own blood and testicular fluids.

I must have fainted then, because the next thing that I was aware of was powerful hands separating my ass cheeks, followed by a hot slippery object sliding down my back. The realization of what was to happen next elicited another scream from my hoarse throat, followed by a blinding stab of pain as he hilted me. The only thing I could do was to bury my face into the hard table and cry like a baby.

“CUT! That’s a take!” The director’s command brought me back to my senses and I opened my eyes as he approached. There was no mistaking the excitement in his voice or the bulge in the front of his pants. “Jeffrey, you were magnificent!” He beamed, kissing me on the forehead. “A certain Oscar nomination! Chad, you looked a little pensive towards the end. How about you rest up for a while and we’ll re-shoot the last five minutes?”