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I grew up in the 1940's in a straight-laced homophobic family. Their values were ingrained into me. They, and most others at the time regarded homosexuals as unspeakably vile, the lowest form of animal life, disgusting, contemptible, as bad as drug "fiends" or sex "fiends." I, of course, shared this view. At first, I didn't consider the significance of the fact that I liked to look at other boys' bodies and, especially, in the showers at school, for example, or when swimming bare-assed, at their sex organs. I jerked off a great deal, too much, I believed, and my masturbation fantasies were always about boys. I had no sexual interest in girls, and yet, I still didn't draw the obvious conclusion. I don't think I was in denial; it just didn't occur to me. I often got a boner in the shower room while staring at the other boys and would turn to the wall to hide it. But, one time I got caught and the boy next to me said "Quit staring at my prick, you fuckin' fairy." It suddenly (finally) hit me like a ton of bricks. He was right ! I was "one of those ". I ran out of the shower room shaking. I ran all the way home, threw myself on by bed face down, and sobbed my heart out. "Oh, my God." I thought "I'm queer." I was absolutely overwhelmed by self-loathing. I had just started shaving, and I couldn't even bear to look at my face in the mirror while I scraped the peach fuzz off with a safety razor. Rather than live as one of those, I wanted to die. I made a few half-hearted attempts to kill myself, not even getting to the point of inflicting significant injury, and realized that I was too much of a coward to take my own life. Whoever called suicide "the coward's way out" was a damned fool. I can't think of anything which takes more courage. Finally, I said aloud "It's no use. I don't have the balls to do it." Suddenly, it occurred to me that if I really didn't have balls, I wouldn't need to do it because I'd have no sex urge and wouldn't be queer any more. From then on, I had an intense desire to castrate myself. I studied everything I could find on the subject of castration in the library. I decided that the ideal method, because bloodless and possibly relatively painless, would be to use an emasculator (now called a burdizzo). Unfortunately, I lived in the city and there was no place that I could buy veterinary supplies. They were available in Sears Roebuck's catalog, but I didn't dare order one by mail to be delivered to the house, even though both my parents worked and there was nobody but me home during the day. I could possibly have made one in the metal-working shop in high school, but somebody would surely ask what it was. I was frustrated trying to find a means of crushing my spermatic cords and thus destroying the balls I so hated. One day I had to get something from the cellar. There were a few rats in the cellar of our apartment building and rat traps had been set out for them. While I was down there, I heard a loud SNAP and some squeaking. I found a rat in a trap with its back broken. Eureka ! If that thing can break a rat's back, it can certainly break my spermatic cords. I rushed to the hardware store to buy a rat trap destined to be my emasculator. I knew that it would hurt, so I planned "Operation Emasculation" to the nth degree. After I came home from school the next day, I was ready. I taped my lips together to muffle my scream and planned to hold a pillow over my face for the same purpose. I suspected that, with my cords mangled, my dying balls shouldn't be allowed to hang from them, so I kept my jockstrap within reach to put on afterward. I took off my pants and boxer shorts, lay on the bed with my legs spread, pulled back the wire bail of the rat-trap and held it down with my thumb. Then I rested my balls on the trigger far enough down that the bail would strike above them, held the pillow over my face with my left hand, and released the bail of the trap. To me the SNAP sounded like a pistol shot. Pain beyond my worst imaginings shot through my body, radiating outward from my spermatic cords in all directions. Still holding the pillow over my face, I leaped into the air screaming, with the rat-trap dangling from my scrotum. I fell back onto the bed shrieking and sobbing and passed out. When I awoke, I reached carefully down and touched my balls. They were ice-cold. I pulled the tape off my mouth and reached for my jockstrap while very carefully prying up the bail of the trap. Pain surged back into my bag and my cords hurt more intensely. However, there was never any feeling in my balls again. The sensory nerves to my balls must have been crushed along with the blood vessels and spermatic ducts. Cradling my dead balls in my hand, I managed to slip on the jockstrap without aggravating the pain in my scrotum and cords. The acting that I had to do that evening to conceal my pain was worthy of an Academy Award. Dad had to work late, so Mom was my only audience, and she isn't very observant. I had the weekend to recover before going back to school and I played hookey on Monday. There were long blood blisters on both sides of my scrotum and my cords were swollen above the point of impact but shriveled below it. My balls swiftly wasted away to nothing over the next couple of weeks. They're like raisins hanging from strings now. As long as I lived at home, I pretended to shave in the morning and I skipped the showers after gym classes at school so that the other boys wouldn't notice my condition. When I went for my Selective Service pre-induction physical, I was immediately classified 4-F. The doctor advised me to take testosterone shots, but I told him that they were too expensive. They were, about $160 per week, which was a lot of money in the 1940's. Anyhow, I had no use for them. I am contented. I have accomplished my purpose. I have almost no sex urge and don't have to feel guilty about my sexual orientation. My metabolism tends to leanness, so I can conceal my condition from anyone I don't to want to know about it, for I don't look like a stereotypical eunuch. |