In February, 1942, when I was 14 years old, our family doctor. Dr. Morgan V. Gordon, joined the Army. At 38, he was well over draft age, but the Army was desperate for warm bodies and, epecially, for doctors.

His practise was taken over by Dr. Bruce Pédé, or, as my mother called him "that nice young doctor." She was wrong on both points. He was much older than he looked and he was definitely not nice. From his college diploma which was displayed in his waiting room, I figured out that he had to be about 36 years old, also over draft age.

In May, I went to see him about a "male problem" which I didn't want to discuss with my mother. The problem was that I jerked off too much and couldn't seem to shake the habit. Everybody believed that masturbation was harmful, and seven times a day was an awful lot even if it wasn't harmful. I'd been doing it for two years and just couldn't seem to keep my hands away from my prick.

When I explained my problem to Dr. Pédé he explained why I couldn't quit. "You have forced your testicles to produce an abnormal amount of semen. When you try to stop masturbating, the semen builds up until the need to void it becomes as urgent as the urge to empty your bowels or your bladder.

What is needed is a means of emptying your testicles and seminal vesicles without masturbating. Nocturnal emissions, or "wet dreams" are supposed to accomplish this, but your semen accumulates too fast for this mechanism to relieve the congestion. I have found that massaging the prostate gland in lieu of masturbation will relieve the congestion effectively, thereby making masturbation unnecessary."

Then, Dr. Pédé showed me an anatomical diagram of the male reproductive system and explained that he would have to insert his finger into my rectum to massage my prostate gland, or, if more complete emptying was necessary, perhaps a larger implement. He didn't specify what this implement might be.

"Inasmuch as you may well need prostate massages two or three times a week at first, I won't charge you for an office visit for subsequent massages. Just come to the back door, ring the doorbell and come in, and I'll be with you as soon as I'm free." I thought that was really nice of him.

He had me drop my pants and undershorts and bend over a table and handed me a 50 ml. beaker to hold under my cock to catch my jism so it wouldn't go all over the floor. He put on a rubber glove and slicked up the center finger of it with some kind of ointment and shoved it up my ass. I didn't like the feeling until it was inside of me and rubbing on my prostate gland. Then it felt great and I sensed that I was going to cum soon.

I did and I shot more jism than I ever had before, seven big spurts. I began to wonder if the beaker would overflow. The sensation was stronger than jerking off.

He set the beaker aside and said he'd do a sperm count on it since he had a specimen anyhow.

I have to admit that it worked. I didn't feel like jerking off that evening, or at bedtime, or even in the morning when I got up. The next day I only jerked off five times instead of my usual seven. Even the next day, I did it only six times. But after that, I was back to seven, so I went back to Dr. Pédé.

I got another thrilling and very satisfying prostate massage which I enjoyed a lot more than jerking off, and he advised me to come back every third day for a while until I didn't do it any more than three times on days when I didn't have a prostate massage.

This went on for another three weeks. I was getting finger-fucked three times a week and jerking off on the days between. Somehow, though, I couldn't get by on less than four times a day between prostate massages. Finally, Dr. Pédé said "This is too slow. I'm going to have to use a larger implement."

He put a rubber onto my cock instead of having me hold a beaker under it and had me bend over the table and hold onto the other side of it with both hands. I couldn't turn my head far enough to see what he was doing back there, but, after a few minutes of preparation, I felt something stiff but not really hard and rubber-covered pressing against my asshole.

Well lubricated, it soon slipped up inside me and began poking and pressing against my prostate. I couldn't figure out what the thing was which was giving me such an exciting sensation until he went in further and felt a pair of balls bumping against my ass ! I was being cornholed."Hey, what're you doing back there ?" I asked, almost in a panic.

"I'm massaging your prostate gland with my erect penis." he said matter-of-factly.

"It works much better than my finger." Well, I couldn't deny that. When I started cumming, I began to wonder if I'd ever stop. The jism poured out of me. Finally, Dr. Pédé grunted and made four hard thrusts and stopped, and I felt his stiff cock soften inside of me.

Inasmuch as he didn't make any big deal of it, I decided that there was no reason that I should, either. After that, I stopped in every other day to get cornholed and I quit jerking off entirely. I was so naive that , for some time, I didn't think of either Dr. Pédé or myself as queer.

At fifteen, I had started noticing other guys, especially in the showers in high school and being attracted to handsome men, especially sailors, who looked well-hung. I began fooling around sexually with my friend Jim Kane. Wondering what it would feel like to cornhole another boy, I asked Jim if he'd let me. After some thought he said that he would if I'd blow him first. I'd never done that before, but I agreed. I took to sucking his cock like a baby to its mother's tit.

When he came in my mouth, I swallowed his jism without thinking and became so excited that I shot in my pants. Jim said "Y'know what ? You're queer." I realized that he was right and bursted into tears. I ran home, threw myself on my bed and sobbed my heart out. Fortunately, Mom was working down at the USO and wasn't there to ask me what was wrong. No only did I know that I was queer, but I knew why I was queer.

I never went to see Dr. Pédé again. I was also too embarassed to see Jimmy for several weeks until he came over and asked me to forgive him for upsetting me that way. Of course, I did and we ended up blowing each other. Mom asked me to help out down at the USO club and, when I saw all those horny sailors, excited by dancing with girls they weren't allowed to date, much less fuck, I knew what I had to do for the war effort.

Every evening, I'd pick out an obviously frustrated sailor, show him that I had a boner and motion to the back door with my head. Usually he'd meet me in the alley behind the USO club for a quickie blow job. Some of them wanted to cornhole me, and that was AOK with me. Most of the soldiers were locals who might recognise me and the Marines were one and all too rough. So, I stuck to sailors until the war ended and attendance at the USO dropped off drastically.

Finally Dad came home in April, 1946. Dr. Gordon, sad to say, never came back. It took a while for Dad and me to get onto close father-and-son terms. Finally, though, in the summer, I decided that the time had come to tell him about Dr. Pédé . I wasn't willing for him to get away with what he'd done to me, and probably other boys.

I was scared shitless by what I had to say. I had no idea how dad would take it. I told him "Dad, I have something serious that I need to discuss in private." We went down to the rec. room and he asked "What's up ?" So, I told him. "While you were overseas, Dr. Pédé molested me for three years. I couldn't bring myself to talk to Mom about a thing like that and I didn't dare report him to the police. For one thing, it'd be just my word against his and I'd be disgraced even if he did get what was coming to him."

I was both amazed and grateful that Dad didn't explode. He sat quietly for a while and thought. Then he said "Alright, son, I want you to tell me in detail everything he did. Don't struggle to be clinical and use "proper" medical language. I've heard every dirty word there is and they don't faze me. Just tell it in your own way. " So, I did. I said nothing about the things I did with Jimmy or my adventures behind the USO, but I omitted nothing that Dr. Pédé did and I did tell Dad that I was convinced that Dr. Pédé had turned me queer.

Dad said "We'll deal with one problem at a time. You're right that we can't go to the law or even the AMA about this doctor without bringing a scandal upon ourselves. If Dr. Pédé is to be given his comeuppance, it's up to us to do it. Over in Germany, I learned some things that the SS did to our boys which I don't think the doctor will like one little bit. I'm afraid you'll have to pay Dr. Pédé another visit, but with me lurking in the shadows this time."

After dark, we sneaked up on Dr. Pédé's house through the back yard. Dad was carrying a pair of slip-joint pliers in his trouser pocket and a roll of wide adhesive tape on his wrist. I rang the doorbell and entered through the back door followed closely by Dad who hid in the pantry as Dr. Pédé came into the kitchen. He was very surprised to see me. I had managed to raise a good hard-on while waiting for him which he noticed immediately.

"Why, Dennis, what a wonderful surprise. You look as if you need a prostate massage." Just then, Dad stepped out of the pantry behind him and gave Dr. Pédé a "rabbit punch" on the back of the neck. The doctor collapsed in a heap on the floor.

When he awoke, he found that his mouth was taped shut , his wrists were taped together, and his pants and undershorts were around his ankles.

"Permit me, Doctor, to introduce my father" I said very formally. "I have told him how you seduced me, molested me, and corrupted me and he has decided to see to it that you never do that again." We lifted him up and bent him over the table in the position I had assumed when he finger-fucked and cornholed me.

I took ahold of Dr. Pédé's prick and began to jerk him off until he had a good stiff boner. Then Dad stepped up behind him, grabbed his cock and yanked it back hard and fast through his crotch. There was a distinct "CRACK" as the corpora cavernosa fractured. This wouldn't have done permanent damage to his prick , but, then, dad gripped Dr. Pédé's cock very hard and twisted it both ways. We could hear crackling and tearing sounds from the base of the doctor's prick and a doughnut-shaped swelling quickly appeared around the base of it.

"I doubt that'll get stiff any more, Doc." said Dad." At least, when the SS did that to some of our men, they could never get it up again. But, I think it's time to wipe out your sex urge, too, Doc. "

Dad handed me the pliers and I took Dr. Pédé's left nut in my left hand, positioned the jaws of the pliers around the middle of it and squeezed the handles together. Dr. Pédé screamed through his nose as his left ball bursted. I took it in my hands and squeezed it between my thumbs and the sides of my hands until it was reduced to mush.

Dr. Pédé passed out, but Dad fetched a bottle of household Ammonia from under the sink and brought him around. Then I broke his right ball and squashed it with my thumbs until there was nothing left of it also. It took a second whiff of ammonia to bring him around again. Dad spoke to the doctor carefully as if he were speaking to a child. "You are NOT going to call the police. You are going to treat your own injuries and keep your mouth SHUT about how they happened . That is, if you ever want to practise medicine again and stay out of prison." With that, he cut the tape on Dr. Pédé's wrists and we left.

The next day, Dad and I had another serious talk. "Denny, I don't think that you're actually queer. You've never had a chance to develop a normal interest in females. During our stint in the Occupation, there was a young fellow in my outfit who seemed to be queer and was trying to hide it. Some of the older men took him to a brothel night after night and finally he came to appreciate women's bodies and to prefer them to men. I'm willing to try that with you if you're interested."

"If you think it'll help, I'll try." I replied. It took a while for Dad to find a whorehouse that wouldn't inquire too deeply into a customer's age. At 16, I might pass for 18 in a dim light.

Dad's discrete inquiries took about six weeks, and the place he found was in another nearby city, a university town. Patronised by university students, the Auberge de Paris, was expensive, but the girls were cultured and skilful. more like courtesans than whores. Dad had explained my problem to the madam, Mme Rénaud who treated me very sympathetically and paired me with a girl who was careful not to frighten me with her ardor on one hand, or repel me with too business-like an attitude on the other. Geneviéve was the perfect medium.

Gently, she led me by the hand (or the cock) on an exploration of the wonders and mysteries of the female body. To my own absolute amazement, I was actually able to fuck her on the first night. My performance was pretty dismal, but many young fellows like me couldn't do it at all, as she informed me.

It must have cost Dad the US Mint to pay for such lessons in the art of making love to a woman every week for six months, but he never complained about the money. I'm glad to be able to say that his money wasn't wasted. I never lost my interest in men, but I did develop enough ability to satisfy a woman that I was able to marry at 23 and have a family. I don't think that Betty ever caught on to what went on during my weekend camping, hunting, and fishing trips with Jimmy Kane.

I never really cheated on her because I didn't use my prick. That was reserved for her. I blew Jimmy and let him cornhole me . I was genuinely grieved when Betty died of breast cancer at 46. By then, both of our kids, Bradford, named after Dad, and Genevieve, because I suggested the name and Betty liked it, had married . Jim never married and I never re-married. We have separate homes but share a cabin on Lake Witchettypoke on weekends and vacations.

Oh, Dr. Pédé ? He practised in town until 1971, when he retired to Florida. From 1946 onward, he was fat and feminine-looking.