A Boy's Tale, by Touchstone

by Touchstone

I was subjected to a form of chemical emasculation when only ten years old.

As a child I was raised in one of the Gulf states where my parents were in the diplomatic service. I lost them in a sailing accident when I was no more than five, and after that, I had a succession of guardians. To them I was little more than a nuisance and permitted to run wild, which is how I came to fall in with a crowd of local urchins who were always up to something.

I should explain now that castrating boys, at this date and in this location, was not at all unusual. Youngsters with any form of learning disability, like Downes syndrome, were always castrated. In country districts it was also done to many orphans, to prevent them trying to inherit from more distant relatives in later life (only “entire” men could be validly named in wills.)

Thirdly, it was the lot of juvenile delinquents to be castrated – the State Government thought that this was the most effective way of taking criminal elements out of the gene pool. Ordinary people felt that naughty boys would be better behaved with that part of them gone.

As I said, I used to run around with a lot of local boys and one fine evening found a bunch of us sitting on a bridge throwing stones at passing trains. Then a police van came up with screaming tyres and we were quickly nabbed and hauled off to the nick. My guardians were not at all pleased at having to pay the fine for my misbehaviour and raised no objection to the other consequences, which took place in the prison clinic the same day.

Not many years before, doctors had perfected a process of injecting a drug into a boy’s testicles which caused the blood vessels to close up and the organs to wither away. This was the manner of my castration. A quick prick with a hypodermic in each one, and then I was pulling my shorts and pants up and being told to go home. It was all over in seconds. Outwardly there was nothing to see.

The drug took effect over the next 3 – 4 weeks. At the end of this time my testicles had shrunk to small blobs of tissue. Six months later it was as if they had never been there at all and my once-plump scrotum was a fold of loose wrinkled skin. More importantly my penis, which had been quite sturdy for a boy of my age, also shrank until it would not have been out of place on a four-year-old. There was very little sensation in it and it never went stiff.

At school this caused me no embarrassment at all. As I said, the operation wasn’t uncommon. Some boys had their testicles intact and perhaps as many as one in ten did not. I continued to go around with my crowd of fellow-delinquents who had all had the same treatment, except one. The leader of the gang was older than the rest of us, about twelve, and he had undergone full surgical removal of his testicles, cords and all, under general anaesthetic. For boys of his age, this was thought to be “safer” than the chemical method. The doctor had also used a hot iron to ensure he would be impotent, as by now we all were. Before, we had all enjoyed getting schoolboy erections, but now no amount of pulling our penises had any effect: we were boy-eunuchs.

It was as a boy-eunuch, aged eleven, that I had my first and last sexual encounter with a girl. Wendy was a neighbour’s daughter and precocious. She had lured me to a quiet spot – some out-buildings – and there pulled up her skirt, opening her legs and showing me her sex bulging under her tight white knickers. In a fierce whisper she told me to pull her pants down “and then you can put yours in me, up my front or up my bottom, just as you like”. When I hesitated she began feeling up the leg of my white cotton shorts ( since my castration I never wore underpants, there was so little to hide) and she soon found my tiny penis and the loose fold of skin that had held my testicles.

Wendy became helpless with laughter and began skipping around chanting “M-------‘s had his balls pricked! M-------‘s had his balls pricked”. She’d learned enough to know that a boy who had had his balls pricked was impotent and unable to do anything with a girl.

A year later and I had a change of guardian – an uncle who sent me off to boarding school in England. At twelve I was tall for my age, with particularly long legs. I discovered an unexpected skill at sport - long-distance running and hurdling. Apparently this often happens with castrated boys and there is a parallel with horses that are trained for steeplechasing. They are gelded very early and grow long slender legs that are good for jumping. It’s all to do with hormones or the lack of them. Besides this, if I ever landed astride a hurdle, as sometimes happened, I had nothing there to get damaged.

Boys of my own age respected me for my athletics and never said anything about my inadequate genitals although they saw me in the showers often enough. So did Ramsay, a ginger-haired brute of eighteen who was Captain of Boxing. This was the “down” side of life at this school: the prefects were well known for sodomising junior boys, and before long Ramsay asked me to be his “flower” (at other schools the term is “bum-chum”).

Ramsay treated me like a girl-friend, always buying me small presents and treating me to cream teas. In return I had to go with him to a derelict cottage he knew, and there, while I bent over a broken chair with my trousers and pants round my ankles. he would open my buttocks, smear Vaseline round my anus and then force his enormous rigid penis up my rectum and ejaculate into my bowels, groaning out loud with sex pleasure, while he fiddled about with my little acorn, trying to arouse me. For me it was very painful and uncomfortable and put me off homosexuality for life.

Someone else regularly saw my bottom: the Matron. We all had to see Matron on Friday afternoons, lining up outside her door in our white gym-shorts. She had a lot of little sticks of soap on her table and a jar of cold cream, and wore rubber gloves. Each boy had to drop his shorts and bend over, for Matron to push a stick of soap right up into his anus, where it stimulated his bowels into action. The school was obsessed about regular use of the toilet and this practice made sure that everyone “went” at least once a week.

Matron saw my genitals as well and drew the conclusion that I was suffering from the fairly common complaint of undescended testicles. As a consequence I was packed off to a clinic where I spent a day and a night while doctors poked around, and finding me with no visible testicles, decided on some massive doses of HRT, initially by injection but more routinely in tablet form. They also put two small implants into my scrotum so that I had the appearance of external genitals.

That spelt the end of my time as a boy-eunuch: not before time. To have a smooth hairless body, tiny genitals and a lovely soprano voice is tolerable at thirteen, but becomes a bit noticeable a year or two later. I didn’t have to worry. Within a short time my voice dropped an octave and I sprouted a rudimentary moustache on my top lip. I also grew a limited amount of pubic hair and more importantly, my penis grew an inch or two longer. Till then, emptying a 13-year-old’s bladder through the cock of a 4-year-old had been difficult and sometimes painful. However, I never became able to get an erection: my prostate was permanently damaged.

Now and again people who know my story ask whether I regret never having a sex life. The honet answer is that I can’t regret not having something I’ve never known and can’t understand.