My name is Chris Wilkins and this is my story-not a complete story of my life, but of significant events-life changing events.  I guess I should begin by telling you that I'm gay-but, this isn't a story about being gay.  I'm bringing it up because I think that my being gay brought about some of what happened.

If one can be born gay, then, I think I was.  I never had a girl friend.  Instead, I had a crush on my neighbor, a boy my age named Jeremy.  His family and mine had been friends for as long as I can remember-and he'd always been my best friend.  Our families went camping together during the summer.  Jere and I would go hiking and exploring by ourselves during those trips.

On one trip we took off our clothes and played naked.  We were having so much fun that we lost track of where we had left our clothes.  It took us hours to find them; we got sunburned in some rather sensitive places.

That was the first time Jere and I jacked off together.  We were both thirteen.  I had just begun puberty, and had recently started jacking off.  First, I got an erection; then, looking at mine Jere got one, too.  While I was looking at his, mine got harder.  I began masturbating.  Jere asked, "What are you doing?"

He knew what I was doing.  We had admitted to each other that we had beaten off.  "Beating off," I said.  "Why don't you do it, too?"

He looked around.  I guess to make sure no one was looking, then began pumping his cock.  We both came, spurting our come onto the ground.

Since both my parents worked and Jere was my neighbor, he usually came over to my house after school.  Most of the times, we would jack off together.  After a while, we began doing each other.  That went on for several months.

I had heard about blow jobs-what thirteen year-old boy hasn't?  Although I wondered what it would be like to get one, more than that, I wondered what it would be like to give one-to Jere.  I asked him if I could.  We were in my bedroom-had stripped and were playing with each other's cocks.

"I wonder what it would be like to have your cock sucked?" I asked.

"Probably, pretty good," he answered.

"Do you want me to suck yours?

"Hell, no.  That's gross."

"But, you said you thought it would feel good."

"Yeah, but how could you put someone's dick in your mouth?  That's really gross."

"Oh, I don't know.  I'd like to try it-just to see what it's like."

"Fuck, man.  I don't know.  This is kinda freaking me out," said Jere.

"Come on," I said.  "Let's just try it once.  You might like it."

I kept at him-until I convinced him to let me give him a blow job.  He lay back on my bed.  I took his cock into my mouth.  At first I gagged when his cock went to deeply into my throat, but soon got accustomed to it.  I loved having his cock in my mouth.  It really turned me on.  He came, shooting his hot spunk into my mouth.  After that, when he came over, I'd give him a blow job while he jacked me off.  He never gave me one-and we never told any of our friends about it-although one nearly caught me giving him a blow job.

I was doing Jere in my bedroom when a friend came over.  Luckily, I had locked the bedroom door, so he didn't actually catch us in the act.  We scrambled, slipping on our clothes, before opening the door.

I liked being naked in the woods-especially being naked in the woods with Jere.  My friends and I would ride our bikes up to the reservoir.  It emptied into creek where we would catch crawdads.  Of course, I would strip and run around naked.  At first, my friends freaked out, but, before long, they were doing it as well.  I never had sex with any of them-unless you call jacking off together having sex; because that's the most I ever did with any of them.  Jere's cock was the only one I sucked.

I was an only kid-at least the only one that lived.  My mother had a baby that died before I was born.  They weren't abusive parents; maybe they could have been more loving, but I don't want to judge them.  I only remember two times that my dad ever hit me-once when I was mouthing off to him.  Usually, when we had an argument, I got sent to my room, but that didn't happen too often.  I had chores I had to do for an allowance.  My parents got along pretty well together.  I don't remember their ever being mad at each other for more than a day.  Before I got in trouble, our relationship was good.

Before I went to prison, I only had sex with one other person-a guy I met at the mall.  I was fifteen at the time.  He was eighteen and worked at the mall in the music store.  Talking one day, we revealed our preference for guys to each other.  We had sex a couple of times after he got off work, doing it in his car.  So, you can see, I wasn't too sexually experienced.

As you've probably noticed, the title of this tale is "Crime and Punishment in California," so, first, I guess I should tell you about my crime-then, you can determine if the punishment fit the crime.

What I did was stupid.  That, I'll admit-but, I was fifteen at the time.  Did you do anything stupid when you were fifteen?  My friends and I would often go to the mall to hang around, sometimes going to the movie.  There was a gang of Latino boys who used to mess with us a lot.  They were older and bigger-and there were nine of them.  One Saturday, four of us were at the mall hanging around.  When we left, they followed us, catching up to us when we were away from the mall-demanding our money, then, took all we had.  I lost about $25, which was a lot of money to me.  My friends lost similar amounts.

I was pissed, and, wanting to get even, began checking the Internet for weapons, finding a place in Florida which sold brass knuckles.  Sending them a money order, I purchased four pairs, receiving them in about two weeks.  Passing them out to my friends, I told them my plan.

The next Saturday we went to the mall, looking for them, challenging the five we found to a fight.  We used the brass knuckles.  During the fight, one of them jumped on my back, causing me to twist my ankle.  The fight continued until we heard the cops coming-then everyone ran; a couple of the guys dropped their brass knuckles.  Because of my twisted ankle, I couldn't run.  I was caught.  The cops found the brass knuckles.  It was a felony to own and use them.  I was booked into juvenile hall.

That's where my parents found me.  Both my dad and the cops tried to get me to rat on my friends, but I wouldn't.  Since I wouldn't, the D.A. decided to charge me as an adult.  My dad told me that I was on my own, and didn't even hire me a lawyer.  I had a public defender, who urged me to plead to the best deal that I could get.  He had hoped to get it reduced to a juvenile offense, but I was sentenced as an adult.  Because I had turned sixteen, I was to spend two years of it in juvenile detention-then to get transferred to an adult lock-up, where I was to spend two and one half years, getting six months off for good behavior.  A foolish mistake at fifteen, cost me almost five years of my life-a fourth of my life, at the time I was released.

I don't know what you're thinking: did I get what I deserved? or, was I treated unjustly?  But, before you make up your mind, let me tell you the rest of the story-because it wasn't only years that I lost.

I remember my first day in juvenile like it were yesterday.  Processed with five other guys, I was scared shitless.  We were kept shackled, hand and foot, for most of the day.  We were given physicals, dental exams, and had our hair cut.  After dinner, I was put into a cell by myself.  Left alone, that's when it hit me just how alone I was-without my parents-without my friends.  I had lived in the same house all my life-had never really been away from my family and friends.  There was no one in the prison who cared about me-whether I lived or died-whether I was happy or sad.  Surrounded by strangers, I was utterly-completely-alone.  I cried myself to sleep that night.

The next morning, I was put into a cell with another guy, staying with him the two years I was in juvenile.  We even worked together in the auto and machine shop.  A year older than me, he pretty well took me under his wing, looking out for me as much as he could.  He never abused me in any way.  We jerked off together sometimes, but that's the most we did.  I'm not sure how I would have made it without him.

The guards used their power to keep things quiet.  None of them ever sexually abused me himself; at least none ever penetrated either my mouth or ass with his cock-but there is other sexual abuse.  We were playthings to them.  If they found out a guy was gay, they would handcuff him, naked, to bars which divided the cells, leaving him spread-eagled, facing the bars.  Other prisoners could have at him, fucking him, if they wished.  It happened to me often.  At sixteen, I got fucked for the first time.  I had been chained, naked, to the bars with my legs spread.  There was nothing I could do.  Two guys fucked me in the ass.  Word had gotten around that I was gay.  I had admitted it in interviews before being sent to prison.

There were also control cages, about five foot square, made of wire mesh.  If inmates got out of control, they were locked up in the cages.  They sometimes kept the troublemakers in them during classes.  For fun, the guards would sometimes put a bunch of us into them-naked.  They went out their way to degrade us-to make us feel worthless.  The guards, also, used their clubs freely, striking us whenever we didn't move quickly enough or whenever we talked back to one of them.

I kept to myself most of the time, trying to stay out of the way of the various gangs-Blacks, Hispanic, and skinheads.  On visiting days, I got extra time in the recreation yard because I never had visitors.  My parents never came to see me the whole time I was locked up.  When I got into trouble my parents came down to the juvenile detention center one time.  That's when my father told me, "You made your bed-now, sleep in it."  By that time, he knew I was gay.  My parents didn't like gays.  They still don't.  They were present at my court appearances-because they were told to attend.  Although present at my sentencing, they didn't even speak to me.  I left for prison without a word from them.  I had my attorney ask them to visit me, but they never did.

When I was eighteen, I was sent to an adult prison.  There, I was raped for the first time in the showers.  There was three of them.  There was nothing I could do.  I've been asked since, "Why didn't you tell the guards."  In prison, you quickly learn not to rat to the guards.  It's a good way to get killed.  Besides, the guards wouldn't do anything.  If you complained to them, you'd get the reputation as a troublemaker.  They punished troublemakers by throwing them, naked and manacled hand and foot, into a dark cell.  It happened to me more than once.

I've been asked if any guards had sex with me while I was in prison.  I can't swear that they did.  Once I was thrown into the hole, naked, shackled, and blindfolded.  While there, I was fucked.  Whether it was done by a guard, or by another prisoner allowed into the cell, I can't say-but it was done with the consent of a guard.  The guards had the keys.

Someone said to me, after I had told them my story, "Hell, you're gay.  What did it matter to you that you were raped?  You like doing it with guys."

Would you say the same to a woman?  I was sixteen when I was incarcerated-when I was raped for the first time.  I had sucked Jere's cock because-as young as I was-I loved him.  I had sex with the eighteen year-old from the mall because he was cute-because I chose to have sex with him.  I had wanted to have sex with them-and wanting it, had enjoyed it.  To be raped is to be violated-to have something taken from you against your will.  Rape robs you of your dignity-of your self worth.  The person doing it to you, cares nothing about you.  You're not a person to him; you're a hole for him to use-a convenient orifice for his cock.

I heard the names they called me: fag; queer; fairy.  I blamed myself.  I had brought this upon me because I was gay.  I had lost my parent's love because I was gay.  Even, I was in prison because I was gay.  Hating that I was gay, I hated myself.  I had consensual sex in prison, though-with my cell mate and others.  I never raped anyone.  I never did that to someone.

After two and one-half  years in adult lock-up, I was released on parole.  I had to get a job; I had to pay court costs, almost $6000-had to pay for the cost of sending me to prison for four and one-half years.

I was on my own.  My parents would have nothing to do with me.  I had lost track of my friends.  Jere was married.  He even had a kid-a little boy.  I didn't like who I was.  One day, while I was at a mall, I saw some boys.  They were about fifteen-the same age I'd been when I got into trouble.  One of them was particularly cute.  He reminded me of Jere.  I got hot watching him.  I even creamed in my jeans.

I had wanted that boy.  I was afraid that, unable to control myself, I would approach one-that I would get caught having sex with a kid-and sent back to prison, this time, as a sex offender; and, time done as a sex offender is hard time.  They are the lowest of the low among prisoners-lower even than fags.

In prison, I had heard about castration being used for sex offenders.  If I was castrated, I thought, I would be able to control my desire for younger boys.  Then, I wouldn't get into trouble.  I wouldn't get sent back to prison.  I would have done anything to keep from being sent back.

Searching the Internet, I learned about Dr. Kimmel in Philadelphia, saved up my money, made an appointment, and went there.  Dr. Kimmel asked me why I wanted to be castrated.  I told him about the boys in the mall.  He agreed to cut me.

In the hotel the night before the operation, I shaved my groin-then masturbated for the last time-perversely excited by the prospect of getting my balls cut off.  The next day, I went to Dr. Kimmel's office at the appointed time.

After dressing in a gown, I lay down on his surgical table.  I was washed and prepped-then injected with a local anesthetic.  I didn't feel any pain when Kimmel cut open my scrotum-none when he pulled out one of my balls.  I felt a tug when he pulled it, but felt no pain when he cut it off.  He held it up, saying, "There's the first one," then, went to work on the other.  Before long, he held it up, showing it to me-then stitched up my empty scrotum.  I was a twenty-one year old eunuch.

I went through the usual symptoms of testosterone withdrawal, hot flashes, depression.  I no longer awoke with erections.  Soon, I couldn't ejaculate.  I didn't have to worry about creaming my jeans at the sight of a good looking boy, but I wasn't happy to be sexless.  Like most people, I wanted to be loved.  That, with most partners, included sex.

I had sex with some guys.  Usually, they fucked me-or I'd suck their cocks.  Mine hung limply though out our encounters.  Some were turned on by my not having balls-some were turned off because my dick was useless.  Because of my depression-because I was unhappy with myself-I sought out a therapist.

I'm still in therapy, but I'm doing better.  He helped me see that my desires for the younger boys were probably a result of what had happened to me in prison.  Getting myself castrated was a mistake.  I'm on HRT now.  My sexual desire has returned, but I'm able to direct it properly-toward guys my age.  I can come-even ejaculate, although it's not the same as it was before I got cut.

I'm working.  I'm broke, but I've paid off my debt.  After five years-as long as I don't get into trouble-the records of my conviction will be expunged.  I would like to find a partner-someone with whom I could share my life.  I've accepted that I'm gay-even if my parents haven't.  I told them that I'd had myself cut.  I haven't seen them since.  Although I send them cards at Christmas and for their birthdays, I never hear from them.  For them, I guess, they have no son.