My name is Victor, but, as a kid, I should have been called Victim. I was so shy when I was in junior high! In grade eight, I should have been bold and daring, teen-macho like all the other guys in my class I should have been lording over all the boys in sixth and seventh, and flirting with girls, maybe even dating and getting to first base with them like copping a feel. Instead my cheeks blushed deep red at the mere sight of any girl wearing make-up, heels and a mini-skirt.

What made it worse was my brother, George, who was almost four years older than me, would bring his girlfriends over to the house and deliberately make out with them RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME to amuse his dates by letting them see how embarrassing it was for me. A few of those girls even joined in this teasing by fake-flirting with me, giggling in baby-talk to me and making double entendre jokes like being so sorry about my boyhood condition of un-manhood. One was so bold and mean she grabbed and rubbed the crotch of my khaki shorts one day and, giggling, said with phony sincerity, “You know, Vickie-dicky, you’re kinda cute and I willing to give you’re a nice, ... wet, ... warm blow job if your cock weren’t so baby sized.” Then her giggles turned into a torrent of laughter.

I tried to act more mature than I really felt. But I knew I was being a really annoying brat as I tagged along, unwanted, wherever my big brother went. Our mom insisted George look after me and not leave me alone because I was, in her words, ‘very delicate’. Of course, I understood why George had to tell his friends our mom was making him babysit me because I was too much of a ninny. He had to show them he was a tough guy and only let me tag along because he had to. To distance himself from me, he even went so far as rat one me, telling his pals how years before I had enjoyed playing games with girls in our neighborhood.

That summer, the one between eighth grade and my high school freshman year, George was getting sick and tired of me tagging along with him on trips to the park where he and the guys played big boy games, like catch or touch-football, while I watched from the playground on the swings or the slide.

Twice they went downtown to the pool hall where mostly only high school boys hung out. I had to wait outside because my mom had told me never to go because of the bad language I’d hear. But most of the time I was just kind of invisible. I was there but not part of what they did, which looked to me like just talking, laughing and smoking. I was with their ‘gang’ most days but never on Saturdays. I was soon to find out why.

For weeks I had pestered George about what his gang did on Saturdays. I must have worn him down because one morning in mid-August George told me something that he made me swear to keep secret: he and his five buddies had formed a club, sort of a Freshman Fraternity for next month when they’d all be Seniors. Official fraternities were not allowed, but George and his pals figured if they didn’t make it official and kept it to themselves and maybe a few invited guests, they could get away with it.

They were meeting every Saturday to practice more grown-up stuff like Truth or Dare games, poker games with stakes more than plastic chips, even splitting a few cans of beer swiped from Fred’s dad. Fred was the guy who supplied the group with cigarettes pinched from his mom’s purse. George hinted at secret manhood rituals that they practiced together, stuff that was fun to do but that I was too young to handle. And when George said ‘handle’, he smiled and said “ ... if you know what I mean.” I didn’t really, but I immediately begged to be in the club.

George laughed and told me no way would they let a YOUNG boy into their club and that they planned to do big-guy stuff, not little boy games. I was desperate to join and said I’d do anything if they’d just give me a chance. Also, I reminded him, it was just a week before my fourteenth birthday. That seemed an important age level to me. He said he’d talk it over with the rest of the guys and let me know before their next secret meeting. That gave me something to hope for.

A few days later, George told me the group had relented as a special favor to him and, because I was so close to my 14th birthday, I could pledge to be an associate member of their club but only if I underwent an initiation ceremony that coming Saturday. I agreed immediately and said I’d do anything to get in. George patted my shoulder and said I better had, because his rep was on the line. He’d stuck his neck out for me and I better not disappoint him. I felt so grateful. That Saturday the meeting took place at noon inside Fred’s garage just a mile or so from our house. When George and I arrived the others were already there. Fred had already been voted club president a month before mainly because his garage was the safest place to hold a secret meeting. George had told me that secrecy was the most important thing about club membership and if I still wanted to be an associate member, I’d have to swear to keep quiet and tell no one about the club’s rules and activities.

If I agreed to that, I could become an associate member of the club and could undergo my pledge initiation that afternoon. I didn’t really know what an initiation would mean exactly, but I was so eager to join the club that I just nodded my head up and down and said, “Okay, what do I have to do?”

Fred was smoking a cigarette as he stepped forward and blew smoke in my face and then sniggered,” Well, just for starters, take off all your clothes.”

In that instant, I had gone from excited and happy to afraid and uncertain. I just said ‘no’ and ran out of there trying hard not to cry.

It didn’t happen right away, but within a month I regretted my cowardly reaction when told to strip as part of the initiation George’s big-boys club. I had been too scared and shy then. But now, just a few weeks later, I realized it was just manning up to some embarrassing acts of bravado and daring-do, nothing to be ashamed of. What’s the big deal about being naked in front of a bunch of guys? I’d be in high school soon anyway and would be nude in the showers and the locker room at gym time. So the gang having me strip was the same thing with only one difference; I would be the only one not wearing clothes.

Well, I guess there would be one other difference too. Not just being naked to wash up and then get changed ... but rather being made to take off all my clothes so they could laugh at me and maybe strap my bare butt. But I’ve heard that kind of rough-housing also happens to freshmen in high school boys’ locker rooms anyway, and even to shy girls in their gym classes. I was talking myself into reapplying for membership in the big-boys club. And this time, I’d man-up!

Surprisingly, George hadn’t teased me about ‘club business’ or what his friends were up to since I had turned chicken and refused to strip in Fred’s garage. Maybe he’d felt they’d gone too far. So, George was a bit surprised when I brought the subject up that night. But he seemed impressed when I told him I was more secure in my feelings and more self-assured. He nodded understandingly when I told him I’d heard from boys I knew that some kind of informal hazing of ninth graders was common and that even the school board turned a blind eye to the occasional pants dropping in the school hallways ( I had made that last part up to impress George and make him think I was okay with being stripped naked in front of boys. )

He said he’d talk it over with the guys and let me know by the weekend. It turned out they still and socialized with upper grade fellows who were 16 and 17 years old. George got back to me on Friday afternoon and said I could put my case forward the next morning.

“But you have to prep yourself early tomorrow morning, Vic.” said George later that night.

“What do you mean?” I asked “Like a big breakfast or maybe having nothing to eat?”

“Nothing like that. Vic”, he replied with a chuckle. “It’s about your manhood and the way you present your body. See, you are asking to hang around with teens who are more mature in a physical and, well, personal way. Adulthood is around the corner for most of us and you say it sort of is for you too.”

“Well, not as close as you guys, George,” I sheepishly said,” But I’m getting there and, if I do say so myself, I’m coming along nicely ... you know, in the man-hair department.” I was referring to the pale fuzz in my crotch and balls.

“Ah, but that’s just the point, Vic,” said George impatiently. “ That hair isn’t as important to older guys, but getting hard down there and knowing what to do with it, is important and a sure sign of manhood. So tonight you have to shave off any hair or fuzz under your arms and anywhere around your crotch ... especially your balls, they have to be completely smooth.”

“I don’t get it,” I said sincerely confused,” Wouldn’t pubic hair mean I’m almost a full-grown man?”

“Yes, it might, if it were hair. But fuzz means you’re still a little kid and you don’t want to bring the proof of that to the pledge ceremony, not if you really want in. So I convinced the guys today that you want to show you can start fresh and, even though you don’t have manly hair, you are going to shave your fuzz all off tonight and prove your manhood in a much more important way.”

“Okay, I can sort of see that” I admitted. “But what kind of proof are they looking for then?”

“That leads me to the second prep instructions for tonight. I know you’ve been getting your bed sheets messy the last couple of months and that’s a good sign of early manhood, Vic. “smirked George as he saw my face turn red. “That’s okay, all boys your age do. And besides, “he added just to freak me out some more, “Mom knows, of course. She washes the sheets, so how could she not know?”

Still blushing and now stammering in shock I asked,” Uhhh, so you mean in order to prep I have to play with myself down there? And like cum all the way?”

“No, stupid. Just the opposite.” George was delighting in my embarrassment. “For tonight and in the morning, you are NOT to touch yourself. You’re going to prove your manhood by jerking off at the pledge ceremony and you don’t want empty dry balls for that.”

I was actually relieved George was helping me with my prep. Happy for two reasons: one, my body hair was only fuzz. And two, I wasn’t sure I could shoot even a half-load jerking off. So storing some up was a probably good idea.”

The next morning George woke me up early and told me that they didn’t have a clubhouse as such and Fred’s dad had turned half his garage into a woodwork space, so that was not available. But the town’s recreation center wasn’t open until 10 a.m. on Saturdays and the guys were planning on shooting some hoops there mid-morning. So if he and I dropped by right after breakfast, say 8:30, I could apologize to Fred for what happened last time and tell them that I had learned not to be a big-baby and that I was ready to prove I could man-up this time.

So I arrived ten minutes early and was surprised to see ten guys on the basketball court. My brother along with Kevin and Fred were among the group. George told me he had already explained things to everyone. But he made formal introductions and a guy called Pete, who seemed the oldest one there, suggested we seek the privacy of the space behind the dumpster in the rear of the building.

“Some intimate business involving privates,” Pete said,” Needs privacy for everyone’s protection.”

I wasn’t quite sure what that meant but I nodded my head in agreement. It was a real mess in back of the dumpster. There were lots of cigarette butts and half a dozen crushed beer cans plus really tiny thin plastic bags with some dried-up goo in them. (I later learned they were spent condoms) I started to explain why I wanted to be in their gang and began with a total apology to Fred who was really nice about it, saying everyone deserves a second chance.