Justin Caas - The Third Sex

I walked out of Dr Fox’s surgery in deep thought. He had given me much to ponder on. Some of my pecularities now made more sense, the slightly longer than normal tongue just happened to come with the canine heritage; it wasn’t deliberate. But the greatly augmented sense of smell was definitely needed—in order to more exactly pick at which time of the month a woman was most likely to conceive. It was dismal news learning that I could not pick and choose my future career. That was already decided for me. The prospect of a life of endless copulating might sound attractive, but I felt sure that like a surfeit of anything, I would grow tired of it. I could only wait and see what happened.

Later that evening Kate and I talked about some of the other things that Dr Fox had told me. Kate asked, “How do you know that women will be attracted to you? We aren’t just cattle to be bred you know!”

I was ready for that one. “Dr Fox explained that much care had been taken with appearance. As I become mature my features are supposed to become even more regular and even. He said that women look unconsciously for symmetry in a body, which indidates a prospect for better offspring. Also these will be women who have already decided they want a baby and if this is what it takes then a Stud will give them the best chance for a genetically superior one. They aren’t expected to fall in love or anything like that. Women can be quite impersonal about such things if it suits them—according to the doctor anyway.”

Kate pondered, “I guess so. But sex usually plays only a small part of a person’s life. Won’t you get sick of endless copulation?”

“I thought I might, but Dr Fox said no. He said if a dog has just finished mating and turns to find another bitch on heat, he immediately approaches her with the same compulsive intensity as though this is the first and only thing his life has been leading up to. In other words the dog has no say in the matter. The instinct is inbuilt and he simply follows it.”

“How dreary,” Kate commented. “It’d be fun for a start but I’d soon get bored.”

“Possibly,” I acknowledged. “But then you aren’t a dog—or a Stud either for that matter.”

I was still engrossed in the mysteries of my existence on my way home from school the following day when I encountered Pudding and his two thugs again. My heart began to beat faster in fear. They had picked a good place to beat me up, a secluded grove which I often used as a shortcut. Pudding stood blocking the path, arms folded, a complacent smirk on his face. “Hello, who do we have here, it’s not the girly again is it?”

Burke the smaller of the two thugs guffawed loudly. His companion Gretan said nothing. Gretan was spoiling for a fight and I feared him more than Pudding as he was larger and more physically fit than Pudding.

“Please stand aside and let’s all just go on our way. There’s no need for unpleasantness.”

Pudding shook his head. “Oh but there is. You’re a freak and you know it. Freaks have no place in this town. You need to move out and until you do, we’ll be having these little reminders.” He stepped closer.

I opened my mouth as if to speak, but instead pivoted swiftly from the waist, smashed my forehead on to his nose. The forehead is a very strong bony structure, much stronger than hands and my hands were more delicate than the heavy paws on these fellows. Pudding didn’t have time to shriek. His head flew back, he folded at the knees and by the time he hit the ground he was already largely unconscious. His nose was bleeding copiously and was already swelling. The legacy of that blow would last for months because a smashed nose can cause sinus blockage and discomfort that can last for years. It was also going to give me a splitting headache for a while too, but I had no time to think about that now because Gretan was rapidly approaching from behind and was almost at my right shoulder.

I clasped my right fist with my left hand and swung my body around with a lightning turn to face him. I had no time at all to aim—it was either going to be my lucky day or I’d be down and beaten to a pulp. One chance was all I had. My elbow caught him in the throat. The bully staggered back, gasping and croaking, his larynx probably crushed. Breathing would be difficult. It all happened so fast. Burke saw what was happening and took to his heels. But amazingly, Gretan wasn’t finished with me and came forward fast, his face suffused with rage and pain. I’m not proud of what happened next, but it was going to be one of us that went down and I was just trying to make sure it wasn’t me. At the last moment I side-stepped his rush, swivelled again to my right and standing on my right leg leaned far over. My left leg came up sideways, hit his knee. I heard a crack. Gretan screamed in pain and toppled to the ground.

I decided now was a good time to leave them to it. They could commiserate with each other when Pudding regained consciousness.

News of my exploits with Pudding and his cronies spread fast. But there were no witnesses, only the uncorrobated testimony of two bullies—the third had fled. In the event both decided not to press charges, for which I was profoundly grateful as I had already spent some sleepless nights tossing and turning over possible outcomes, while nursing the grandad of all headaches.

Before long the gossip subsided, became stale news and forgotten. A dubious benefit from this event was a new acceptance into boys’ groups which had formerly been closed to me. Amazing. It takes violence to become accepted? Apparently. But with my new status as power-warrior I also became admitted to some of the boys’ circle jerks . This is a typically teenage activity confined mostly to those young males who have just discovered the delights of masturbation and are so proud of their new status that they feel compelled to do it together.

When the lads gathered in a disused room under the gym they one by one unfastened pants and proudly displayed stiff erections; brought to excitement by the mere prospect of masturbating en masse. The idea was to rapidly stroke the erect flesh to a tumultous spurting, which of course was greeted by gasps and applause. There was a lot of brave talk beforehand, much laughter although no one wanted to be first. Each of the boys present looked to his neighbour for encouragement, but little was forthcoming. Finally Thomas started the show rolling with a very neat wrist action accompanied by a look of vacant adoration on his face. I wasn’t sure where the adoring look came from; maybe he was in love with his penis. Right now it was responding magnificently to his blandishments and when the moment of truth arrived the penis did not let its owner down. On the contrary it gave a splendid performance by spraying the floor with excitment not once, but twice, then three times, then…surely this would be all? But no—yet a further eruption to the admiring scrutiny of his friends. Thomas managed five rather large expulsions. He looked around with bashful but proud gaze. Was this a record? But I noted a strange aftermath. Once Thomas had expended his energy, his equipment went limp and (apparently) went out of action.

One by one the other boys followed suit, heralding a climax with joyous cries, gasps and other verbal manifestation according to their nature. I noted that Tony, a smaller and rather shy boy eschewed theatrics, stroked his member urgently to a culmination and dribbled copiously over his trousers. Surely that was not a winning score? But as far as I could see, no one was keeping a tally.