Saturday, July 22, 2017
Neuroplasticity, Segment Two
“It was done quite professionally, Mr. Wells,” Dr. Becky interrupting my discourse. “If there is any consolation, years ago I read you would have been publicly mutilated, chopped by a sword in the town square... possibly bleeding to death.”
Perhaps a better fate, I think but dare not say. Thoughts of death dare not be communicated. I am sure the institute having harsh confinement for those considering self harm... a nicely padded room.
“Plus you were free to leave the country and fly home,” the words curiously suggesting I was offered leniency.
“And was dragged from U.S. Customs and Immigration at the airport and brought before a judge,” I blurt in frustration.
“You are a sex offender. And became the recipient of more leniency. Not yet listed,” the doctor smugly points out.
As long as I pass muster here at the institute, I think to myself. That was the deal, seek professional help or be so listed and placed on probation. Upon entering the institute, even a rudimentary physical revealed the consequences of my Sharia punishment. My penis, now a stub, can harden, but for what purpose? It has the sensitivity of the heel of my foot. And it’s useless for penetrative sex.
“Does your organ harden... during therapy? Any response yet? Neuroplasticity, Mr. Wells, we’re counting on it to bring you back a healthy sex life.”
Is this therapy pseudo science? I have read that neuroplasticity is the ability of the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, especially in response to learning or experience or following injury.
Following injury, yes. To my manhood... to my male pride... to my libido.
Still, how does a guy get himself off with less than half a dick? To crassly state my dilemma!
So, without the frictioning and fondling of my penis tip, the removed underside being where the male receives most if his sensual pleasure, there is no release... no climax... no eruption... no ecstacy. And compounding the dilemma, the hormones build and build, the ostensible leniency in sparing full castration instead bringing a pinnacle of frustration.
“It seems to swell a bit, yes,” I offer, not wishing to seem fully skeptical.
“Good, it’s a start. You’ll find your tending nurses to be quite patient and understanding if you’ll work with them. We’ll soon have you secreting.”
Secreting? Yes, the institute’s euphemism for being depleted of male essence... that which formerly spurted with blissful zeal.
“Why cannot I ejaculate?” I bluntly inquire. “And why is my penis colored? Purple of all shades!”
I was sedated days ago. They did things. I need to understand.
“Calm yourself Mr. Wells, it’s for the best. And it’s really a pretty shade of violet, meant to be attractive.”
“Attractive? Why attractive... there!”
“You need to accept your state, Mr. Wells. The tattooing announces for all to see that you’ve been altered. You’ll not be denying it... not hiding it... and you shouldn’t. The coloring proclaims your alteration and that will mean you must accept it. The self denial ends. You’ve had a penectomy and will no longer function as a normal man.”
Tattooing! I am sickened with the words. My penis stub permanently colored... so gaily!
“And for now we don’t want you ejaculating. We’ve ended that... with Botox injections to your ejaculatory muscles. As I said, you will now secrete. There is no point in erupting. Normal penetrative sex is over. Curious that you’ve attempted masturbation. We have found that such leads to depression and is therefore against institute policy. We know of these things. Let us guide you, begin the process of neuroplasticity.”
Dr. Becky pauses to write on a pad. In exasperation I turn to silence, trying to convince myself that they know best. Besides, it’s my only chance to stay off the sex offenders list and maintain my living as a trustworthy financial consultant. The judge so specified. I am in the hands of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse. Voluntarily?