“Have you gotten used to being naked with me?” her questions always so forthright.
“In a way I suppose,” as I disrobe before her.
She glares, visually examining my glabrous body, though it is more Nurse Sueann’s purview to do so. I think she is amused with the debasing deed of exposing myself.
“I have Nurse Sueann’s report. Physically you’re progressing nicely. You’re plumping.”
I blush, a reaction that happens more and more frequently of late.
“It seems the testosterone is not working as well as it should,” I suggest, knowing of the propensity for castrates to shed muscle and gain fat.
She smiles... that ‘I know something you don’t know’ look that I presume is acquired with the accumulation of so many advanced degrees.
“Nurse Sueann writes that there was an encounter in the park. Want to tell me about it?”
I do not, but can just about recite verbatim my contract, that which upon signing saved me from cancer, and earned me the cost of this rather extensive counseling. I must cooperate or am legally obligated to repay the thousands upon thousands of dollars. My mother co-signed, putting her home at risk. She is too old to lose it.
So I tell her about it. Crinkled nipples. Bulging trousers. A virile young male apparently benefitting from the attentive hand of an alluring blonde.
“It aroused you... to the extent you can feel arousal after a woman removed your testicles,” blatantly forcing the reminiscence of the recent procedure.
The gender reference is constant. There is an immersion process to all this, the observations and questions always leading to pointedly one sided exchanges of sexual power. I am becoming accustomed, indeed realizing how with such quick simplicity the male can be physically altered. And now psychologically transformed as well. Powerlessness is being imbued. Weak... I am becoming weaker.
“In what role did you envision yourself... in the park? In being aroused, you must have imagined portraying either the girl or the boy. Which?”
As she questions, she signals me to lie on the obligatory couch. I do.
“I guess I was imagining what it is like to once again achieve erection.”
“But you cannot. You saw the doctor’s handiwork. You just laid on the table while a woman plundered your scrotum. A rather helpless feeling. The vulnerability is rather compelling, don’t you think? Nurse Sueann writes that you watched as instructed. You can feel your empty scrotum every time you shower. You are more than aware of your castration by a woman. Why would you think you can ever again be potent?”
Yes, in the contract, it was demanded that local anesthetic be administered and that I be made to observe as the pretty doctor plundered indeed. It may have been my imagination, but the operating room reeked of perfume rather than sanitizing chemicals. Intentional?
Strangely, I was emotionally ‘with it’, so to speak, until I heard the first plunk, the sound made as my left testicle was squeezed through a deliberately tiny incision at the side to minimize scarring. With the various connecting cords snipped it fell to a waiting basin and I detected a smile behind the surgical mask. I know the gleeful look of Nurse Sueann did not fade with my loss. And that is when I began to blubber like the little girl I was about to become.
“Perhaps you would like to feel an erection. Since you cannot have one of your own, a woman permanently depriving you, perhaps deep within you visualize that it was your little hand on the boy’s trousers?”
The thought horrifies. But that is what the woman does, constantly testing my emotional and psychological reaction... challenging my psyche... my gender identification. There is never a conclusion, only the implantation of licentious gender obfuscating thoughts.
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s not a bold denial.”
She is correct. What is happening?
“Your hair. It’s getting long. You like long hair.”
“I never had long hair.”
“But now you do.”
The psychological challenges and riveting questions go on and on for an hour. Finally, mentally worn, the counselor notably smug, I am given my instructions for the week.
“Same time next Friday. Go to a beauty parlor first. Have your hair coifed. A nice effeminate style. Then we’ll talk about it. How you think you look. How it makes you feel. I want you to make it look like that girl in the park.”
She hands me a business card for a nearby salon.
“In case you need support, the girls there are very good with neutered boys like you. It amuses.”