Have you ever had a guy get you by your balls? I don’t mean the taps and grabs that curious adolescents and horny college kids delight in giving and receiving, nor the gentle probing fingers of a doctor as he searches for abnormalities. I’m talking about the guy that seizes your naked balls with pure malice, squeezing, twisting, and pulling them not caring about the consequences, perhaps even threatening their very existence with a knife until you surrender to the ultimate heterosexual degradation. I’ve been there and I’ll never go back.

I graduated from high school in June of 1976 and turned eighteen that July. I would be starting college in the fall and needed to work, but my job petered out in the middle of August, so another guy and I decided to take a bicycle trip down the coast. I was in great shape back then and I knew from local trips I had done that I could make at least fifty miles a day, so the trip would take about a week.

My partner in crime was a guy I had knew from some local organized day trips we’d done around the Portland area. Ray was twenty and attending Portland State and was likeable and he also had the time off and had always wanted to do the Oregon coast thing. Our plan was to have my dad haul us to Astoria, and then we’d ride down the coast to Crescent City in Northern California. One of Dad’s cousins lived there and he’d haul the bikes back to Portland the next time his truck ran that way, and Ray and I would catch a bus back.

We would be traveling light, with nothing more than Bivie bags to sleep in and a change of clothes, and would camp nights in the many parks along the coast, most of which have showers and laundry facilities. We could graze along the way from supermarkets so the trip would cost practically nothing.

The weather was perfect for biking: Temperature in the mid fifties with a ten to twenty mile per hour tail wind to help push us along, and for the first day the highway was mostly flat, with only one short hill to climb. That didn’t stop Ray from bitching though. He complained that I set the pace too fast, so I let him lead. Then he bitched about something else and by the end of the first day I was re-thinking about my choice of a traveling companion.

That night we camped in a small State Park next to the beach and joined some other guys by a small driftwood fire. Ray fumbled around in his pockets and produced a baggie and some papers and rolled himself a joint. This was before marijuana was decriminalized and firing up a joint around people you didn’t know was pretty dumb. The other guys drifted off and in a few minutes he and I were alone at the fire. He offered me a hit but I just turned and walked away. I’m no Boy Scout, but grass isn’t my thing.

Ray rolled another joint the next morning, then started right in complaining about how sore he was. I was a little stiff too but knew I’d loosen up after a few miles. The Oregon coast, obviously, is sea level but the highway isn’t. It detours inland here and there to miss the many capes and headlands, and in the process traverses many hills. We had just started ascending the first of these hills when Ray faltered.

“I’m too old for shit like this,” the twenty-year old informed me. “I’m going to hit the highway back to Portland. Fuck this shit.”

The buddy system demanded that we stick together, but I was eighteen, old enough to vote, buy tobacco, and join the Army, and didn’t need a babysitter. “Okay,” I said, “see you around.” I didn’t even look back.

I made good time the next several days and was really glad that Ray had split. There weren’t many people touring with bikes back then, and most of them welcomed an extra guy at their campsites and I made several friends and had someone to ride with whenever I felt like company, but I was all alone when the truck hit me.

I had pulled into the boat basin at Winchester Bay, on the central coast, and was stopped, still straddling my bike, watching a couple of guys working on the deck of a fishing boat. Dad worked on a harbor tug in Portland and I had accompanied him several times up and down the river and I was interested in boats. A semi truck cut the corner, and before I could react a rear tire had sideswiped my bike, pushing me over. The truck didn’t know he hit me and kept going, even as I was hollering at him to stop. I finally picked myself up and only then realized that I had a sprained ankle in addition to several cuts and scrapes and a badly damaged bike.

“Are you okay, kid?” The guy from the fishing boat rushed up to help me.

I didn’t care for being called a kid, but because I didn’t yet need to shave it happened a lot. “Yeah, my ankle’s sore, but he sure trashed my bike.” The back rim was bent sideways and would have to be replaced, and the rear sprocket also looked damaged.

“Let me help you down to the boat,” he offered. “I have a first aid kit and we can patch you up and see if you need a doctor.”

“Thanks,” I said, leaning on his shoulder.

“Bobby!” He hollered, and when the other guy looked up he pointed to my bike and sort of signaled the guy to fetch it. “Bobby doesn’t talk much.” He said.

Howard taped up my ankle and put some antiseptic on my cuts while his son Bobby watched. Bobby was somewhere between seventeen and twenty years old, had a scraggly beard, long heavily muscled arms, and was obviously severely retarded. He’d never seen a guy wearing Lycra cycling shorts and couldn’t take his eyes off of my crotch, and he kept pushing in on the front of his pants in a futile attempt to control his boner. Weird.

“Down the coast to Crescent City,” I answered when Howard asked where I was headed. “I was going to catch a bus home from there and a buddy was going to haul my bike home.” That was all out the window now, obviously. I didn’t have the money or resources to fix the bike, and I’d have to catch a bus from right where I was and try and figure some way to get the bike home.

“That’s where we’re headed,” Howard said. “We picked the boat up in Astoria and stopped in here to get fuel and take care of a couple of problems and are just getting ready to leave. Are you okay on a boat?” He was apparently offering me a ride.

“Yeah,” I answered, “Dad works on one and I’ve been with him a bunch of times.

“Well, your welcome to come along,” he finalized the offer, “we’ll be there tomorrow or the day after if the weather holds.”

“Thanks a lot!” I said. It didn’t even occur to me that I could save a few dollars by catching the bus home from right where I was and let him take my bike to Crescent City. I guess I was still rattled from my close call.

I sat in the deck house and watched as Howard and Bobby untied the mooring lines and eased the boat away from the dock, and in a few minutes we were motoring slowly out of the protected harbor, through the jetties, and out into the open sea. Bobby came in a few minutes later, carrying a short piece of light rope.

“Daddy?” He said in his faltering voice, motioning towards me.

“Okay, Bobby,” Howard told his son, and then addressed me. “Bobby likes girls, but they don’t like him, so we make do the best we can.” I bolted for the door but was quickly intercepted by the Bobby. The fact that we were at sea in a boat and that there was nowhere to run didn’t enter my mind. I was in good shape back then and had wrestled some in high school, but the retarded kid was phenomenally strong and it felt as if hydraulic cylinders powered his arms, and in a few minutes he had my hands tied together and locked securely behind my neck with another loop of rope.

Bobby tore my jersey off, then slid my cycling shorts down and off from around my ankles. He just looked at my crotch for a few seconds before gently grasping my balls and rolling them around in his fingers the way a doctor might. “I’ll leave you two alone,” Howard said as his son started to remove his own clothes. Bobby practically tore off his shirt and jeans, then slid his skivvies down to free his cock. It looked to be only five inches long or so, at least an inch shorter than mine, but was much thicker, and I could smell it instantly. He must not have bathed in a week. His balls, by contrast, were huge and even though he was erect they hung loose and low.

“Oooh, oooh,” Bobby said, contorting his mouth into a perfect circle and he approached the settee where I was lying. I had a good idea what he wanted, but played dumb until he grabbed my balls and squeezed them so hard I was forced to cry out. It was the worst thing I’d ever tasted, rotten and rank beyond belief, but it was over quickly and in less than a minute I was choking and gagging, wishing I could at least reach around and wipe what must have been a week’s accumulation of his product off of my chin.

Bobby left me to my misery and retreated to the other settee and sat there watching me, idly fondling his balls. In less then half an hour he was hard again and once more approached me, this time from a different angle. I knew what was coming and tried my best to resist, but he simply reached one of his long arms around a grabbed my sack and squeezed until I submitted. I could feel his scraggly beard against my neck and smell the sourness of his breath, and then the terrible stab of pain as he hilted me. It took longer this time, perhaps a half an hour, and when he was done he shoved my face in the puddle of my own goop that he had forced out of me.

“Daddy?” He said, opening the door. Howard entered the cabin and quickly scanned his son’s naked body. Bobby opened a drawer and removed a large filet knife, crossed the small room, and once again grabbed my testicles. “Daddy?” Bobby asked hopefully.

“No, Bobby?” Howard said, saving my balls as well as my life.

We anchored that night somewhere down the coast behind a protective cape. Howard slept in the small bunk in the wheelhouse, and Bobby and I shared the cabin. He took me four times that night, both anally and orally, never bothering to even wash himself in between, and he kept at me all of the next day. He must have had six months worth of sperm and horniness accumulated, and by the time we got to Crescent City I had absorbed it all and my balls had swollen to nearly the same size as his.

Bobby finally donned his clothes late that evening, just as we pulled into the harbor. “Daddy?” He said, once again brandishing the filet knife.

“Okay, Bobby,” Howard said, and then addressed me. “I’m sorry, Son, but it’s the only way I can control him.”

They left my bicycle and me on the end of the deserted dock and put back out to sea. I never saw or heard from them again. I was out of the hospital and back in Portland a few weeks later, but it was six months before I felt strong enough to ride again. The first of March was a rare warm and dry day, so I decided to ride out to Helvetia and back, and I happened to run into Ray.

“Man!” He said, “You won’t believe what happened to me after we split up! I ran into these two chicks and both were so horny they just wouldn’t leave me alone. I damned near died trying to keep them happy. You should have been there!”