Terri Lynn's Story (Part 1)

Growing up in a remote Ozark farming community in the 1960s, Terri 
Lynn felt that being female would doom her to a life of menial 
drudgery and unfilled dreams. That is, until she developed a 
fascination for one peculiar farm chore,  livestock castration. 
Impressed with the fragility of masculinity, she felt empowered as a 
female and enlisted the enthusiastic help of her best friend and 
younger sister. Soon they became a proficient team earning extra 
money performing livestock castrations on area farms. As you might 
guess, it was only be a matter of time until they performed the "real 
thing," on a boy!

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Terri Lynn's story as told to Farrell Squire
Part 1of 2

In recounting this story I have changed the names of the characters 
to protect their privacy, but the general setting and events of this 
story are just as Terri Lynn described them to me. No, her name is 
not really Terri Lynn, but it is one of those double names that used 
to be so popular among Southern girls. Her real name has that same 
ring to it (sounds rather sexy, I think).

(I have also written this story in two parts because I know how 
frustrating it is to run out of memory when downloading a story and 
lose the ending. Each part should download nicely on most machines.)



 Well, enough of the introduction. I'll get on with telling the 
story; Terri Lynn's story.

______________________________________________________________________
__



It was 1965, the year that everything changed for me. It was the year 
that we lost Stanley, my brother, to the war in Vietnam. He was just 
nineteen; I was fourteen. We all took it hard. Stan was Mom and Pop's 
only son. He was going to take over the farm when Pop got too old. It 
was real important in the rural Ozarks to have a son to carry on the 
family name and business. Women were just for keeping house, cooking, 
and having babies; maybe not in that order. No matter how good or 
loving a husband was, it didn't change a woman's role in life. Nobody 
questioned it or thought that it wasn't fair. They just accepted it 
as a natural thing. Women just had their place and that was the way 
things were. Now Pop was left with just Mom and two girls; me and my 
kid sister Penny. She was eleven.



I had never felt like I had much control over my life or what would 
happen to me. I was just a girl, after all, and I would end up doing 
whatever girls did. The best I could hope for was to someday find a 
real nice boy and get married. I knew of women whose husbands were 
drunkards, spent what little money they made on booze, and would beat 
their wives up whenever they got drunk. I wanted to avoid that fate 
if at all possible. Looking back now, I think I actually dreaded 
growing up. It was more fun to be a kid. You could dream and 
fantasize about being a person who was important in her own right; 
not just a housekeeper and baby maker. But this was just silly kid 
stuff. All too soon we would grow up and have to accept reality. We 
were just women and would have to accept out rightful place in life, 
even if that place wasn't particularly fun or fulfilling.



I also counted myself lucky. Pop was a real good father. He didn't 
make much money; not many men did in that part of the country. But he 
took good care of Mom and us kids and I felt safe and protected. As a 
girl I had always felt vulnerable and powerless and it meant a lot to 
have a man in the family who could protect me. When Stanley got older 
I realized that I now had another protector and my sense of security 
just doubled. I thought the world of Stanley and he became kind of a 
role model for the kind of young man I would someday marry. When he 
graduated from Pea Branch High School the year before, he became the 
first member of our family, on either Pop's side or Mom's side to 
earn a high school diploma. Stanley went off and joined the Army. I 
missed him, but I was also very proud of him. He was our link to the 
big outside world. I remember how excited I was when Stanley came 
back on leave. Of course I missed him and wanted to see him, but I 
also wanted to hear all the stories he brought back. The world was 
changing, faster than I could possibly know then, and listening to 
the stories from the outside kind of reinforced my fantasies about 
living in a world much different from this one. I was young and the 
thought of growing up and becoming something other than a housekeeper 
and baby maker sent a little tingle through me. Maybe there was just 
a chance, after all, that I could become an interesting person in my 
own right and live an exciting and fulfilling life. Just maybe!



Stanley had been in the Army less than two years when we got the 
word. A couple of officers drove out to the house. I'll never forget 
that day. It still hurts to think about it, even thirty years later. 
I was crushed. It seemed like my whole world had crumbled around me. 
I had lost my brother, my role model, and my protector and I felt, 
more than ever before, stuck on that little dusty road so far from 
the exotic places of my dreams. I felt very inadequate and vulnerable 
at that time and I was actually mad at myself for being a girl. The 
feeling is hard to describe, but I felt that if I was a boy I could 
take up where Stanley left off, Pop would have someone to leave the 
farm to, and I could be the other protector of our family. I don't 
think I've ever felt so helpless in my life.



Nearly three months had passed now since the funeral and it was a 
bright Saturday morning in late spring. School had just turned out 
for the summer and I had finished my morning chores, feeding the 
stock and shoveling out the stalls. I would have to help Mom and 
Penny in the garden this afternoon, but right now I had a few hours 
of time to myself just to loaf around and play. Once again, I knew I 
was lucky, because Pop said that when he was a kid I would have been 
working in the fields, planting in the spring, chopping cotton in the 
summer, and picking cotton into late fall. Our generation didn't know 
what work was, Pop always said. Pop was never mean-spirited or 
resentful; he just sort of said it matter-of-factly. I really think 
he was rather proud of the fact that he was a good enough provider 
that we didn't have to work like that.



Actually they didn't grow much cotton around here anymore; fewer and 
fewer fields every year. The ground was far too hilly and rocky for 
it to be very profitable. We had a farm that was about three hundred 
acres. It wasn't really enough to make a living on by itself. We 
raised cattle and hogs, and always made a big garden, but except for 
about forty acres of corn for livestock feed, we didn't raise row 
crops. Pop worked at the creosote plant about ten miles away, where 
they treated utility poles so they wouldn't rot. As soon as Penny was 
old enough to start school Mom got a job working at the school 
cafeteria in Pea Branch. Looking back, I realize we were pretty poor, 
but we lived better than many of our neighbors.



I climbed up into the hay loft which was pretty much empty now, ready 
to be filled again by this year's harvest. Last year was the first 
summer we didn't have Stanley to help with the hay, since he had gone 
off to the Army. Me and Pop, and Mr. Taylor put up all the hay by 
ourselves. They commented on how strong I was and how, even though I 
was just a girl, I made a better hand than most boys my age. 
Actually, I always preferred the heavy chores to traditional 
"women's" work. I was big for my age, even then about 5' 8". I was 
the tallest girl on the junior girls basketball team at school. (I 
kept growing until I was 5'10 at eighteen.) I went over and started 
chinning myself on a bar I had rigged up. I had built a makeshift gym 
in the barn from rope, pipe,  and pieces of junk. I worked out 
whenever I could, at home or at school. I always admired female 
athletes. Watching them gave me that little tingle I felt when I 
thought of growing up to be something besides a homemaker. I guess 
they were my role models, even though they got very little exposure 
in the media in those days. We had bought an old used black and white 
TV about three years ago (our first TV). There was some kind of 
sports show (I can't even remember the name) that I used to watch on 
Sunday afternoons that occasionally showed female sports, usually 
gymnastics, track and field, and basketball.



I continued my workout that morning, doing loops on the rings, 
hanging by my knees and doing crunches on the bar, letting my long 
black hair dangle in the straw below; all the while dreaming that I 
was one of those gymnasts on the TV. Never mind that I was probably 
already too big to be a competitive gymnast. I didn't know that, and 
it was all just a fantasy anyway. I used to want to take off my 
clothes and go through my workout wearing nothing but my panties and 
bra, but I always felt too vulnerable and inhibited to do it. I 
usually wore a blouse and jeans, or sometimes modest shorts cut off 
half way to the knees. I never wore anything people today would 
consider sexy. At the time I don't think I even thought of being 
sexy. That word was hardly in my vocabulary. The nearest I could come 
to "sexy" in those days was feeling "naughty". I had been taught to 
equate the two. Anyway, I enjoyed the "naughty" feeling I got from 
fantasizing about doing my workout in the barn loft wearing only my 
panties and bra.



I was distracted from my homespun workout by the ruckus that was 
going on in the pig lot adjacent to the barn. They had been making a 
racket all morning and I knew that one of the gilts was coming into 
season; this stuff happens all the time on the farm and you just get 
used to it and don't think much about it. Now there was such a din 
coming from the pig pen that I couldn't ignore it. I walked over and 
opened the loft door and looked down. Apparently not only one but two 
of the young sows had come into season and the young, half-grown boar 
was indulging himself voraciously. Having two sows in season at the 
same time had excited the young boar and he was literally in a sexual 
frenzy. He would mount a sow and plunge his huge cock into her and 
proceed with that rhythmic, screwing motion so characteristic of 
hogs. His monstrous member seemed to be rotating inside the sow's 
cunt as he would drive it home, jamming his huge ball sack with its 
enormous, orange-sized balls against her. Occasionally the boar would 
try to mount one of the other females that wasn't in season. These 
attempts would be met with angry squealing and nipping as the 
unreceptive sows struggled to escape the boar's advances. This was 
what was causing the unusual commotion in the hog lot.



I  just stood there and watched for a while. Growing up on the farm, 
I can't remember the first time I saw animals do it. It was just a 
commonplace thing that was fun to watch once in a while, but no big 
deal. I had certainly never been really turned on by watching it. 
Once again, I didn't quite know what "turned on" meant. I could only 
equate it with feeling extremely naughty. But as I stood there 
watching the spectacle that hyper-excited boar and those sows were 
putting on, I began to feel a little tingle of "naughtiness". Also I 
was just getting to the age where sexual feelings were no doubt 
forcing their way to the forefront of my consciousness, penetrating 
the repressive crust of my Victorian upbringing.

 

As I watched, I began to visualize the boar in comic caricature. His 
enormous genitalia seemed to occupy about a third of his body mass. 
It seemed that the rest of the boar's body was just a life support 
system for his huge cock and balls. Most of all, however, I was 
captivated by the boar's total obsession with copulation. What little 
mental faculties the crazed creature might have possessed were 
totally subordinated to his overwhelming need to copulate. This was 
definitely making me feel "naughty", but I was also overwhelmed with 
a feeling disappointment. The boar was dominating the whole scene. 
The sows were essentially just passive recipients of his aggressive 
advances. That was the female's lot in life, I thought. We had to be 
content to sneak in a few naughty thoughts during the male's frenzied 
assault. I had heard at school that boys were the same way. They 
would just go crazy to get in your pants, then as soon as they came, 
they would just roll over and go to sleep, or want to go home, or 
something like that. We were here to provide their pleasure and not 
the other way around. I thought it was such a shame it had to be that 
way. Sometimes at night, when I would be laying in bed, and allowing 
myself to think naughty thoughts, I would dream of being naked and 
having a cute boy rub my whole body with lotion. Then I would roll 
onto my stomach and he would give me a long, soothing massage. 
Finally, I would roll onto my back and he would very tenderly and 
softly begin caressing my body, gradually working his way to my more 
private and sensitive areas. I knew it wasn't that way in real life, 
but it made good naughty dreaming.



My naughty day dreams were interrupted by the sound Mr. Taylor's old 
pickup truck rumbling over the dirt road, rattling as it ran over the 
washboard ruts the rain made when it washed across the road. In those 
days there were so few vehicles on the road that I had no trouble at 
all learning to recognize them by their sound. I could tell if there 
was a strange car in the country too. Looking toward the south, I saw 
a swirling cloud of brown dust rising from behind the low hill about 
a half-mile from our house. I watched the dust cloud become gradually 
larger as Mr. Taylor approached.



Pop and Mr. Taylor were always trading off work and I never paid much 
attention when Pop said Mr. Taylor would be coming over. Mr. Taylor 
had helped us wire our house when we first got electricity in this 
part of the state. I was just nine years old then. Pop had paid him 
back by helping him build a barn. Also, Pop could usually get flawed 
light poles from the creosote mill real cheap or sometimes free. They 
had been trading off farm work ever since. I remembered now hearing 
Pop say at breakfast that Mr. Taylor would be coming over today to 
help him cut a hog. Suddenly it dawned on me what was about to 
happen. This sex-crazed, animated phallus in the lot below was about 
to become a barrow, a sexual zero!



Nobody in our part of the country raised purebred hogs in those days. 
Hogs were just hogs. We raised them to eat. We didn't keep old 
purebred boars with registration papers or anything like that. When a 
young boar had done his job getting the sows pregnant, he was only 
good for meat. He had to be castrated several months before hog 
killing time so the meat would be sweet and tender. The sooner you 
castrated them the better. Up until today it was just another farm 
chore that Pop and Mr. Taylor always took care of, and I never 
thought much about it.



I was still standing in the loft when Pop and Mr. Taylor came up to 
the pen and climbed in. I was standing there in plain view, but they 
didn't see me because, intent on their work, they never looked up. 
Pop and Mr. Taylor's presence in the pen hardly even distracted the 
boar from his obsession until they started putting nooses and ropes 
on his snout and back feet. There was a post set about twenty feet 
inside the pen just for the purpose of tying off hogs. By the time 
the boar realized he was about to become a captive it was too late, 
they already had the nooses on him. Pop and Mr. Taylor pulled on the 
ropes and the boar was quickly rendered helpless, stretched between 
two posts. They pulled one hind leg in the opposite direction, fully 
exposing the boar's genitals and making him so helpless he could 
hardly squirm. Mr. Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out a 
special pocket knife he used for castrations. He whetted it a few 
strokes on a very fine whetstone then proceeded with the operation. 
As he made his incision into the boar's scrotum, the animal squealed 
and tugged frantically at his restraints. Soon Mr. Taylor popped out 
one of the boar's big orange-sized testicles, pulled hard on the 
cord, extending it over a foot out of the hog's body, then he cut it 
loose. He pitched it into lot near the sows who greedily devoured it, 
squealing and fighting over the morsel. He quickly repeated the 
operation with the hogs second testicle, folded his knife and put it 
back into his pocket. Pop dabbed some black, gooey pitch stuff on the 
hogs bleeding scrotum, then they released him. The whole scene 
probably didn't take five minutes.



The hog made a bee line for a big mud wallow in one corner of the 
lot, drug his ruined  anatomy in the mud and just wallowed on his 
back and stomach alternately. Meanwhile, the sows, oblivious to the 
plight of their former suitor and lover, just looked at Pop and Mr. 
Taylor expecting more food. Even the boar's huge balls didn't go very 
far toward satisfying the appetite of five or six hungry sows. I had 
fed them earlier that morning, but they always wanted more food. 
(After all, they are pigs!) Pop opened up the corn crib and added 
some corn to the trough, then he and Mr. Taylor went back toward the 
house.



After a few minutes of wallowing in the mud the young boar (actually, 
former boar) came back up to the front of the lot and attempted to 
continue with his sexual aggression. He even mounted the sows a 
couple of times but was unable to produce the huge erection he had 
only minutes before. From his actions I could tell he was obviously 
frustrated by his sudden loss of sexual prowess. He ran back to the 
mud wallow and rolled in the mud some more, as though he was hoping 
to retrieve his lost boarhood somewhere in that mud. He repeated this 
process about three times, each time becoming a little less 
aggressive and showing less interest in the sows. Finally he settled 
down and contented himself with rooting around in the corn cobs, 
interested only in food; any thoughts of sex now removed from his 
mind forever. His enormous balls, the source of the very essence of 
his being and behavior only minutes ago, were now being quietly 
digested in the stomachs of his former mates.



As I stood there a queasy, flushed feeling came over me. My breathing 
became fast and irregular. I felt dizzy and backed away from the door 
so as not to fall. I succumbed to the overwhelming urge to slip out 
of my jeans, and I just laid in the straw, rubbing myself between my 
legs through the soft, slick material of my panties. I didn't know 
what was happening to me, but I had never felt so naughty in my life! 
My body quivered and shook, and I involuntarily emitted little moans 
and soft yells. All the while, I arched my back so only my heels and 
shoulders touched the straw-covered floor and I rubbed myself harder 
and harder between my legs. I had no idea what to call the experience 
at that time. In my mind I just called it a naughty convulsion, but 
that was my first orgasm!



I just laid there in the straw for several minutes, recovering from 
my unexpected experience. I remember thinking that I should be 
worried that something was wrong with me, the crotch of my panties 
was soaked with strange, gooey secretions, but it just felt so right, 
so wonderful! As my strength returned my spirits mysteriously soared 
to new heights; I suddenly felt a new sense of pride and contentment 
with being a girl. I removed my blouse, which I hadn't taken time to 
remove during my orgasm, and began working out on my homemade gym 
equipment, wearing just my panties and bra. It was just like I had 
fantasized so many times.



Watching that boar lose his maleness was a revelation to me. I 
realized the whole mystique surrounding masculinity was a big 
masquerade. A few nights ago I had watched a show on television, The 
Wizard of Oz. I remembered how silly and harmless the wizard looked 
when he came out from behind that big mask. You couldn't believe 
anyone was ever afraid of him. That was the whole point; his power 
was all fake. As long as he stayed behind that mask and people obeyed 
him, he was powerful and dangerous. But unmask him and expose him for 
what he really was, and he became an impotent humbug. Masculinity was 
just like that. It was something so fragile, so easily lost, that a 
subliminal fear of castration must lie at root of every man's soul. A 
simple operation that could be performed outside a clinical setting 
by people who were not even well trained, could alter the very 
essence of his being and personality. Such a simple act could change 
his very identity and personality forever. I felt a surge of power 
and excitement welling within me. I felt the onset of another naughty 
convulsion as I hung from the bar by my knees. I pulled myself up and 
straddled the bar so the smooth iron pipe pressed into my crotch. I 
held the supports just tightly enough for balance and rocked back and 
forth, allowing my full weight to press the pipe into the moist slit 
of my womanhood. The gooey liquid was flowing profusely from my 
crotch and running down my inner thighs. It felt so wonderfully 
naughty!



That wonderfully naughty convulsion settled down to a plateau. I 
continued my workout still feeling quite naughty (highly aroused). I 
remember thinking I must tell Sharon about this. Sharon Watkins was 
my best friend. She lived on the farm next to ours. We had been 
friends since the first grade and we never had any secrets from each 
other. I couldn't wait to tell her about this experience, but I was 
also afraid she would think I was weird or crazy. It was exciting 
just thinking about how I would tell her. Suddenly my thoughts were 
interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the ladder into the 
loft.



"Terri Lynn!" Penny's familiar young voice called. "Mom says it's 
time to come and help with dinner. Mr. Taylor will be eating with us 
and... Terri Lynn! You... You're almost naked!"



"I've just been working out," I answered. I was hanging from the bar 
by my knees again and I just hung there, upside down, smiling at 
Penny as she came into the loft.



"But, ah, you could get in trouble for taking your clothes off, 
couldn't you? I mean, what would Mom say?"



I did a backward summer sault as I came down from the bar and just 
laughed at Penny.

"Why? We take our clothes off at school to work out. It's no 
different here."



"Yeah, but this is different. You have special shorts and things to 
put on at school. You're not supposed to go around like this in the 
barn."



"Who's going to see you? It's no different than when you take a bath, 
Penny"



"Maybe so, but I think it's naughty."



"I never said it wasn't naughty," I said, laughing as I slipped back 
into my jeans. "I just said it was okay to do it."



"Terri Lynn, something's come over you. You're not acting like 
yourself."



"Oh, I guess you could say I just learned to appreciate who I am. I'm 
just so glad I'm a girl and not a boy, that's all."



"Terri Lynn, you used to always say you hated being a girl and wished 
you were a boy."



"That was a very silly thing for me to say, wasn't it? I guess I've 
grown up a little since then." I had finished dressing and we were 
coming down the ladder.



"It was just last week that you said it, Terri Lynn."



"I know, but sometimes something happens that causes you to grow up a 
lot, real quick. Penny, I'm proud to be a girl, and you should be 
too. You'll see."



"I think you're just crazy, Terri Lynn," she giggled. "But can I come 
out here and do a workout with you next time?"



"Sure, Penny. I'll even show you how to set everything up."



"Terri Lynn?"



"Yes?"



"I think I would like to be like you when I grow up."



 We walked back from the barn arm and arm.





I couldn't tell Sharon what had happened on the phone. We shared a 
party line with seven other families and you never knew when somebody 
might be listening in. I told her that there was something I wanted 
to tell her, private girl stuff, and we agreed it would be best if I 
went to church with her in the morning and we could spend the 
afternoon together. I knew Mom and Pop wouldn't mind. We did that a 
lot. Sharon's father was a Methodist minister and we were Baptists, 
but me and Sharon went to each other's churches several times a year. 
Our folks didn't care.



One of the things I used to hate about going to visit Sharon on 
Sunday afternoons was that we would be dressed in our finest Sunday 
dresses and couldn't go out and do fun stuff around the farm. 
Sharon's little brother, Melvin, who was just a year older than 
Penny, used to put on his blue jeans and tennis shoes and go out and 
ride his bicycle or his horse, and romp around in the fields and 
woods, and stuff like that. Sharon and I had to stay dressed up, sit 
around the house, and conduct ourselves in a ladylike manner. There 
would always be an hour or more of Bible study and prayer on Sunday 
afternoons and even Melvin couldn't get out of attending these. Even 
so, I considered it worth the sacrifice since Sharon and I were such 
good friends. But we usually had more fun when she came to our house.



Actually, Sharon's parents had relaxed the rules a little since we 
both became older and we were both on the junior girls basketball 
team. We both had basketball goals set up in our yards and we 
practiced whenever we got together. Now when I visited Sharon on 
Sunday, Rev. Watkins even allowed us to put on shorts and go out and 
practice basketball. Of course the shorts had to be tastefully 
conservative, usually much more conservative than the uniforms we 
played in at school. Lots of times we would have a foursome, usually 
me and Melvin against Sharon and Penny. Sometimes we got enough kids 
together to have a regular game. Playing at sports seemed to be one 
way a girl could break away from the ultraconservative, Victorian 
lifestyle we would otherwise be doomed to lead. If you were good at 
sports, the coaches at school would put pressure on your parents to 
let you play. The activity being sanctioned by the school and 
community made it a lot easier.



This Sunday Sharon and I shot hoops for about an hour then went for a 
walk in the pasture to look at the new calves. When I was sure we 
were alone, I told her about watching Pop and Mr. Taylor castrate the 
boar, and the naughty convulsions it caused me to have. Sharon 
admitted that it made her feel naughty too. She said she had never 
had a naughty convulsion, but she had heard about them. Really 
naughty girls who actually enjoyed having sex with boys said they had 
feelings a lot like that when they were doing it. I explained to her 
how it came like a revelation that men's manliness was mostly a show 
and very fragile. They were so much like the wizard in The Wizard of 
Oz. The source of their dominion and aggressive behavior could be so 
easily removed with a simple operation. Examples of that were all 
over the farm. We knew that most male farm animals were castrated to 
control their behavior rather than because of concerns about breeding 
stock. I told Sharon that I was going to see if Pop would let me help 
castrate the baby pigs and calves. For some reason I didn't fully  
understand, I wanted to learn how and become good at it. Sharon 
listened intently and was captivated by the idea. She wanted to learn 
too. Then maybe she and I could do it without help from the grownups 
and we could be like a team, taking care of the castrations on both 
farms. At first this just seemed like a dirty little fantasy, then I 
promised to talk to Pop and see what I could do. We snickered and 
giggled as we talked about it. The idea was pure naughtiness! 



I didn't have long to wait. This was the season that most of the new 
calves were being born, and I knew Pop always slipped Elastrator 
bands on their nut sacks before they were two months old. The next 
day we were walking back from the barn after doing the morning chores 
and I asked Pop if I could help slip the bands on the calves when it 
was time. He looked at me kind of funny.



"I don't know, Terri Lynn. I'm not sure it's really proper for a girl 
to do stuff like that."



"But Pop, I know Mom has helped you do it before, and she's a girl."



"Your mom is not a girl, Terri Lynn, she's a grown woman. There's a 
big difference. Besides, why would you be interested in doing 
something like that."



"Well, I figure I need to know as much as I can about taking care of 
the farm. You know, with Stanley gone now and all. I already know how 
to do the vaccinations and give boluses; I even help kill hogs in the 
fall. This is just something else I need know how to do, that's all."



Pop took out his tobacco tin and some cigarette paper and started 
rolling a cigarette. He was slow and deliberate, taking more time 
than usual. I could tell he was thinking hard.



"Oh, there's another thing, Pop. I've been seriously thinking about 
trying to get into veterinarian school someday. You know I'd be 
taking Vo-Ag in school next year except they don't let girls take it."



"Veterinarian school, eh," Pop said, finally striking a match and 
lighting his cigarette.  "That's a might ambitious for a young lady, 
but I guess it don't do no harm dream a little. Besides, knowing how 
to run a farm might help you land a good fellow someday.

"I'll tell you what, Terri Lynn, slippin' bands on bull calves ain't 
really a big deal, but cuttin' livestock ain't for the squeamish. I 
got a litter of pigs needs cuttin' and you can help do that this 
afternoon. But if you get chickenhearted and can't do it, you gotta 
promise you won't bother me about this no more, you hear."



"Sure, Pop, you know I can handle it. I'll just have to learn what to 
do, that's all."



I was trying hard to conceal my excitement, trying to make the whole 
thing seem like it was all in a day's work. I didn't really 
understand, myself, why this thing had suddenly become such an 
obsession.



I think maybe I should say right here that I never did, and don't 
now, enjoy hurting animals. This is just something that had to be 
done on a farm and somebody was going to do it anyway whether I got 
involved in it or not. It wasn't fascination with the infliction of 
pain that attracted me to this unorthodox obsession. It was my 
infatuation with relieving a male of his maleness. I was obsessed 
with removing that property that caused an animal to be aggressive, 
dominant, and belligerent, and turning them into something docile and 
tractable. I always tried to make the operation as painless as 
possible.



After dinner me and Pop headed out to one of the farrowing pens that 
were built next to the pig lot. The pigs were less than a month old 
and didn't weigh ten pounds each. 



"We got to cut all the boar shoats in this litter," Pop said. "I'll 
show you how to do the first one, then the rest are yours."



Pop took a special little knife out of a kit box. It had replaceable 
razor blades that could just be thrown away when they got dull. 
Picking up a squealing pig, Pop made a small slit in its scrotum and 
popped out two small white balls. Then he just pulled them out from 
the pigs body until the tiny cords broke. He could see I looked 
surprised that he snapped them like that instead of just cutting them 
off.



"There's less blood that way," he explained, "and they heal lots 
faster. When they're this young you just snap em', don't cut em'."



Pop then dabbed some of that black pitch stuff on the pig's scrotum 
and set it down next to where he had pitched the testicles. The pig 
sniffed, and then quickly ate his own nuts. Watching this caused that 
naughty, flushed feeling to come over me again. Pop grinned and 
handed me the knife.



"Your turn, Terri Lynn. Here, I'll hold the legs, but you gotta do 
the cuttin' and the snappin'."



I was awkward at first, and very concerned about causing the pig more 
pain than was absolutely necessary, but by the time I got to my third 
pig I was really getting the hang of it. Watching each pig eat its 
own nuts was really a trip, but it also assured me that the little 
creature was not too traumatized and had no mental perception of what 
had happened to him. Pop seemed a little surprised, but pleased, that 
I had learned so quickly and hadn't chickened out.



Later that week we put Elastrator bands on the calves. The Elastrator 
was a device with little prongs that stretched a fat little donut-
shaped rubber band wide enough to fit over a calf's testicles when 
you squeezed the handles. There was a trip lever that released the 
band when it was in position. We ran the calves into a squeeze chute 
and they struggled a lot more than the pigs. They would draw their 
little balls up into their bodies and I had to work them down. The 
trick was to get them relaxed enough that their balls would be 
descended then snap the Elastrator band on them. After that, they 
didn't seem to realize that anything was wrong. When we turned them 
loose they would just go back to grazing and act like nothing had 
happened. In about four to six weeks their little scrotums would just 
dry up and drop off. They never seemed to feel a thing. Pop said this 
was probably the most painless method of castration. You couldn't use 
it on pigs because a pig's scrotum held his balls too close to his 
body. Pigs always had to be cut with a knife.



Naturally I shared every detail of this with Sharon. She wanted to 
try it but was ashamed to ask her folks. I told her I would try to 
get her in on it the next time we had to do castrations. I was also 
careful to volunteer to do a wide variety of farm chores so as not to 
draw undue attention to my obsession with castration. But one day I 
was in the equipment room at the barn with Pop and noticed a funny 
looking device stored next to the Elastrator. It looked like a giant 
pair of pliers with big fat stainless steel rods where the jaws would 
have been.



"What's that thing?" I asked.



"That's a Burdizzo clamping tool," Pop answered. "I use it on the 
bigger calves. Sometimes I buy one at the sale that's six months old 
and hasn't been cut yet. I use the clamp on them. I could use the 
bands, but when their things are that big it takes longer for them to 
shrivel up and dry. If you're not careful the flies can get to them. 
That's why I like to use the Burdizzo on the bigger ones."



"How does it work?"



"Well, you see those big smooth jaws? You place those over his sack 
above his things and clamp down. It crushes the cords and all the 
blood vessels connecting the testicles. Then they just dry up and 
disappear; just like the with the bands except everything stays 
inside his sack. There's no blood and no infection. The vet says they 
don't bleed inside because of the way it crushes the blood vessels. 
It's probably the safest method of castration; less to go wrong.

"Here, let me show you somethin'."



Pop pulled out a couple of pieces of cigarette paper and two big 
wooden matches. Placing the matches about an inch apart between the 
two pieces of cigarette paper, he handed them to me.



"Here, hold that."



Pop placed the jaws of the Burdizzo over the fragile cigarette paper 
with the two big matches inside then clamped down quickly.



"The trick is not to hesitate when you get things in place. Now look 
at the match sticks and the paper."



Both match sticks were cleanly broken into two pieces, and the 
delicate cigarette paper was not damaged.



"You see. Just think of the matches as the cords and blood vessels 
and the cigarette paper as the scrotum. It does its job without ever 
breaking the skin. ‘Course now the big n's you got to mash one side 
at a time, but the little n's you can just mash ‘em both at once, 
just like them match sticks."



"Does it hurt them?" I asked.





"Well, I think they really feel it when you first clamp down, its 
probably like a good solid kick down there. They always bow up and 
bawl a little. But after that, they forget about it. It's just like 
with the bands, they act like nothin' ever happened."



In about two weeks Pop bought a couple of half-grown bull calves that 
hadn't been cut. I think the main reason he bought them was to give 
me practice, but maybe that was just my imagination. He did make a 
little money on them when he sold them that fall. We had one hell of 
a time restraining them, even with the squeeze chute, but once we got 
them into position, Pop let me do the honors. Just like before, I 
passed this test with flying colors. Pop just chuckled and looked at 
me kind of funny. I hadn't done a very good job hiding my unnatural 
obsession with this thing. I believe at the time, he knew better than 
I that I was just practicing for the "real thing", and I think that 
sort of turned him on. Of course that could just be my imagination 
too. 



Except for my added volunteer farm chores, it was turning out to be 
another typical summer. Me and Mom and Penny stayed busy with the 
garden and canning and putting up food for the winter. I think I 
hauled more hay that year than ever before. I was learning to drive 
the tractor and Pop let me operate the mower and bailer. We really 
missed Stanley though; our family would never be the same without 
him. I found a box of his stuff I hadn't gone through yet. I guess I 
had just overlooked it in all the confusion. It mostly contained 
stuff that he had brought home with him on leave and didn't want to 
take back. Mostly it was just "stuff", but I also found a couple of 
paper back books, The Kinsey Reports, and a sexy novel about some 
poor guy who fell in love with a prostitute (everybody could get into 
her pants except him). As I started reading these books that naughty, 
flushed feeling came back over me. This was the first real literature 
I had ever read on anything sexual and I digested the information 
hungrily. Up until now my sexual education consisted of rumors, dirty 
jokes, and making analogies to farm animals. I knew that people were 
supposed to do it face to face and that was about it. If it weren't 
for growing up around animals I would probably have been susceptible 
to stories about storks and cabbage patches. That's how sexually 
repressed our world was then.



Needless to say, I wasted no time in telling Sharon about the new 
books I discovered. We didn't dare take them to her house, because we 
didn't want to get caught with them. Rev. Watkins would surely have 
been outraged, and I didn't think my folks would approve of me having 
them either. We made a secret hiding place in our barn to keep the 
books and we made a special little hideout from bales of hay where we 
could sneak off and read the books and discuss what it all meant. We 
learned that my naughty convulsions were called "orgasms" and that 
there was nothing wrong or abnormal about having them.



When looking through that box of Stanley's stuff, I discovered 
something else; two small cardboard packages each containing three 
condoms sealed in foil. I showed these new treasures to Sharon the 
next time we met in our little hay-loft hideout. We had heard about 
"rubbers", but neither of us had ever seen one. We decided to open 
one of the foil packs and look at one. I tore the pack open and 
removed the rubber. It was rolled up into a little ring and was all 
wet and slippery with some kind of lubricant. I stuck my finger into 
it and rolled it down my finger, it was much too large. Giggling, I 
passed it to Sharon. I could see her gasping with naughty excitement 
as she fondled the slippery latex and placed it over her own fingers. 
She unrolled it to its full length and stared at it with naughty 
enthusiasm in her green eyes.



"Are they really that long, Terri Lynn?"



"I don't know. I've never seen one, at least not a hard one." We both 
giggled and Sharon handed the rubber back to me. "I hear a normal one 
is six inches long, that's even what the book says. Maybe some guys 
are a lot bigger."



"What's this little bulb thing on the end?" Sharon asked.



"I guess that's to hold the boy's sperm," I said, still giggling. "I 
would have thought that part would have been bigger though. Surely 
they cum more than that."



We both sat there and giggled as we gingerly fondled the rubber and 
tried to imagine what it would be like to have one of those things 
inside us filled with hot, throbbing man meat, frantic to eject its 
load of sperm. Also, we realized we only had five left now. We had 
destroyed one in order to look at it. We knew neither of us would 
have the nerve to go into a drug store and ask to buy any, so between 
the two of us, we could only have sex five times before we ran out of 
rubbers. We felt a little like the guy in the fairy tale who was 
given three wishes and then wasted his first wish. I secretly 
wondered why Stanley hadn't taken these with him when he left. He 
certainly didn't leave them for me on purpose, because he fully 
intended to get his box of stuff when he came back. I wondered if he 
had died a virgin. That would have been such a shame, I thought. I 
was almost sure he was a virgin until he left.



My first chance to initiate Sharon to the craft of castration came 
that September after school had started. I was staying at her house 
one weekend when Rev. Watkins suddenly had to be out of town several 
days to speak at a seminar. He had just purchased about two dozen 
late summer calves he was going to feed out on grain. Most of the lot 
were bulls and it was time to castrate them. Since Rev. Watkins would 
be out of town, he made arrangements with a neighbor, Charlie 
Braddock, to do it this weekend. Charlie Braddock helped Rev. Watkins 
do his farm work just like Mr. Taylor helped Pop.



That Saturday morning Mrs. Watkins broke the news that Charlie had 
fallen off a ladder and broken his arm. It wasn't life threatening, 
but he was certainly in no shape to come over and wrestle a bunch of 
bull calves. She asked me if maybe Pop and Mr. Taylor would be 
willing to come over and help. I told her that I was sure they would, 
but Pop and Mr. Taylor were over in Short's Junction today cutting 
hay.



"We finally got all those calves rounded up and caught and put in the 
lot yesterday afternoon," she said. "Well, I guess I'll just have to 
open up the gate and let those calves back out in the pasture. We can 
catch them again later when Harold gets back form his seminar.



"You don't have to do that, Mrs. Watkins," I replied. "Deballing 
calves is really no big deal. I've done it several times. Sharon 
could help me and we could knock it out in no time."



"Really?" Mrs. Watkins exclaimed, with surprise, "it seems like a 
rather strange chore to put off on a girl."



"No, I think it's kind of simple, not nearly as hard a pitching hay 
into the loft, or killing hogs. How  do y'all do your calves? Do you 
use a knife, bands, clamps, or what?" I tried hard to sound 
nonchalant.



"Yea Mom," Sharon added, doing a poor job of concealing her 
eagerness, "me and Terri Lynn can take care of it with no problem."



"Well, if you're sure you know what you're doing. I would say ‘get 
Melvin to help you,' but he can't stand no part of neutering. Harold 
tried get him to help one day and Mel got all nervous and started 
puking and crying. It just unnerved him I guess. I can't say as I 
blame him though. If I were a boy it would make me nervous too." Then 
Mrs. Watkins laughed uneasily.



"Bless his heart," I said, with genuine sympathy. But I also felt a 
surge of elation being able to do something that completely grossed a 
boy out, even if I was a couple of years older.



"Terri Lynn and me can handle it fine, Mom," Sharon said.



"Well, okay. Oh, you'll need these," Mrs Watkins said, reaching into 
a cabinet. These are the rubber bands. Harold picked them up at the 
Farmers' Coop a couple of days ago.

"Sharon, do you know where your father keeps that thingumajig that he 
puts these on with?"



"I think so, Mom," Sharon replied, "I'm sure we can find it."



"Now if this thing starts giving you more trouble than you thought, 
just turn those calves out and we can catch them again when Harold 
gets back, y'all hear.



"I don't think it will be a problem, Mrs Watkins," I said confidently.



The process actually went more smoothly than I had expected, even 
when you consider that I had to train Sharon. In less than three 
hours we had finished the job and turned the calves out into the 
pasture. Two dozen bull calves with their testicles trussed up neatly 
behind those little rubber donuts were grazing peacefully, feeling 
nothing, and oblivious to their fate. Left to develop naturally, 
these animals would have grown up to be bellowing monarchs, inspiring 
fear and respect in all who came into their presence. Now they would 
grow up to be docile steers whose only purpose and desire in life 
would be to convert grass into beef. As Pop would say, we had turned 
their minds from ass to grass. Mission accomplished!



Sharon and I just looked at each other and smiled. We were 
communicating many things that we had not yet learned to put into 
words, but we both felt an immense sense of accomplishment and 
empowerment. Our little fantasy of becoming a team of castrators was 
becoming a reality!



We didn't have any more castrations to do until next spring, but when 
the time came Sharon became my regular partner. It wasn't long until 
Pop just turned that chore over to us. Whenever he would bring in 
some new calves, he would just say something like:



"Terri Lynn, I got another job for you and Sharon; out there in the 
truck."



I would smile, and from the way Pop grinned I know it must have 
turned him on thinking about a couple of girls doing a thing like 
that. I think he suspected, more than I, that it was just a matter of 
time before some boy's fate would be forever altered at mine and 
Sharon's hands. At the time I hadn't really thought this thing 
through to consider where it might be leading.



That summer Penny joined our little team and began learning the craft 
of castration. We soon began doing all the castrations at the 
Watkins' farm as well. It was always Mrs. Watkins who would ask us, 
usually by just telling Sharon. Rev. Watkins never mentioned it or 
said anything about it at all after we did it. I don't think he 
believed it was a fitting topic to be discussing with girls. Mrs. 
Watkins always said her husband was glad we were doing this chore for 
them though. It saved him having to worry about it.



For the next three years we practiced our craft and became more and 
more proficient. Although girls were not allowed to take vocational 
agriculture at our school, we still learned as much, and probably 
more, than the boys. We read every book in the school library on 
selective breeding, genetics, etc. We learned that all the national 
livestock breeding associations would give you free literature for 
the asking. Also, feed companies, fence wire companies, veterinary 
drug companies, and just about any company that sold products related 
to agriculture was a source of free information. We even learned how 
to tie fancy new knots and we practiced on the hogs and calves so we 
could do it smoothly and deftly when the time came to get down to 
business.



Additionally, we began accumulating a nice little library of 
paperback books and romance novels. We mostly got these books from 
girls who had older sisters or brothers in college and would pass the 
books on to them. One day our class took a field trip on the school 
bus to West Central College. We visited the bookstore and couldn't 
believe the kinds of books that were on the shelf for sale. (That's 
where I picked up a copy of Masters and Johnson.) Finally, we were 
learning what it meant to be sexy, and learning that it really wasn't 
so bad to be naughty. We moved our stash of books from our hideout in 
the barn into my room at home. We decided they would be safer there. 
I don't think my folks would really have cared for me having them, 
but they wouldn't want other people to know that they let me read 
stuff like that.



The sexual revolution was going on in the outside world, and there 
was a fashion revolution going on as well. Of course mini skirts were 
banned a Pea Branch High School. Down in Paxton, the county seat, 
they had a few stores that carried nice clothes, but they mostly cost 
more than we could afford. It was during that time that I began to 
take up sewing in earnest. I learned to sew reasonably well, but 
Penny actually had a better knack for it than I did. Sharon, however, 
became an expert seamstress. Between the three of us we could make 
about any kind of clothing we could see in magazine pictures (Sharon 
didn't even need a pattern). The trouble was; where would we wear 
them? We couldn't wear them to school, certainly not to church, and 
our folks wouldn't even let us wear those kind of clothes into town. 
It was very frustrating. Sharon and I both decided we would go to 
college (we had a good chance at some scholarship money). We couldn't 
wait to get out into the real world and start living like real girls, 
or so we thought.



In the meantime we had to content ourselves with the outlets 
available to us. I got with Sharon and Penny, and together we made 
and assortment of short little hot pants with the sides split about 
halfway to the waist. Worn without panties they would reveal the 
smooth cheeks of our buttocks as we walked or bent over. They were 
almost obscene! We could get by with wearing these at our house if we 
didn't have company, and especially at the barn. Sharon was very 
clever in designing a conservative-looking, wrap-around denim skirt 
that could be quickly and effortlessly removed, revealing whatever 
clothing we chose to wear, or not to wear, underneath. The skirts 
could be put back on just a quickly if you heard someone coming.



It soon got to where it was important for us to dress sexy, or be 
scantily clad when performing castrations. We rarely had an audience 
when we worked and we could dress as we pleased. We often would strip 
to our panties and bras when doing castrations, and a few times we 
did it in the nude. We talked about how silly this was because the 
animals didn't know the difference. They didn't care if we were sexy 
or not, or even if we were boys or girls. People were probably just 
people to them. But for some reason it was important to us. There was 
something both naughty and sexy about it. More than anything, though, 
I think it gave us a sense of empowerment as girls and as females. 
The very fragility of masculinity was a most erotic thing for us to 
contemplate.



As we matured into our late teens and assumed more responsibilities 
and understanding of how a livestock farm operated, one thing became 
singularly apparent to us. The control, tranquility, and smooth 
operation of a livestock farm literally pivoted on the practice of 
castration. Masculinity was just a necessary evil, tolerated only for 
the purpose of reproduction. Male animals needed heavier fences to 
contain them (often requiring holding pens of welded steel pipe if 
they were to be safely restrained). The individual males had to be 
separated to prevent fighting, and the male animals always presented 
a greater danger to their human caretakers, visitors, and passers by. 
The number of mature, fully developed male animals had to be kept to 
an absolute minimum. That's why breeding males were often used while 
they were still young (like the boar), then castrated before they 
reached full maturity. Only farms that specialized in raising 
registered, pure bred breeding stock could afford the expensive 
confinement facilities necessary for holding fully mature bulls, 
boars, or stallions.



Sharon and Penny, and I would often talk about the news events of the 
day (this was the sixties and we were the politically aware 
generation) and laugh about how much better the world would be if it 
were ran by good farmers who castrated all the unnecessary males. Of 
course it didn't take us long to decide that women should run the 
world. We didn't feel like there was a realistic chance of that ever 
happening, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what was wrong 
with the world - too many balls and too much testosterone!



[CONTINUED IN PART 2]