Note to the reader: This story may put some readers off. If you are homophobic or adverse to a young man enjoying himself alone, sexually, with play-toys and other items, this might disturb you. Like all of my stories, however, this is not the end of the story. Things happen to Matthew that are anything but homosexual. A girl figures into the picture, and so does a slightly sci-fi slant. You just have to read a while to get there.

I found my parent's machine in the rear of their closet, the bottom box in a stack of three. Inquisitive-I was snooping to begin with, so I was inclined to look at any box taped up like Fort Knox-I sat the smaller boxes aside and slit the tape down the middle with my pen knife. It was the same clear tape from the garage, so I didn't worry. Carefully repacked into what I guessed was the original shipping carton, I found a disassembled machine. There were no instructions visible and I decided it was some kind of exerciser that Mom had bought, used enough times to bored] her, and then packed away in the closet. I did question why they'd stored it here rather than the garage or upstairs in the attic. I didn't wonder very hard tough. I re-taped the box and put everything back where it was. It disappeared from my thoughts until one night two years later when I was cruising porno websites.

Fuking Machines, I read. Purposely misspelled. My eyes popped, watching one in action. The girl was surprisingly cute, dark blond and looked a lot like Mom at 25. By then it was just me and Mom in the house, and she was clueless what I did anymore. I looked at the bedroom door anyway, checking the thumb-twist, before returning to the screen.

Something about the machine looked familiar. I propped my chin on my hand and tried to figure out why. I worked at it mentally for five minutes, then off an on as I watched more videos and slowly beat off. I lost interest once I came and turned off the computer. It was bedtime anyway, one of the few things Mom sought to enforce. I unlocked the door and watched TV until she opened the door and said lights out. The instant I caught her face in the door, it clicked.

No way, I thought to myself. That can't be right. The next day after school I went to prove myself right.

"Mother fucker," I whispered. I removed the individual pieces from the box and laid them out on the floor. It was not the same model the brunette had used, but a close family member, I thought. Maybe by the same company, though I found no identifiable markings. I knelt there on one knee with my mouth open, dumbfounded.

I had slit the same tape I sealed the box with two years ago; I was sure of that. It had the same partial thumbprint I'd left on a corner for ID. Mom and Dad's breakup had occurred 8 months ago, and Mom certainly hadn't used it since then. I guess not in the year and four months before that, either. Probably not for years.

Holding on to it for old times sake, I wondered? We are certainly a family of packrats.

Mom worked 8:30 to 5:00, and was usually home just before six. I'd need more than two hours to figure the thing out, determined that it worked, and disassemble and pack it safely away. It hit me then that something was missing. The most important part, though nothing electrical or mechanical: no dildo was in the box.

Hmmm, I thought, wondering if she had one. I found it under her mattress at the top of the bed. I felt stupid for not checking there first.

She had a collection. The one for machine was obvious: made of soft, translucent red plastic, 6" long and normal-penis-shaped, just like the one in the video. It came with an attachment for fixing to the machine. There was a smaller version I tentatively identified as being for anal use, a set of anal beads, a vibrating egg, and a flesh-colored dildo that made me exclaim "Mom?" in disbelief. The shaft was 7" long, almost 2" thick, with a base flat on the bottom in the shape of a scrotum. My mother uses this thing? More likely my Dad used it on her, a thought that both aroused and repulsed me. I had not yet developed intimate feelings for Mom and was naturally queasy at any suggest of her having sex. That would come later. I returned the parts to her stash and replaced the machine in the closet.

I also found a baggie of pot and medicine bottle full of fine white powder. I suspected this was cocaine, but had no clue how to tell for sure. I made a decision to find out at a later date. I had no doubt concerning the bag of pot. Even the smell was potent. I carefully resealed the bag, checked the bottle cap and returned both to the stash.

The next day, Thursday, I got down to work. If Mom and Dad had these goodies stashed in the bedroom, what else might I find in a hunt? I searched thoroughly over the next two afternoons and the following Monday and Tuesday. My efforts were rewarded: In the closet I discovered various bottles, tubs and tubes of lubricant, some scented, some not, some apparently very expensive. Unearthed in the attic were more toys, including a bizarre device designed to masturbate you with stroking and suction-like actions. Sultry Susan was a formed plastic head, complete from the ears forward, a woman's face with her mouth open in an invitingly wide "O", winking demurely with her right eye. Battery or AC powered, you stuck your cock in her mouth and down a very soft, surprisingly real feeling throat. A search online provided here name and invited the use of my choice of lubricants for hours of enjoyment. I regarded Susan with rightful skepticism; oh, how uneducated I was.

A second object I liked even less. This was a truly realistic soft plastic rendition of a woman's genital area, modeled on a girl with her legs splayed and drawn up so that her vagina and anus were completely exposed. She even had a triangular patch of pubic hair stitched into the plastic above her vagina ... a bizarre touch, but surprisingly effect. The model included a full set of butt cheeks and her abdomen about half-way to the belly-button. I was smart enough to know Mom had used neither device. I shuddered at the thought of using either. Oh, how simpleminded I was.

A month passed, during which I stewed and fantasized. Sultry Susan had taken on the characteristics of my mother's face and fueled the daydreams with obscene values of testosterone. When the day finally came, I still had not mentally resolved to experiment on myself. I sidestepped the issue, making it secondary to assembling the machine.

A week before flying out, Mom told me she'd be in New York for a three day conference. Dad was inconveniently out of town and would not return until Tuesday, the day before Mom's return. That left Aunt Lucy or my cousin Jack's family. Take my pick, she said.

"Why can't I stay home?" I asked.

She looked at me crossly. "Not an option, Matt. Curtain A, or Curtain B? You don't have to decide right now."

"I want to stay here," I repeated.

She rolled her eyes.

The next day, ready to go with Cousin Jack's family, she confounded me by asking: "Why should I trust you here alone?"

I shook my head, misunderstanding. "I don't want Aunt Lucy and Uncle Rich. Uncle Rich is a real creep, Mom."

"No," she said impatiently. "Why should I trust you home alone for three days?"

I blinked, lost for words. "Really?" I finally asked. "You'd let me stay here?"

Sighing dramatically, she crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "An IQ of 134, and you can't answer a simple question?"

"Simple question?" I complained. "There is no answer. You trust me, or you don't trust me."

"I don't trust you," she said. "But you're surprisingly mindful for a 14-year-old. Don't get your hopes up, though," she cautioned, holding up her hand. "I have to OK it with your dad, and he'll most likely shoot it down. Set your sights on burdening Sallie and Ted for three days."

Incredibly, I spent Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights alone with the machine.

Mom flew out at 1:25 PM, and I waited until 4:18 PM when she called my cell phone with the news that she was alive on the ground in New York. How I managed a steady voice I don't know. I felt like I'd been injected with pure caffeine. I promised to check in with her 3 times a day, minimum, but right now she had to claim her luggage and get to the motel and check in.

"Don't make me regret this, Matthew."

"I won't Mom," I promised. "I have no intentions of screwing up my good fortune." I could sense her shaking her head as we hung up.

I went immediately to the garage and got the household tool box. In Mom's bedroom, I did a once over looking for anything suspicious, like a nanny camera-I was that paranoid, yes-and then raided her closet for the big box. It took twice as long to set assemble it as I thought it would. I berated myself later for not going online, identifying the model, and downloading the instruction manual. By 6:15, I was done.

And what, I asked myself truthfully, was the point of this exercise in futility? I looked unhappily at the dildo drooping slightly at the end of the long aluminum tube.

"Come on Matthew, just admit it," I said. "Who would you use this on besides yourself?" I sat down on Mom's bed and told myself the truth. "No one."

I ate dinner, and then spent an hour in my bedroom watching TV. I lay on the bed with my arms folded tight, hands clamped in my armpits. I refused to admit I was gay.

Okay, so you want a dick up your ass, I thought. So what? Men by the score do it, boys also. They even get married nowadays and get it legally up the ass in 13 states. It's still considered queer, and death to a school kid's reputation, but no one will ever know but you.

That's one too many, I argued with myself. Ten minutes later, I got off the bed and returned to Mom's bedroom.

I had to be careful. The last thing I need was a hospital visit, and I couldn't go to school tomorrow walking with a stick up my ass. I also did not want to make a mess in Mom's bedroom. Caution, preparation were the watchwords.

First, would I like it? I'd never put anything up my ass but the middle finger of my left hand, usually as a masturbation tool. That I certainly liked. The cute chick in the video took it up the ass and it didn't kill her. All but the bulge at the end caused by the attachment. The corresponding part of my dildo was 6" long. I guessed my rectum was at least that deep. I hoped so, anyway

"Fish, or cut bait," I told myself. The machine was my fishing rod, the dildo my lure.

The machine in the video was a floor model, designed to fuck a woman kneeling doggie. She had also knelt at the edge of the mattress and then laid on her back, legs drawn up, the machine atop a heavy table nearby, fucking her quite handily. One of Mom's bedside tables would work for me. I had no intention of getting doggie on the hard floor. I cleared the opposite end table, dragged it around the bed and positioned it three feet away, the length of the arm. I covered the top with layers of newspaper as protection; I wanted no telltale scratches or any possible oil stains. On the table this side I piled Mom's collection of oils and lubricants. I had steered clear of the attic.

"OK, Matthew," I said. "This is it."

I lifted the machine-surprisingly heavy for so small a device-set it atop the table, plugged it in using an extension cord, undid my jeans and let them fall to my ankles. "I'm gonna fuck my ass," I told the room. The room had no comment. I peeled off my t-shirt, kicked off my sneakers and stepped out of my jeans, removed my socks, and then slid down my underwear and stood there naked.

"I'm really gonna do this," I announced hopefully. No one objected so I flipped the switch supplying power to the controller, picked it up, and twisted the knob slightly clockwise. The motor hummed and the flywheel went round and round, the aluminum shaft sliding forward and back in a fucking motion. I stared entranced at the dildo for a full two minutes before returning the knob to its off position. The arm stopped moving.

"This is crazy," I murmured. "You really gonna do this, Matthew? OK, then, let's try it out."

I had calculated the optimal number of strokes per minute at 38. I had done this by holding an imaginary pair of hips, and fucking the girl steadily for one full minute. Two more tries bracketed this figure and I decided 38 was the number. I intended to start myself a whole lot slower than that, though; like maybe two strokes a minute.

I restarted the machine at the lowest RPM, stopped it in the fully retracted position, and then fine tuned the distance moving the table. The machine was heavy enough not to worry about sliding on the newspapers. I gauged the height off the mattress as damned near perfect, and the only thing left to do was lube the dildo and my asshole and climb on the bed. I shivered hard enough to make bottles on Mom's end table vibrate. I used KY Personal Lubricant on the dildo, and myself, and then I knelt down.

"This is crazy," I whispered. I looked back, saw I was bulls eyed on the tip of the dildo, eased myself back and made contact. Then I assumed the position I thought best suited the act of being machine fucked, and I could not control my shaking.

"Come on, Matthew," I whispered, "get hold of yourself."

I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes, and imagined myself in a meadow far away, soaking in the sun. My heart slowed, my trembling eased, and I felt less like I was hyperventilating. I realized that, maybe letting the machine fuck me right off was not a great idea. Maybe, I thought, until I had a handle on this, I should fuck the machine instead.

"That's a good idea," I muttered. I scuttled forward, inched the knob clockwise and let the dildo come find me. Then I eased myself back against the tip, set the controller safely out of the way, and closed my eyes. I pushed until the head opened my anus and went inside. I shuddered violently and made an alarming choking sound. Fake or not, attached to the end of a pile of machinery, I had a cock up my ass.

Way to go, Matthew, I thought. Welcome to the wonderful world of homosexuality.

It went like dreamworks. Had I known how enjoyable this was, and recognized the machine for what it was, I'd have been on the end of this dildo two years ago. I had to settled for playing catch up tonight.

The calculated RPM was exactly right. It took a number of minutes to get the desired rotations, but once nailed, I noted the position on the dial, and then varied it a few strokes up or a few down, enjoying the latitude. I dropped as low as the aforementioned two strokes per minute, and all the way past 100 in short bursts. I calculated this by how many times the dildo fucked me in 10 second intervals (+-16 times), and then extrapolated. I couldn't imagine taking that for a full minute, but maybe I just lacked imagination. The real issue was how often I had to stop and oil the dildo.

I eventually learned to just reach back and let baby oil dribble between my cheeks. I protected Mom's bed with a double thickness of bath towels, separated from the comforter by a green plastic lawn bag. I did the same for the floor. Regardless, I made a nominal mess. The session was over much sooner than I wanted because lubricant doesn't protect you from a hard point banging the end of your rectum, or the eventual rawness of polypropylene against delicate, virgin flesh. BY 10:30, I could take no more.

I dressed in Mom's underwear and a sexy as hell baby doll nightie. It was fuck-me red and see through and must look stunning in her. Or she in it. I found the idea tantalizing. Standing before the mirror, eyeing myself as I primped, I decided that was something I'd very much like to find out.

The next moment, my eyes located the reflection of her laptop on the desk behind me. I went over and opened it up. It was password protected, but less than a minute of semi-inventive thinking cracked it: my birthday, preceded and followed by my initials. Finding the folder containing her pictures took less than a minute. They weren't even hidden. There were hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds. All the way back to when she was 14 or 15 years old, I gaped at the things she did and knew I'd never see her again as just my mother

I purposely hadn't masturbated attached to the machine. But my cock was demanding it now, 16 years old from the embedded date, sitting spread-eagled on Grandpa's old brown leather recliner completely nude, with a big grin on her face. Laying on the floor with her legs widespread and extended like a gymnast, toes tucked, using her fingers to spread herself wide open, perfectly pink and delicate as a flower inside. Sitting astride Grandpa's old mutt, Jasper. Hunched next to Jasper, head canted, looking back between his legs. Facing the camera again, grinning widely. The next picture with Jasper's dog cock in her hand. The next...

That must be when I got up and closed the laptop and went to bed.

It was quarter after one. I lay on my back with my legs apart, wondering if I dare fall asleep. Mom's big dildo was up my ass, held snuggly in place by her snug fitting, bright red panties. I wore the matching bra, both under her baby-doll nightie. I still had not touched my cock.

I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep until the alarm went of at 6:30 AM, every second with Mom's dildo up my ass. It fit so perfectly, the base tucked tight to the back of my scrotum, the head bottomed out just a little painfully. I hoped it fit Mom this way. That thought I liked.

Jasper wasn't the only dog they owned. There were also Buzzard and Rizzo and Clyde. Rizzo got run over by a truck. Clyde died from an intestinal tumor when Mom was 18. Mom was banging her dogs until her senior year in high school.

I turned over on my stomach. Not as comfortable a position but more like I was being fucked. The dildo's presence was markedly greater than the little red model. I felt stuffed, over extended, and wondered how a beer can inside me would feel. Mom certainly had no problem. But for all I knew, she worked at it for hours and hours to get it in. With me it took less than 10 minutes. I lay on my back with my legs drawn up, holding the base of the can and slowly rotating it back and forth. To be honest, had I not spent most of the night with something or other filling my ass, it wouldn't have gone so well. In the end, the can wasn't that much a stretch over the dildo.

To be sure, my asshole objected to this. Stretched thin as a rubber band, it squeezed the can with obstinate force. I released the can and it stayed where it was, half buried in me. Mom took the 12 oz variety while I preferred the 16 oz. Budweiser in me now. How much would my rectum allow inside, I wondered distractedly? This felt pretty damned full. The thought of swallowing it whole made me laughed darkly. Wouldn't that be something?

I threw back the covers, scuttled to the edge of the mattress and removed the can. I plugged Mom's machine back into the socket, moved it back into position--fuck the fine tuning-and climbed onto the mattress and carelessly arranged the towels. Positioning my tail against the red dildo. I slipped onto it, almost without effort, and began to fuck myself again

Feels good, doesn't it, Matthew?

This is insane, I thought. I grabbed the controller and twisted the knob clockwise to 50+ strokes per minute.

Oh, my God, my asshole moaned. What are you doing to me?

I cranked the RPM's up to 60, 70, 80 strokes per minute until my asshole started to scream, and then I backed it back down to 50.

That's better, my asshole panted. This is manageable. I strove to prove it wrong.

I twisted the knob until the dildo raced in and out of my rectum 150 times per minute, and then dialed it up to 200. This effectively impaled me 3 times per second and I contorted and clenched my jaw and set the controller aside and bunched both fists against my chin and tried to count and lost track. Opening one eye long enough to spot the clock, I closed my eyes and swore not to open them again until I counted off five minutes. Five minutes at 200 strokes per minute equals 1000 strokes. That sounded less than remarkable but I left the knob be and counted 1 through 60, five times, though with some difficulty. I finally opened my eyes to see the digits click over from 2:23 AM, to 2:24. I found the controller and backed it down to 38. My rectum collapsed in relief.

What was I doing to myself? Could I go to 300? That was an incredible 5 times per second and I wasn't sure if the machine would even crank that high. I had no way to even determine what 300 strokes per minute was, where it fell on the dial. I had extrapolated 200 RMP and that was just a guess. I wished for a damned tachometer.

Reaching over, I grabbed my watch off the table and pushed through the settings until I found the stopwatch. 300 times per minute was 5 times per second, so 10 seconds equaled 50 times. Could I count 50 strokes in 10 seconds? Maybe, staring at the stopwatch and concentrating for everything I was worth.

At 200, the knob was 3/4's of the way around the dial. Twisting it full to the right, I clicked the stopwatch and started counting. I missed a few but came in at 49 the first 10-second block, 52 in the second, and 55 in the third. I trusted the 55 and calculated that my ass was getting fucked 5.5 times per second. Five minutes of this and the machine would have me 1650 whopping times. It was already on its way right now. I closed my eyes, and then reopened them and started the stopwatch. Baby oil went down my crack continuously, and at one minute, I thought I'd die. At two minutes, I though I already had died. I tried to count, but 5.5 strokes per seconds defeated me every time. I watched the second count tick away with maddening slowness: 3 minutes; 3 minutes and 30 seconds; 4 minutes, and then 5. I reached for the controller and placed my fingers on the knob. But then I left it be.

6 minutes rolled by, and then 7, and then 8. I finally twisted the knob back to 38 when the digits flipped over to 9 minutes. I had just fucked myself somewhere in the neighborhood of 2970 times. I spun the knob down to 0 and knelt there.

5.5 times every second. Mind-boggling, I thought. Rectum-boggling. My rectum was in full revolt now and if I hadn't just done it for the 9 minutes straight, I wouldn't think it possible. What must my insides look like, I wondered? I certainly knew how they felt. Nuked, by a 100-megaton bomb.

2:59 AM.

I was back on my stomach, Rizzo's cock planted deeply inside me. Somewhere in the last hour I had reassigned ownership of the white dildo from Mom, to her giant canine master. It was the size of Rizzo anyway, or maybe Rizzo was bigger. Mom's correspondingly smaller size made him look huge. Either way, I now had Rizzo's cock up my ass.

"You're fucking a dog," I muttered. "How will I ever go to school?" I added. "It's 3 AM, and you got a boner inside you the size of a telephone pole, and no intention of going to sleep."

Correction: no hope of going to sleep. Testosterone and adrenalin dominated my bloodstream, although incredibly, I had still not touched my cock. Hours on end, and I had not beat off. My libido was past intimidated, stomped flat. I might not even have a cock anymore, I thought. I no longer had right to it anyway, nor any right to consider myself masculine in any way. I was a notch south from Mom being Rizzo's eager bitch. I was his bitch too. Somewhere in the midst of this deconstruction of my psyche I fell asleep. The alarm woke me at six.

There was no attempt: not to get out of bed, not to remove Rizzo, not to crawl to the bathroom to take a piss. I simply felt back asleep and didn't wake up until Mom's irate phone call at 12:30 PM.

"Why are you at home?" she demanded.

"Hi to you too, Mom," I mumbled.

"I got a phone call from the school. Guess whose playing hooky today?"

"I am not playing hooky," I protested. "I'm sick."

"Matthew Weaver! You promised me you wouldn't pull this crap! Do you know what it looks like? Me getting a call that you're out of class and me knowing nothing about it? This is exactly-"

"Mom, Mom!" I cut her off. "I am sick. I really am. I didn't get out the door this morning. I've been up since 4:00 AM with the stomach flu. I feel awful."

There followed a shocked little silence. "My God, you do sound sick, Matthew? Do I need to come home?"

I played the pity card. "Would you?"

I could sense her grimace of frustration. "Damn your father!" she hissed. "I shouldn't have left you home alone. It was irresponsible of me." A pause. "You're really that sick?"

"Mostly feeling sorry for myself," I admitted. "You don't need to come home. I'm 14 years old, for God's sakes. I can survive a little stomach bug."

"You really sound awful," she said doubtfully. "I'll come home if you want me to."

"Then we'll have two miserable people in the house," I said. "I can be miserable just fine without you Mom. If I get worse, I'll call you. The truth is, I don't feel quite as dead as I did this morning anyway. I was stressed out over the call I knew I'd get, and that just made it worse. I think maybe I'm a little hungry even," a total lie.

If she could imagine that I lay here under her covers in her cute little baby-doll nightie with her red bra and panties on, and something unmentionable up my butt... ?

"Okay," she said slowly. "If you're feeling better. But Matthew, why didn't you call me?"

Once she'd hung up, I hobbled to the bathroom and tried to pee with Rizzo tightly in place. It was mind-blowing to know that he'd owned my rectum since 3 o'clock in the morning. It was quarter to one now, so I'd surrendered myself to him for 9-3/4 hours. And quite a few hours before that, although the machine had owned me for quite a while in between. He had no intention of releasing me anytime soon.

Coaxing pee through my swollen prostate was tough, and even harder to empty my bladder one drip at a time. The red panties were barely a match for the pull of gravity and my rectum's natural attempt to expel its new owner, so I was forced to awkwardly reach behind me and hold Rizzo in place, lest I incur his dissatisfaction, which I knew I would. I might even be punished. Rizzo punished his bitches and deservedly so. I tucked myself away and rinsed off my fingers and hobbled back to the bed. I was asleep in 15 seconds.

Dad called at 3:30, checking up on me. I fed him the same drivel I'd fed Mom, and made obscene gestures with the phone in front of my crotch. I promised to call him with any updates, and he let me go back to sleep. Although I didn't scope it at the time, Rizzo had now possessed me for 12-1/2 hours. He might never let me go. I might never want him to.

Mom called again at 6 PM and I lied about feeling better, which I most assuredly was not. I refused to give up her most valuable possession and that gives a pretty good indication of where my mind was. No sane human being lies in bed for 14-1/2 hours with a cock up his ass.

On my stomach again, I eased down the back of my panties, and began to slowly fuck myself. I talked to her for awhile and then told Mom goodnight and slipped back into oblivion.

At 8:15 PM, Rizzo surrender his ownership. There wasn't much choice, as the massive diarrhea I'd lied about to Mom became a reality. I thought I'd faint as everything liquid in my body evacuated out through my asshole into the bowl. Having wrapped Rizzo's 1-1/2" thick shaft for most of the last 16 hours, it held nothing in; stuff rushed out of me like water from a fire hose. I doubled over in agony and tears spilled down my cheeks and rained onto my knees and the bathroom tile. I clutched my belly like a woman giving birth, which probably isn't as painful.

I remained on the toilet until 9 o'clock, at which time I crawled next door to the tub and inundated myself with deadly hot water, laying curled on my side until the water level rose high enough to submerge me up to my chin. I continued to do things into the water that I didn't want to think about, letting the water run to replenish itself. Finally, the ferocious heat began to calm my pain. I knew what Amadou Diallo must have felt like after the cops finished with their broken broom handle. I knew how Ann Darrow would feel, had she been fucked by King Kong on the ledge, instead of being disrobed. I knew what being the only white boy in lockdown would feel like on Day Two of his incarceration. And I thought about what awaited me, outside the bathroom door.

It was just past 10 when I shuffled through the door and back into Mom's bedroom. The machine was still there, the paraphernalia, everything I'd used last night, awaiting me. The entire room wanted to fuck me and probably I'd let it. First, I had to feed my ravenous hunger though and get some fluid in me to replace everything I'd lost. Being empty of Rizzo felt like loosing a child. Rizzo was not good for my head, much less my body. I had only to feel behind me, to know that.

I hobbled down the hallway to the stairs and descended to the middle floor, and hopefully, some food. I needed a gallon of water, if nothing else. Preferably, Gatorade.

Forget what I ate. I don't even remember. I sat at the kitchen table in a beige pair of Mom's panties, looking really cute, with the kitchen blinds open, looking numbly at the windows of the house next door, the Amberson's. It occurred to me that Mom and I were the same size. The clothes she wore fit me perfectly, her underwear and nighties at least. I would bet that, should I spend an hour or two with her wardrobe, I'd abandon even my tiny remaining bit of manhood. I pretty much had given myself over to the light side, hadn't I?