Many boys in Argentina attend Catholic, single-sex boarding schools, such as myself. Many boys here also enjoy busting the balls of classmates, such as myself. I have enjoyed this “sport” since I was thirteen. I blame training for our swimming team for this. You have so many boys running around in drenched swimming briefs who have conflicted feelings about what they see bulging out. Pair that with the hyper-macho culture of these boarding schools, with the many dark impulses that such boys possess. The result is nearly unrestricted crotch warfare whenever unsupervised. For me, there is something extremely gratifying about the sound of a foot smacking into a soggy pair of Speedos that I can’t find in any other way. The sensation of my foot compressing the testicles of a strutting classmate and the total dominance over him the instant I am victorious makes worthwhile the countless times that my own eggs have suffered grievously at the hands (and feet) of other boys.
Initially it was a bet with a strutting fellow seventh grader over who was quickest at 100-meter sprints. He was arrogant and very macho with a shaved head and ponderous, bulging swimsuit. We detested each other in that way that young adolescent boys do when they see a potential rival. (Boys at my boarding school are very macho yet insecure enough to spend the effort to plump up our Speedos just so before entering the pool area). Several of the “old men” of our age group capitalized on our rivalry by egging us into racing with the loser suffering the winner’s whim. Such bets were common enough that we both knew this meant giving the winner a clear shot to the groin with the other boys serving as witnesses. I won, but it was so close that we raced again, then a third time. While I’m a faster boy, he had more stamina, so that by the time it ended, he owed me one kick to his groin to my owing him two to mine. By then the results of our race spread like wildfire among the fifteen seventh-graders and three ninth-grade assistant coaches of the class. While quick side-bets were common enough, a match where two boys were committed to exchange three unrestricted kicks was unusually grueling, especially done so publicly with advanced notice for the others. So the after-swim showers were jam-packed. The jabbering mob convinced us that the best
way to settle our convoluted arrangement was for him to get his debt out of the way so that he could then be worry-free when it was his two turns on me. Once the assembled gang discovered that we were both virgins to the “sport”, their enthusiasm doubled, until the echoing din we all made was deafening.
Even though I was terrified (as was he, even if he knew that he would get to inflict twice the damage than I could), I was as excited as the boys milling around us. At that age, “excited” manifests itself prominently, especially when wearing water-slickened, neon yellow Speedos, but I was far from alone in being in that normally embarrassing physical state. There were only a few boys without prominent erections and even these youths had their half-folded down penises straining against the shiny clinging material of their swimsuits.
I chose to deliver my kick from a standing position and carefully positioned myself in front of the dark complexioned thirteen-year-old skinhead. He stood stoically with his tapering legs spread wide, his smooth chest sticking out and his genitals jutting out, his fat erection pointing off to one side while his full balls were displayed fully by the stretched, gleaming yellow material. We were both so excited that we nearly hyperventilated before we calmed down enough to begin our little game. I stared into his dark eyes and laughed with pleasure. He merely glared back at me. Then with a soft, exulted cry, I delivered a snap-kick into my swim team rival’s vulnerable groin. The room echoed loudly, first with a crisp slap of bare foot to unprotected, lycra-girded testicles, then by the sweet sound of his pubertal, agonized groans. My dark-skinned antagonist fought to stay on his feet but my kick was merciless and he succumbed to the inevitable and sank to his knees, then collapsed onto his stomach. The thirteen-year-old boy commenced moaning softly, slid
both arms under him and began grappling his crushed eggs with both hands. Boys caught touching themselves are ribbed mercilessly in our school and the crowd exploded with taunting laughter and cat-calls as the young, writhing teenager appeared to be molesting himself in front of our very eyes. The mob of jeering boys doubled their efforts as the seventh-grader clinched his gleaming, smooth thighs together and began to undulate his hips up and down as though he were fucking. A merry commentary erupted as we watched the hapless youth “humping” his cupped hands and the tiled floor. We then relaxed and enjoyed the sight of the boy writhing helplessly under the scalding hot water spraying down on us.
Several minutes later the leanly muscled boy was able to crawl to his feet, cupping his still-throbbing balls (we could see his prominent erection survived the ordeal and his trying to hide this fact with his cupped hands prompted several boys to tease him relentlessly). However we were all good-natured about things. He was far from the only boy presenting an advanced state of arousal, so the mestizo boy merely shrugged and pulled on his erection through his yellow Speedos, challenging the mob by demanding which of the boys wanted some. He spun around and offered it to the entire crowd, even pulling on it through his swimsuit. We all laughed at that, which helped to change the mood to a less antagonistic to a more joking one.
His dark brown eyes twinkled merrily as he approached me. From the far side of the showers, he ordered me into the pose he preferred (legs spread wide, lightly bent forward and with my hands clutched behind my back). Several the boys watching snickered in anticipation; several others made side-bets whether I was man enough to maintain my erection over the course of enduring my classmate’s retaliation. Witnessing the gleeful anticipation of my team rival sent chills across my body. I even
contemplated fleeing (to my shame) but pride and reason (the boys would certainly have blocked my exit) kept my feet still. All I could do was wait, trembling, as the leering, Speedo-clad youth strutted back in forth perpendicular to a spot ten feet ahead of me, eying my exposed groin with relish. He chose a running kick to exact the first half of his vengeance. I flinched at his approach but stood my ground. Luckily, he slipped as his foot flailed towards my vulnerable groin. It only glided halfway up my thigh and met only with the air as he sprawled on the floor. He fell on his ass, hard, but the pain of this accident paled next to the realization that he blew one of his kicks. The boys – myself most of all – exploded with laughter. He felt cheated but the jury, to my relief, judged that I met my
obligations and his miss counted.
But he got his revenge in the end. From a standing stance, whipped his foot between my spread legs and landed so hard that my feet left the ground. The bald-headed seventh-grader let loose a victorious grunt a split second before his foot connected squarely into my bulging groin. I rose up then fell down to my knees as quickly in mute shock. Then wave after wave of indescribable pain racked my belly and groin. While I somehow managed to be quieter than he was during his performance, I was much more flamboyant in my movements. I rolled around seemingly from one side to another (although the crowd of excited schoolboys helped me in this regard by pushing me and rolling me about; several of the smallest boys even took advantage of my helplessness by sneaking in quick slaps and punches into my groin from time to time). For nearly a half-hour, I was at the mercy of the mob.
As all rowdy boys have experimented in this fashion with friends (and playground enemies), this was not my first blow to my private area that I had suffered. But most of these groin-centered assaults were of the schoolyard variety, glancing blows or self-restrained to a certain extent. Nothing prepared me for a direct hit from a humiliated, vengeful young man such as this. I remember only hitting the tiled floor and curling into a ball, and pain so intense that I was blinded. I vaguely recall seeing some of the fifteen-odd faces that hovered over me and only recall one of the preadolescent youths that took advantage of my helplessness by striking my testicles as I lay sprawled at their feet. I recall feeling at least three other blows to my groin but was already in such a state of distress that I
don’t recall which boys indulged themselves at my expense.
My friends said that I writhed and jerked about the floor quite spectacularly but, all in all, I took my medicine manfully. In fact
my friends told me later that my commendable showing saved me from a
deep humiliation. The crowded environment while I suffered my ordeal
became quite overheated. Predictably, several of the boys watching took matters into their own hands. However, three of them expressed their intension to shoot the results of the self-abuse across my upper body and face while I writhed helplessly before them. The perversity of this rompted four other youths to kneel down and cram themselves on the other side of me. Thus I was held in place, bracketed helplessly between several masturbating boys that intended to stain my torso and face with their spewing fluids. My close friends complained what a rotten thing this was to pull on a fellow, which only made the miscreants looming over me want to violate me more. But the undecided majority of seventh and ninth-graders rallied to my side, crediting my stoic reaction to my teammate’s onslaught as the reason to not take such cruel an advantage. Even the most hormonally drunk of the boys present had to admit that I had proven myself, so they controlled their urges (although this punishment became a gruesomely popular addition to the bets made by subsequent boys). The two of us became something of heroes to our peers and as a result became fast friends.
The popularity of these public competitions was too much to keep under a basket so the practice soon spread. Almost all of the boys were involved – boys that didn’t join in were seen as soft and maybe a bit too queer (being locked up while drowning in pubertal hormones contributed to a surprisingly rich sex life at our boarding school which is best left unsaid, but the decorum dictated that we couldn’t enjoy such diversions “too much”).
Of course, most of the kids enjoyed hitting balls more than getting theirs hit, although there were many boys that would get especially excited (sexually) from getting it in the balls (I was one of these boys). Like the sexual activity we had together, no one could admit to liking it too much even though it was manifested quite obviously that we all did. Besides locker rooms and bathrooms, any boy wearing any sort of athletic wear was asking for it especially badly. But the swimming pool was by far the most popular arena for our ball-bashing competitions.
While there were many random groin-centered assaults in the hallways and dorm rooms, these public challenges took a life of their own. They all involved a couple or several boys with many more watching on. They usually entailed the challengers wearing proscribed clothing (snug-fitting uniforms such as swimming or wrestling with the occasional making due with combatants wearing only their briefs). And they involved some degree of chance, either a side bet while playing sports or gambling over cards or at least flipping a coin or a quick game of rock-scissors-paper. Sometimes things were purposefully left vague in regards to the sexual impulses that erupt under these circumstances, affording the assembled boys the fig leaf needed to indulge themselves while maintaining deniability that they were actively seeking out carnal relations with other boys.
There was always competition amongst each other to prove how fearless and tough we were. The capstone of these contests occurred very month or so. One dorm would compete against another in a prearranged fashion, where the winners would abduct one or two boys from the losing dorm. Over a long night, the hapless prisoners, bound and stretched between the posts of a lower bunk, would be the miserable playthings of an entire roomful of vindictive, situationally promiscuous adolescents. The ferocity displayed during these events became legendary and was a popular topic amongst us schoolboys whenever we were far from adults’ ears. These were much less frequent than the other contests however. While the appeal of being among the twenty-odd boys of the winning side is evident, there is genuine terror at the thought of being one of the losing boys facing a seemingly unending night of abuse. These conflicting drives
competed with each other amongst the six different dorms of our boarding school for as long as I was there. It was as popular as football, even during a World Cup year!
