Neuroplasticity, Segment Five

“Do you like your new garment, Mr. Wells? Or do you prefer to be completely naked?”

I sit in the straight backed chair rather gingerly, enduring the endless questions of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse.

“It’s... it’s okay. Difficult to sit,” for some reason my voice meek.

“Yes, you do have to be careful. It’s a drawback. But the harness nicely tucks away your testicles... your remnants of maleness... don’t you think?”

It does. My sole garment can only be described as a jockstrap... but worn backwards, tightly cradling my scrotum and precious balls and pulling back such that they nest in the crevice of my buttocks. Thus I carefully sit upright, not wishing to crush what were given leniency by the Syariah Court.

But of more concern, the straps at the front, splitting to form a ‘V’, serve to highlight my purple... violet... appendage, forcing the tiny stub to thrust forward. As I am walked about the institute, hand in hand with a supervising nurse, onlookers cannot doubt that I have been altered. Balls not to be seen, only that left behind by the doctor’s scalpel.

“Why?” my meekness bringing distress.

“Once again, Mr. Wells. You need to accept your status... no longer an intact man. The ball harness... as the girls like to term it... veils your male bits. You’d not want anyone to think you’re potent would you? That would be deceptive.”

There’s a pause, the doctor letting that thought percolate. I choose not to reply.

“You’re beginning to look pretty for us, Mr. Wells. What do you think of your hair style?”

In completing the morning feathering, I was bathed and groomed as the nurse suggested. But the grooming included effeminate styling of my hair, approaching shoulder length in not having visited the barber since beginning my terrorizing vacation. Parted in the middle, my locks fall straight down, evenly trimmed over my ears. I also have bangs and upon being offered a quick glimpse in the mirror I was shocked to see the reflection of a boyish looking girl, the coloring of my lips and eyes highlighted by my jet black hair.    

“It’s... well... girlish.”

The doctor just nods, letting me stew on the words.

“Let’s talk about your penectomy. I think it would be cathartic for you. Every detail please, though I’m sure with the anesthesia you can’t recall everything.”

Can’t recall after I passed out, anesthesia not offered other then some novocaine.

There is reluctance, bad enough that the Muslim doctor beckons me every night in my dreams... Gurney... straps... catheter... scalpel. Her stern yet attractive image has become a succubus. I try to forget, yet I must recollect... accede to the therapy... must avoid being listed as a sex offender, the equivalent of economic death in terms of my career as a financial consultant.

So I tell of my penectomy. And it seems it requires more time to relate the story than it took to separate me from my penis.