Wow. Finally, I can post messages.

Hello, everyone. I've been lurking on this site for about a year now. Thanks to your wonderfully candid posts, I feel as though I've already gotten to know some of you. I hope you'll spare a few minutes to read a little about me.

I'm a straight male in my early thirties. Even before puberty, I sensed that I was unsuited temperamentally to play the role of man, as it's defined in most modern societies. I'm not particularly competitive, in business, sports or any other sphere. I've never been particularly adept with women; the frequent shifts in their moods and needs, the gulf between what they say they want on one hand, and actually want on the other, have tended to frustrate me to the point where courtship held no joy. Sex has never been too much fun, either, as my potency has never been consistent. Old St. Peter has denied me many times, and my cock has often failed to crow.

From time to time, though, I've formed deep attachments to women. The best of them didn't involve intercourse, just holding and stroking and boundless emotional candor. To some of these women, I became indispensible, because of the soothing effect that I had on their minds, or if you prefer, their souls--not, in any case, their bodies. I always liked that feeling. But, over the last couple of years, as most of the women I know have paired up with guys and begun raising families, it's been increasingly hard to come by.

In my more fanciful moments, I've wished that society would bestow some formal status on me as confidant to women. My life would certainly be easier if I could look men in the eye and say, "Hi, Sam. Your wife Sallie and I are going to lie naked and hold one another for a few hours, but it's completely innocent, trust me." In truth, I probably would be permitted to pursue chastely intimate friendships with women--if only I were gay. Since I'm not, I've gotten used to holding myself at the prescribed distance.

But, having long been a devoted reader of history, I've known about eunuchs, the confessor-counselor role they played with wealthy women, and the esteem and gratitude with which women tended to reward them. As I gradually relinquish and sublimate my own desires for access to the female soul untrammelled by custom and unpaid-for by sexual agility, I find myself envying those eunuchs of bygone days. Also, being not only a nudist but a bit of an exhibitionist, I sometimes like to imagine the surprised and intrigued reactions that an empty or missing scrotum might draw. When BullGeo wrote that he looked forward to showing up at a nudist colony, nutless and shaved, I knew exactly what he meant.

Now, having said all that, I don't intend ever to have myself castrated, and I'd be absolutely miserable if castration were forced upon me--either as an act of vengeance or a medical necessity. For one thing, the plumbing does work enough of the time to make me hope for a dramatic rehabilitation, maybe through Yoga, acupuncture, willpower or, failing all of that, prayer. Also, it's extremely unlikely that folks in the twenty-first century will react to a eunuch the way they did in the days of the Byzantine Empire. The old niche just doesn't exist any more, and carving out my nutsack is not going to carve it out again.

So, it may not sound like I have much in common with most of the posters here. Still, some of you self-created eunuchs out there may be interested to know that someone--or, judging by the popularity of this site, I should probably say "someone else"--understands, at some level, the impulse that made you want to alter your bodies in the most drastic way imaginable.

I'll be in from time to time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Jackie Gleason would be tickled by your pen name. Do you have some secret affinity with The Great One? Bus driver? Fat? Schnook? Rather spend time at the Racoon Lodge than with "your woman?" Are you strangely drawn to men who wear vests over their T-shirts? I just watched Mr. Gleason last night in a replay of "Smokey and the Bandit," and, as Sheriff Buford T. Justice said to his son, "there is no way that you have come from my loins. First thing ah'm gonna do we get home is go smack your mama." In other words, there might be a eunuch inside you struggling to get out. Well, you've come to the place.

You flatter me, Bobov. Gleason was damn near as great as he seemed to think he was. I'm sorry to say I'm nothing like him. On my good days, I'm a skinny, happy-go-lucky doofus like Ed Norton. On my bad ones, I'm a skinny, totured wreck, like Fast Eddie Felsen.

In Russian, your name means "of the Bobs." Are you, in fact, descended from one?

Bobov is a town in Poland where one of the major Hasidic sects began. A few years ago, I saw a documentary about the Hasidim in which the Bobover Rebbe appeared to be an inspirational leader of his people. At the same time, I was trying to create log-on names for myself at several web sites, and having difficulty. Robert, or Bob, is my real name, but this is so common that it's almost impossible to find a site where a Bob could be anything other than "bob937." That's when I started using bobov - unused by others, reminiscent of a great man, and sounding similar to my own name. I've been happily bobov ever since.

On your bad days, you're like the young Paul Newman as Fast Eddie Felsen? You're making me salivate like Pavlov's dog. Your big stick can knock my balls around anytime. In fact, you've just suggested a new perversion. Wow! (We like to maintain an elevated tone here at EA.)

Thanks for explaining. Believe it or not, even though I grew up in New York City and spent a fair amount of time in Brooklyn, I never heard of the Bobover sect until now. It's easier to say than "Lubavitcher", at any rate, and suggests "Bobbit."

No worries about the campiness. Like I said, I've been lurking here long enough to have gotten used to it.

You need to add another "har" ot the end, ...hardy...

One of these days...POW!... right between the eyes...



A-1

Welcome aboard.

Have you seen Lippy the Lion lately?