I used to hear about how some kids were ‘bad to the bone’ and had been born with a ‘demon seed’ that could be used to sway others to do evil. My parents considered that to be just a lame excuse for poor parenting, and no kid could possibly be naturally evil. All that was required, according to them, were love and respect along with hard work and good family values and an occasional swat on the ass. I guess I was proof that it worked, because I was a reasonably polite kid that stayed out of trouble and got decent grades. Up until I met Loren, that is.

Loren and his mom and little sister moved into a house just down the street the spring I turned thirteen. Mom dragged Dad and I down to meet the new arrivals, and I agreed to show Loren around the school and help him get settled into the Seventh grade hierarchy. He seemed okay and was eager to learn all about his new school and which of the mighty Eighth graders that he had to avoid pissing off.

He didn’t get registered until late the next day, and I walked home with him after school and showed him the shortcut through the park that I always took. “Man,” he said, “I gotta squirt bad.”

“Okay,” I answered, “in here,” and led him through a break in the brush to a secluded area where I sometimes stopped to pee. My adolescent plumbing allowed me to hold it all day if necessary, but I could also go just about any time the need arose, so to be sociable I unzipped and let it fly against the base of a small tree. I finished up and turned to see how Loren was doing and to, you know, check him out. He was backed up against a tree and had his shirt open and his pants down around his ankles. He was messing with his balls with one hand and jacking his cock with the other. I stood there with my mouth open, totally amazed!

“Don’t you know how?” He said as I continued to stare.

“I know how.” What surprised me was that anyone else did. There were only a few Men in my PE class and I hadn’t dared to breach the subject with them. It was obvious that Loren was not only a Man, but that he also shared my perversion.

“I needed that bad,” he explained afterwards. “Mom always makes me sleep with my bedroom door open and she comes unglued if I spend more than two minutes in the bathroom.”

“Bummer, Man.” It was all I could think of to say.

“I used to have a buddy, I mean where I used to live,” he confided. “We’d go to his house and do it together. It was great.”

A week later I was his new buddy, and a short time later two of the other Men, Tom and Gene, had also joined us in my basement bedroom. Our only stimulus, aside from being thirteen, was an old copy of Playboy that I kept secreted under my mattress. We compared dimensions and quantity of ejaculate but never touched each other. A few weeks later Loren suggested that we race; all starting at the same time and the first guy across the finish line would be declared the winner.

A month later Loren suggested that we reverse the rules, and the last guy to pop would be the winner. It quickly became obvious that you could go however slowly you needed to delay the inevitable, so again, Loren had a solution: We would kneel in a tight circle and do each other, thus preventing cheating.

We did some other things that I am ashamed of. Most shrinks claim that homosexual experimentation is normal and harmless for young adolescents, but I was so filled with guilt afterwards that I vowed I’d never do it again, and Tom and Gene both shared that point of view. A few weeks earlier I had been a normal slightly repressed teen who felt guilty about masturbating. Now, thanks to Loren’s tutelage, I was a shameless circle-jerking degenerate, obsessed with masturbation and also harboring a terrible secret.

Given enough time Loren could probably converted us to his religion, so great was his influence over us, but instead he took us in a different direction.

“Did you ever think about what it would be like to have a guy by his balls, I mean literally have a hold of them?” He asked one afternoon. Not all of our get together resulting in nastiness. Sometimes we just sat around my room shooting the shit.

“No.” I had never given the matter any thought.

“Think of the power. The guy would have to do anything you asked.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied. I didn’t have a clue where he was headed.

“Here,” he said, quickly shedding his jeans and underwear. “Grab me. Not real hard, just grab me.” He bent forward and spread his legs.

“I don’t think so.”

“Go ahead, its not like it’s my dick.”

I finally took his dangling nuts in my hand and gave a gentle, tentative squeeze. “Harder,” he commanded. I clamped down a little, and gradually felt his scrotum tighten as his balls tried to suck up and hide. “Stop!” He suddenly cried out, voice breaking. It was only when he turned around that I realized he had a boner, and with a few quick strokes he finished what I had started. I was sort of ashamed, but at the same time I was at a loss to explain the tightness in my own pants.

“Want me to do you?” Loren asked, eying my bulge.

“No thanks,” I answered. I had sworn off having another guy touch my cock. With any part of his body. Loren’s one guided tour of Queersville had been enough to convince me that it wasn’t my kind of place. Tom and Gene left in a hurry, each suddenly wanting some privacy.

We were back in my room the next week. Tom and Gene had something else to do so it was just Loren and I. “Squeeze me again,” Loren said, shedding his pants. “Only this time pretend that you’re cutting my balls off.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“Make like this is a knife,” he explained, handing me the rat-tailed comb that he always carried in his hip pocket.

“I don’t know, Man. Let’s do something else.”

“Chicken!” He issued the ultimate adolescent challenge.

“Okay, but this is the last time.” I grabbed his waiting balls and held the backside of the comb against the thin skin of his scrotum and sawed back and forth a few times. The effect was immediate and he spewed what looked like a week’s worth of goop across my floor. As soon as he wiped things up and left I dropped my pants and tried to duplicate the procedure with my own comb. Although I was rock hard no amount of squeezing my balls and pretending to saw them off brought me to orgasm. I had to do that the old-fashioned way; thinking about girls.

That was starting to become a problem for me. I kept imagining how every girl that I knew might look without any clothes, and that usually resulted in me getting a boner. At home in bed that wasn’t much of a problem. Standing in the hallways talking to them was another matter and try as I might I couldn’t control either my fantasies or the result. That didn’t seem to be a problem for Loren, and I finally realized that he was wired a little differently than me, and I told him flat out that I wasn’t going to do anything nasty with him anymore.

“Don’t you have a real knife?” He asked a week later. He had cajoled me into doing the comb and nut thing one more time. Definitely the last, we both agreed. He got hard, but despite dragging both sides of the comb repeatedly across the stretched skin of his scrotum he didn’t pop like he’d done before.

“Yeah,” I reluctantly answered, and dug up a hunting knife my uncle had given me. I pulled his bag to one side and laid the dull back edge of the knife against his skin. He recoiled at the touch of the cool metal and began the series of small jerking convulsions that only end one way.

To this day I honestly don’t know just how it happened. One second I was pulling down on his nuts trying to make him shoot his wad. The next second I was holding them in my hand staring at them, and like the cowboy in Marty Robbin’s song I was “shocked by the foul evil deed I had done.”

“Why?” “What were you thinking?” “How could you do such a thing?” I must have heard those questions a thousand times from almost as many people during the next five years. The prevailing professional opinion was that I had subconsciously reacted to a perceived threat against my masculinity, however there was no option of a dangerous psycho retuning to public school; I was committed to the Rockville Corrections Institute, essentially a reform school, until my eighteenth birthday, at which time my case would be reevaluated. Mom and Dad died two years later in what was ruled an accident, but Dad was too good of driver to miss a corner on a road he knew well and he never drove ninety miles per hour in his life. My indiscretion had already broken their hearts and bankrupted them, so I knew their deaths were also my fault.

The same judge that sent me to Rockville reviewed my case the week I turned eighteen and determined that I should finish school at Rockville, then I could either join the Army or take my chances with a formal review board. I opted for the Army and Viet Nam and settled on the West Coast afterwards. I have never been back to my old hometown, and I have neither seen nor herd Loren since the day I castrated him.