It's Not Fair

It's Not Fair - Kevin

[2,537 words]

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Letter published in the It’s Not Fair column of the magazine Boy Stuff:

Dear Boy Stuff,

I don't even know where to begin. My name is Kevin, I'm twenty-one years old, and I'm living a life that would be funny if it wasn't so horrifyingly real. While other guys my age are finishing college, starting careers, or going on dates, I'm stuck in a nightmare where I'm treated like I never left elementary school. The worst part? No one seems to think there's anything wrong with this.

It all started when I was twelve. That's when Dad left, and that's when everything changed. I was just starting puberty – getting taller, my voice cracking, beginning to push back against rules like any normal preteen. But Mommy couldn't handle that. She said I was “acting out,” that I was “too much like him,” and that I needed “special help” to manage my anger and stay sweet. That's when the Puericil treatments began.

I remember that first morning so clearly it still makes my stomach twist. Mommy sat me down on the edge of my bed with this fake-calm voice and told me I'd be taking new medicine to “help with my attitude.” She had me lie across her lap like a little kid getting a spanking, only instead of a hairbrush, she had that stupid rectal applicator. I kicked and cried like any twelve-year-old would, but she just held me down, shushing me like I was having a tantrum over vegetables. “It's for your own good, Kevy,” she kept saying. “Mommy knows best.”

Nine years later, nothing has changed. Not really. Every single night, I still have to present myself for what Mommy calls “medicine time.” I'm taller than her now, but I still have to lie face down across her lap like a naughty toddler. Her thighs press against my stomach, the same way they have since I was in middle school. Can you imagine that? She still uses that singsong voice - “Lift up a bit, sweetheart” – as she intrusively parts my cheeks with fingers that know exactly what they're doing after nearly a decade of this routine.

The cold plastic applicator always startles me and makes my eyes water. I have no idea why because it doesn't really hurt, but I feel so hot and bothered. I hate that I’m a twenty-one year old reduced to this childish position, feeling that familiar chill as the gel gets deposited where no adult man should have medicine put. And every time, without fail, silent tears leak out and drip onto Mommy's leggings as I grip her ankle while she rubs my back and murmurs, “There there, all done now.”

Afterward, she keeps me draped across her lap for what feels like forever, stroking my hair until the medicine “settles.” Sometimes I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror – her looking so calm and maternal, me looking so small and defeated. That's when it really hits me: this isn't temporary. This is who I am now.

The physical effects are bad enough. The gel leaves this awful, squishy feeling inside me for hours afterward. I work at the toy store (which is babyish enough) but they make me wear a name tag that says “Jr. Assistant” like I'm some little kid helper! Every shift in my chair reminds me of what's inside me and how it got there. I've developed this stupid habit of clenching my cheeks together when I walk, like I'm trying to hide some shameful secret.

But the psychological effects are worse. The medicine has stunted me in every way possible. My voice still cracks when I get upset. I have maybe twelve pathetic chest hairs. And down there? Let's just say I've seen middle schoolers with more to work with. Girls don't see me as a dating prospect – they pat my head and call me “adorable,” if they notice me at all.

Mommy controls everything. I have a 9 PM bedtime – not curfew, bedtime – complete with bath time and tuck-ins. She checks to make sure I'm wearing my nighttime pull-ups under my pajamas. She monitors my internet use, decides what clothes I can wear, even called the local liquor store to tell them I'm “not mature enough” for alcohol. Last month I tried rebelling by staying up till 9:30 reading with a flashlight. She caught me, spanked me with the hairbrush, and made me write “I will obey my bedtime” 100 times. I'm taller than her, but she still manhandles me like I'm a naughty first-grader.

The most terrifying part? I can feel myself breaking. Every morning when she makes me take my medicine and checks my pull-ups, every time some girl calls me “adorable” instead of handsome – it chips away at me. I want to scream. I want to throw things and kick my door. I want to grab Mommy by the shoulders and shake her until she sees me as the adult I'm supposed to be.

But the Puericil won't let me.

It's like there's this fire inside me that keeps getting doused before it can properly burn. I'll get angry – really, truly angry – and then... it just fizzles out. My hands unclench. My racing thoughts slow. And worst of all, part of me starts thinking maybe Mommy's right. Maybe I do need this to calm and sooth my boiling anger. Maybe I'm not just ready yet?

That's what really kills me. Not the pull-ups, not the bedtime, not even the humiliating medicine routine – but the way the medicine steals my rage before I can use it. It's not fair that I can't even get properly angry about how unfair this all is!

Sometimes, when Mommy's not looking, I stare at myself in the mirror for too long. I search my baby-faced reflection for any sign of the man I should be. My smooth cheeks. My narrow shoulders, small chest and slender body. The way my pajamas hang off me like I'm a kid playing dress-up in Dad's clothes. I try to imagine stubble. Muscles. A sharp jawline. Anything that would prove I'm not the little boy Mommy insists on treating me like.

At night, when I'm supposed to be sleeping, I fantasize about what would happen if I stopped taking Puericil. Would my voice finally drop? Would I grow body hair? Would girls look at me differently? Would Mommy?

The sun isn't even all the way up when Mommy comes waltzing into my room with that TONE – you know the one, all singsongy like she's talking to a puppy. “Rise and shine, Kevy-bear! Medicine time!” And there it is – that stupid blue gel packet in her hand, crinkling as she shakes it slightly in front of me while giving me a smile so broad that it disarms me. She knows it makes my stomach do flip-flops.

And then the ritual… I drag myself up pouting like a 5 year old who hasn’t slept well, my stupid kiddie pajamas (with the race cars or dinosaurs or whatever baby print she picked this week) all twisted around me. The shirt's too short – always has been – and I have to do that dumb little wiggle to keep it from riding up while I untangle the drawstring bottoms. (Which, surprise surprise, end up around my ankles anyway because Mommy still buys them a size too big “for growth room.” Joke's on her – I stopped growing years ago thanks to her “special vitamins.”)

Then comes the worst part – the Great Pull-Up Inspection. Mommy makes this big production of checking if I stayed dry, her fingers poking at the waistband while I stand there feeling my ears burn. “Oooh, someone's a leaky boy this morning!” she'll coo if I had an accident, or “What a big boy!” if I didn't (like that's some huge accomplishment for a 21-year-old). Either way, I lose – it's just a question of which flavor of humiliation I get.

And then... ugh. Then comes the worst part—the part where I have to assume The Position. You’d think after nine years, I’d be used to it. But no. Every. Single. Time. It’s the same humiliating routine. One knee up on the bed. Then the other. Then that slow, shameful descent until I’m draped over Mommy’s lap like some naughty toddler, my bare tummy pressing into her soft, pillowy thighs. She wears these stupidly smooth leggings—the kind that feel like they’re made of melted marshmallows—and they’re always warm and damp from her morning treadmill session. The scent of her vanilla lotion hits me like a flashback, dragging me right back to when I was little and she’d rock me after bad dreams. And here’s the really messed-up part—my stupid body still relaxes into it. Like some pathetic little puppet whose strings have been cut. My brain screams THIS IS WRONG, but my muscles just... give in.

But that’s not even the worst of it.

Back when I first started treatment, I used to have these... embarrassments. Mommy called them “little accidents”—or sometimes, in that horrifying baby-talk voice, “stiffies.” (I still cringe just thinking about it.) I didn’t even understand why my body was betraying me like that. It wasn’t like I wanted it to happen! But every time I stood up afterward, there’d be this tiny, damp spot on Mommy’s leggings. Just big enough to notice. Just big enough to make my face burn. Mommy never said a word about it. Not one. She’d just look at me with this infuriatingly sympathetic expression—like it was just some unavoidable side effect of being her little boy. No explanation. No discussion. Just... silence. And then, over time, it stopped. Like my body just... gave up. Now, I still get that weird, fluttery feeling sometimes, but nothing happens. It’s like Puericil dried me up from the inside out. Isn’t that weird? I want to know why it happens but I can’t get anyone to explain. I hate that I even have to wonder about this. I hate that I’m sitting here writing to a magazine about why my own body doesn’t work right anymore. But most of all? I hate that Mommy still treats me like this is all completely normal.

But wait… I haven’t finished. Then the gel applicator clicks open. I squeeze my eyes shut as my whole body tightens up and I instinctively grab mommy’s ankles. Cold plastic meets sensitive skin and I feel my eyes water. I don’t make a sound. I try to remain calm because BIG BOYS DON'T CRY – except I always do, just a little, and Mommy always notices. “Aww, does Mommy's big baby need a cuddle after?” she asks, like I'm some kind of toddler who got a boo-boo. And the worst part? Sometimes I nod. Because after nine years of this, part of me really does want that cuddle.

I don't know which is worse – the thought that I might never escape this, or the fear that I might not want to.

IT'S NOT FAIR.

—Kevin (NOT "Kevy-Kins," NOT "Sweet Pea," NOT "Mommy's Special Boy" Mom!!)

P.S. If you publish this, please... just don't use my last name.

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The magazine's published response [written by Cassie]:

Dear Kevy (don't worry, I won't call you Kevy-kins, although it's an adorable name),

You should not feel bad about the way your mommy takes care of you. It's no good comparing yourself with other boys your age. We are all different, and every child matures at his own time. Do not worry, you will have plenty of time to be an adult. Far from being this great tragedy that it sometimes feel to you, I have to say that you are lucky to have a mommy that loves you and looks after you with so much care. Not everyone is so lucky.

It's true that mommy knows best. She, better than anyone, knows you, and can judge your level of maturity and decide when you are ready to be treated in a more grownup way.

She'll know when it's no longer necessary to have you lie bare bottomed over her lap, open your bottomcheeks and insert the medicine inside your little heiny-hole. It's cute that you still need it, not shameful. Your mommy is just taking care of you, you know.

I don't like that you use the word "defeated" to describe how you feel. That's not what's happening. You are not in a "war". The way your mommy treats you is childish, yes, but that's because you are still a child. Remember what I said about everybody growing at their own pace. There's nothing bad about childhood, it's a natural stage of life, and you'll grow beyond it in your own good time. Your mommy will notice when it's time. It's no good worrying about until then. She is the one who makes the decisions in your family, not you, so you can relax and enjoy your childhood. It's not a matter of age, but of maturity.

Can you honestly say that you have the maturity of grownup? It doesn't seem that way to me. Do grownups get bathed by their mommies? Do they get tucked in? Do they get their pull-ups checked to see if they have wet? Do grownups sneak a flashlight to read after their bedtime, so that their mommy has to spank them on their bare bottom with Mr. Brush? (Yes, when I spoke to your mommy to get permission to publish your letter I found out that's how your hairbrush is called). Do their mommies choose their clothes and have to supervise their internet activity? I don't think so. And it's to this immaturity that girls respond when they call you adorable. It's not just your lack of body hair, or the fact that your voice won't drop yet. They see you as a child because they notice that deep inside you are a child. You are NOT a 'pathetic little puppet', and do no let me catch you calling yourself something like that. You are just a child. You are treated like a little child because that's precisely what you still are. That's why your body relaxes at the scent of your mommy's vanilla lotion, when you are draped bare bottom over her lap. That's why you crave your mommy's cuddles. Sometimes your body knows better than you.

As I said, there is no reason to feel shame about this. You need to grow at your own pace, and you'll grow eventually, so don't worry and don't be in a hurry.

Speaking of hurry, it worries me when you talk about anger and violent impulses. No doubt this is why your mommy put you on Puericil. Once you are mature enough not to feel those ugly impulses you probably won't need it anymore.

Oh, Kevy, and do not worry about stiffies, or lack thereof. Little boys do not need them, or to even think about that subject. There'll be time for that, but it's clearly not now.

A very big hug to you. Be a good boy for your mommy and do not worry your head with thoughts of having to be grown up. There's no hurrying these things.
INF

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