A Boy's Journy: Part II - Into The Future

Michael being gone didn’t slow down my masturbatory habits; in fact I probably did it even more often. It was always by myself after that though. Besides my own, Micheal’s hand was the only way that I ever had an orgasm. I never had the nerve to approach anyone else. My friends were all growing up and there was no way to justify it as curiosity or childish exploration. Without a live person to be with I needed something to fuel my masturbation fantasies. Dreaming about classmates will only take you so far. I knew there was something out there, but I wasn’t sure what it was. At least until I got my first computer.

I was hooked on the computer from the first time I started to use it. I read every book and magazine I could get my hands on and learned everything I could about it. We lived in a pretty rural area when I was growing up – it was a town of about 20,000 people and there sure weren’t any computer stores. These were the days before the internet, so to grow my library of programs I turned to dial up bulletin board system – BBSs. There was a magazine out at that time called “Computer Shopper.” It was a huge magazine full of ads mostly, but with a few good articles thrown in. One particular area that interested me was the BBS listings in the back of the magazine. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. I would pore through them, reading the names and trying to pick ones that might have the largest selections of programs to download. One in particular caught my eye. “The Men’s Room BBS”

Dialing into that BBS was another watershed event in my life. True to my hope, it was an “adult” BBS. And more than that. It was a gay BBS. Up until this point I had never given any thought to my activities with Michael, my daydreaming about boys, or the fact that I imagined boys when I masturbated. I didn’t have a label to put on myself. Or at least I didn’t want to. After I started reading stories from The Men’s Room I had to re-evaluate myself and my desires. I was 15 the first time I called myself what I really was: gay.

The Men’s Room had stories that users had submitted, and that included stories from other bulletin board systems. There was one story posted called “Alice,” and it was from a bulletin board system in California called “Feminet.” The basic plot of “Alice” was that a boy got punished by his mother by her changing him into a girl. Completely. I believe the reference was to “smooth panties” and the fact that “Alice” wouldn’t be out of place at a girl’s swim party – even in a bikini. There is was again. A boy without his penis. I was torn because the feminism elements of the story didn’t interest me at all. But the idea of a boy who had had the operation. I couldn’t get it out of my head. What he must feel like to have some as special as his penis taken from him. To never touch it. To never orgasm again. I masturbated to that story over and over again. I finally got up the nerve to dial into Feminet to browse their whole library of stories. There were a lot of stories of transvestites and crossdressing, and even of sex changes. But the few that had normal boys having the operation. Losing it. Those were the ones that drove me wild and were the center of my erotic masturbatory fantasies.

Long distance bills were killing me. Well not me, specifically, but my dad. Calling to Minneapolis and California all the time was getting expensive, and I couldn’t very well tell him that I absolutely needed those calls or else I would turn into a raving sex fiend. Just in time, along came my savior – the internet. I dove into the internet with the same passion I had with BBSs, and within a short time found out that there was even more interesting material on the internet than I could have dreamed about on BBSs. My first brush with destiny came in alt.eunuchs.questions. There was a story there simply titled “Penectomy.” I didn’t even know what the word meant then but as I read the story I understood. It was my word. It was my secret desire all wrapped up in one word. At last I knew that I wasn’t the only one out there interested in the subject. It was the most erotic thing I had ever read. All of the power of a penectomy, the frustration of retaining the testicles, and most of all the man stayed a man. A man without a penis.

It was another one of those times in my life where I had reached a turning point. I approached it with my usual zeal. I read everything I could get my hands on, both on the internet and off. I found sites like the Eunuch Archive, where I felt at home. I became more and more convinced that I wanted, no needed, to have a penectomy. I wanted to be a boy without a penis. I wanted that sexual frustration. I also became convinced that there was no way I was ever going to get one. I was 16, lived at home with my parents, and if that weren’t enough even if I had the money and permission the only real doctors I found performed sex changes. Not penectomies. I would lose my balls and get a vagina. And I would have to wait two years to get the process started, and then would have to face my family and tell them I wanted to be a girl. I didn’t want that. I couldn’t go through that and still not get what I wanted in the end anyway.

To use a term from the 60s, way before my time, I was a square. Virtually invisible in high school, neither popular nor hated, I went about my business, got good grades, was nice, polite, and smart. Just the way teachers liked it. I was a realist about the chances of getting a penectomy and about the terrible, wonderful results that would happen if I did somehow make it a reality. Masturbation was my life. I did it at night, in the morning before school, often a time or two during school, when I got home from school. Masturbation was literally my hobby. It wasn’t even a case of being horny all of the time. Often times when I would masturbate I would have to give myself an erection. I wasn’t horny but I did want the feeling. I suppose you could fairly say that I was addicted, although I wouldn’t attach the negative connotations of that word to it. I enjoyed masturbating so it did it – a lot. Even when I wasn’t horny, wasn’t erect I could feel my penis between my legs – it was almost hypersensitive in a way that I have never heard another boy or man describe. My mom never threatened to cut off my penis for masturbating or anything of the kind. My desire for a penectomy was totally independent of my masturbation except for the role it played in my fantasies. In other words I wasn’t looking to punish myself for masturbating. Penectomy – and the sexual frustration, the loss of masturbation and orgasm was a perverse gift I wanted to give myself, even knowing that if I achieved it I would find my self in my ultimate erotic situation, the one that had fueled my masturbation fantasies for years, with no way to enjoy it physically, then or ever.

I really had no clue what to do next, but I approached it as I tried to do every challenge in my life – logically. I knew whether I had a penectomy next month, next year, or when I was 25 that it would cost money. It wasn’t hard to convince my parents to let me get a job. They had bought me a car when I turned 16 and got my license. We weren’t rich by any means, and it wasn’t a new car, but it got the job done. I was honest with them … at least as honest as I could be. I told them I was saving up to do something special when I got to be a senior. And so I did. Evenings and weekends were spent helping the uniniformed select computer hardware and software from Best Buy. The pay was not great, but since I didn’t have anything else to spend the money on it added up pretty fast. I worked full time during that summer, part time again my junior year, and full time again in the summer before my senior year. My parents kept asking me about my special plans and I told them the truth – that I hadn’t made a decision yet.

A year and a half of online research and offline masturbation had proven to me that what I wanted was real and obtainable. I had read so many transsexual websites that I could have typed a directory of surgeons from memory, but that still wasn’t what I wanted, and there was still the matter of my age. What did intrigue me though were the fringes of the transsexual online community. Those who lacked the money, or the patience, to go through normal channels – the year wait, the letter from the psychiatrist, the hormone therapy – often settled for clinics in places like Thailand and Mexico where even though the techniques were substandard compared to someone like Biber, were not bound by the same restrictions. They could get it done safely and quickly for anyone that could pay the fee. So what if a transsexual man sacrificed the ability to remain orgasmic in exchange for a quick pussy? If they were happy, my thought was more power to them. I sure as hell didn’t care about staying orgasmic – no that’s not true. I knew I couldn’t be orgasmic after the surgery or the whole exercise would be wasted. If those doctors would perform quickie sex changes operations, then there sure as hell had to be someone who would perform a penectomy if the price was right.

In a year and a half of not spending a cent of my earnings I had saved close to seven thousand dollars. I knew that even as cool as my parents were that a trip to Thailand was out of the question, so that limited my search to doctors and clinics in Mexico. Because the clientele these clinics catered to were not the poor locals they all conducted business in English. Having believed at first that ever arranging for the surgery would be impossible, I was prepared for a long and difficult process. I had gone from thinking it was impossible, to thinking it was far in the future, to thinking it was going to take a lot of time and effort to get it done. All four of the clinics responded to my emails within the week. All four performed penectomies and castrations in addition to transsexual surgeries and each said that they would perform the surgery even though I was not yet 18. The prices ranged from $3500-$5000 and as long as the money was prepaid and I passed the physical when I arrived I would get my operation. I actually called the clinics to find out as much as I could about them.

Because of the very nature of the services they provided they all catered to people flying in without friends or family with them. I ended up sending a certified check for $5000 to a clinic called La Hacienda. They would pick me up at the airport, provide lodging before and after the surgery and would route phone calls from friends and family as “La Hacienda Hotel” using a special 1-800 number Because of my grades I was on track to graduate from high school a semester early – my last day of class was December 20th when the rest of the school adjourned for Christmas break. I made my plane reservation for Monday, January 3rd, allowing me to spend Christmas with my family (which they would NEVER have let me be gone for) and avoid the rush of New Years’s travelers on the 2nd, which was a Sunday.

I had requested that all communication be made by email, and within three weeks of the time I sent them my travel schedule I had a patient number and a check in time. I would arrive on Monday the 3rd on the 7 am flight and the operation would be performed on Wednesday the 5th at 7am. I leaned back in my chair and pulled my penis out of my fly. It was hard as a rock and I stroked it as I read the itinerary over and over again. In a little over two months I would no longer have a penis. I was really afraid … I was going to change my body forever. I was going to give up the ability to ever have another orgasm. I was going to give up the ability to be normal, to be able to stip in a lockerroom and hit the showers. I had never even had my tonsils or appendix out and I was going to have an operation to amputate my penis. I ejaculated a huge load, hitting my shirt and dripping down onto my pants. I closed Outlook, stood up and stripped my clothes off. I still had semen on my cock so I grabbed my shirt and wiped it off, pulled on a pair of shorts picked up my clothes hamper of dirty laundry, including my semen stained clothes, and headed to the wash room.

I bet I averaged five times a day masturbating over the next two months. Five times sixty is three hundred orgasms and it was still like I couldn’t get enough. Every time I would think about the trip I would get an erection; sometimes I just let them go to pretend like it was after the surgery. Finally I would get desperate and pop into the nearest restroom to masturbate, all the while thinking –knowing—that there would be no such escape valve after January 5th.

It was stange getting shorts and floral print shirts for Christmas when it was 15 degrees and snowing outside, but it was a nice gesture on the part of my parents. I actually got the whole works – cloths, socks, and underwear. I was going to be gone for a whole month – returning home on February 3rd so of course mom wanted to make sure I had enough clothes. I assured here that the ‘hotel’ had a laundry service that was part of the cost. Both my parents were happy that I had had the tenacity to work and save money for this trip – and even though they didn’t know the real reason – were glad to see my hard work paying off for me.

The day before the plane left I spent a lot of time in my room packing and masturbating. Every so often I would just strip off all of my clothes and look at myself in the mirror on my closet door. Watching my penis bouncing in time with my heartbeat was fascinating. I tried to memorize every feeling, every tickle, every detail of my penis. I stood sideways to look at it in profile and flexed my cock muscle as hard as I could, leaning backwords to thrust my hips and penis forward. I could see the glans swell and turn a dark purple with the increased pressure and the veins on my penis stand out like those on the arms of muscle bound men in the Mr. Universe contest.

The next morning at 5 am my mother dropped me off at the airport. I hauled my luggage to the nearest restroom where I shed my coat and winter clothes in exchange for khaki shorts and a floral print shirt. With my winter clothes safely tucked into a suitcase I headed for the line at the airline counter to get my bags checked and my boarding pass. That accomplished I headed to the gate where I had to wait another thirty minutes before we began boarding the plane. I threw my one carry-on bag over my shoulder and headed down the jetway. I already had an erection in my pants but knew that it would be a while before I could do anything about it. I sat down in my seat and buckled my seatbelt. I started reading “The River God” by Wilbur Smith, a book that I had gotten from Barnes and Noble the previous week and had been saving for the flight. The central character is a slave castrated – penis and testicles – for having sex with a girl. We soon were airborn on our way to Mexico, a four hour flight. The seatbelt light was on the first three and one half hours so I could do nothing but sit and suffer with my erection. When we were able to get up and move around the cabin a line formed almost immediately and there was no way I could get in and take care of business before we landed. That last bit of the flight went quickly and soon we were on the ground in Mexico. I debarked from the plane with the rest of the passangers and was hoping to find a restroom in the airport to masturbate in until I saw that the driver from La Hacienda was already there, holding a sign with my name on it. I went to the bathroom, but didn’t want to take the time while he was waiting on me to jerk off. I stood at the urinal and forced myself to urinate even though I was still half hard. I looked down at my penis in my hand and gave it a tug and thought to myself that it might be the last time I ever used a urinal.

The driver carried my luggage to the car, which was a nice sedan. The airport was fairly large and sophisticated, being a port for incoming tourists, but once we left there there was hardly any traffic at all and the ride to La Hacienda took only about 25 minutes. We were close to the heart of the tourist district and only about then blocks away from the beach itself. It was busier here, but not as much as I expected. It finally dawned on me that the real busy time of the year would come about March when the spring break crowd hit – tons of horny boys and girls looking to strip down on the famous nude beached, take advantage of the non-existant minimum drinking age and get down to having sex in what ever combination or combinations turned them on. I thought about those high school guys, sitting at home and jerking off every night at the thought of getting laid in this young person’s paradise. I wondered what they would think of someong coming here to have their penis removed. For the first time in a while I thought of Michael and what he would think if he knew that the penis he knew as well as his own wouldn’t exist in another day. All kinds of weird thoughts ran through my head, like what it would be like to be back, in front of my mom and dad and know even though they (I hoped!) didn’t specifically think of my penis would assume it was still there. I thought about how proud Dad must have been when he saw my penis between my legs – his son! And the times that mom changed my diaper and gently wiped, cleaned, and powered it. I even thought about the doctor who circumcised me … who took my penis in his hand and with a scalpel took my foreskin and left my penis beautifully clean and pretty. What would he think if he knew that less than eighteen years later that another doctor would again be holding my penis in one hand and a scalpel in the other, only this time the perfection of the circumcisor would be destroyed, along with the entirety of the penis?

I was awakened from my daydream by the driver, who parked the car in the building’s underground parking garage and unloaded my luggage for the attendants waiting there for us. I threw my carry-on bag over my shoulder and followed the driver into the building. The clinic was nicer than anything I ever expected. I had nightmare visions of a third world type hospital with civil war era equipment and dirt floors. La Hacienda rivaled any medical facility I had ever seen in the states. Evidently it paid to be nice enough to attract the right kind of clientele, and even though the speciality there was cut rate castrations and sex change operations that five thousand dollars an operation bought a nice facility in a country where the locals average about eight dollars a day in wages. The place was clean and modern. We rode an elevator up one floor, from the garage level to the main lobby where I would check in. The lobby was nicely appointed with local plants and trees, a stone tile floor, and a small fountain as the focal point of the room, whose three story ceiling topped with a glass skylight was more than ample to encompass it. The driver led me to an office off of the main lobby where he introduced me to the admissions nurse, a man in his 30s, and bid me farewell. I pulled the printout of the confirmation email I had been sent out and handed it to him. He plugged the number into the computer, asked me my name and proceeded to go through a standard list of health checkup questions – any problem? Any medications? Any allergies to medication? After he was satisfied with the answers he had me follow him into a small examination room where I stripped to my shorts. He listened to my heart and lungs and ignored the obvious erection in my pants. He drew blood and told me I could get dressed. That was it – the doctors would review the results of the physical and the bloodwork and I would get final approval for the operation by 1 o’clock the next day – the day before the surgery if everything went as planned.

The nurse took me to the office next door where they completed the registration paperwork and assigned me a room. The clerk handed me a map of the building and my electronic key card and told me how to get to my room, and assured me that my luggage would be there by the time I made it up the elevator. I rode up to the third floor and was struck by how much this place resembled an upscale hotel more than a hospital. You could see the necessities of a hospital/clinic were there, but cleverly worked into the background so as not to disturb the calming, amazing visual appeal of the place. Room 325 was in cluster E in the third floor. Each cluster of five rooms faced a large work area where the nurses could monitor their charges. I used my key card on room 325 and entered. I was blown away. It was as nice as any hotel I had ever stayed in. There was a single bed in the room, a bathroom with a shower and a whirlpool bath, and the floor was the same stone tile as in the lobby and hallway except covered in a beautiful bound edge rug. I heard a knock on the door and invited in what turned out to be the head nurse for cluster 3E. Another man, again in his 30s, Jonathon was the first person to mention why I was there. At first I was embarrassed because I had never talked about it with anyone but Michael, and then only after we were close friends and had experimented sexually with one another. Jonathon soon put my fears at easy by acknowledgeing that many of his patients have gone through the same embarrassment, but that I was here because I wanted to be here and certain things had to be done before I achieved my goal. He asked me if I still wanted a penectomy. I said yes. He told me that I would never have another orgasm if I went through with it. He told me that I would have to sit to pee for the rest of my life. He asked again if I was sure I wanted the surgery and I said yes. He explained the risks of the operation – including death, and explained the challenges I would face afterwards, physically – most notably being a change of being incontinent and an increased chance of urinary infections for the rest of my life. He asked me if I wanted to go through with the operation and I told him yes. He was relieved and said he was happy that I sure about what I wanted and was happy with the decision. He then explained how the clinic worked and what would happen. The rooms are set up as hotel rooms when guests first arrived. My room would look like it had when I got there for that night and the next night. The next day at 1 pm I was to check back in with him for the results of the physical. If given the go-ahead, I was to report back to the hotel by 8 o’clock the next evening, after which I was to have nothing to eat or drink. I would be given a sedative to help me sleep and would be awakened at 5 am the morning of the surgery and an IV line would be started. When the time came I would be wheeled to the operating theater where the doctor would again inform me of the risks and ask if I wanted to proceed with the operation. If I answered anything other than a categorical yes the surgery would not proceed. If the answer was affirmative then the anesthesiologist would inject the anesthesia into my IV line and the operation would take place.

We walked next door and Jonathon showed me how my room would look when I awoke from the surgery. He said it took about thirty minutes to convert the room from a hotel room to a hospital room. The single bed would be replaced with a hospital bet, the bound-edge carpet would be rolled up and stored, and the card key lock would be disabled so the nursing staff could come and go as they needed to care for me. Once I had recovered sufficiently not to need the hospital room, the staff would come in and reverse the process and I would have the hotel style room until I was ready to check out.