The Entrapped Page 2

  It’s testosterone, I assume, stemming the effect of having my testicles excised.

  I do not think such is working.

  Nurse Sueann takes glee, slowly rubbing my softening buttock with alcohol, stabbing and injecting with deliberation.

  I am then escorted, left hand in hers, with my right rubbing my wounded cheek. In being paraded through the reception area, the waiting woman now outright stares. Yes, I expose my empty scrotal sac for all to see as I am returned to the changing room, tiny penis bobbing most comically. For some reason not only does it no longer matter, I instead feel an odd glow in exposing my now smooth and hairless form.

  Yes, acclimatization.

  ***

  Weekly counseling is like attending grade school. Though I don’t get my knuckles rapped, the psychologist is stern. Since I am not paying the bill, I am more ward than patient and treated as a potentially recalcitrant child.

  “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.”

  ***

  I like to say I am an accountant, but am really just a clerk. Four years of college and I shuffle paper. If I work hard and show myself to be promotable, at some point I’ll shuffle receivables in place of the humdrum shuffling of payables.

  So as my body transforms and for some reason I decide to let my hair grow, no one notices in the ‘cave’ of the accounting department. Still, my counselor’s demand that my hair be styled can turn heads... probably will turn heads.

  So I decide to make the required appointment for late in the week, offering the weekend to counter any undue presentation which can potentially affect employment status. I call the salon and attempt to make an arrangement for late Friday afternoon... in the world of beauty and fashion apparently the busiest time of the week.

  “I’m sorry, sir, all booked for Friday.”

  I mention my counselor’s name and the tone immediately shifts.

  “Warren, did you say? Yes, the doctor had us put a note in our scheduling calendar. Possible special treatment. The back room has been made available that afternoon at her request. 3:30 p.m. don’t be late.”

  My counselor seems to wield some authority at the salon. So I spend the week doing my shuffle, and in not having a doctor’s appointment the only comparative mental, emotional trauma is showering in the morning... when I wash... down there.

  Something about the combined sensation of soaping/kneading the empty scrotum plus the complete hairlessness that drives home my alteration. I so often recall the doctor’s words as she sutured the small openings, my testicles resting in a metal dish.

  ‘Left lots of puffy skin for you. Some girls... ah, rather boys... enjoy playing. If you find it distracts, is found to be counter to your desired presentment, it’s easily removed. We can gather the skin, band it to curtail the circulation and within ten days to two weeks it will merely drop off. It’s how they do cattle,’ she pedantically explained.

  Having piqued my curiosity I later did an internet search. The device is termed an elastrator and I was quite chagrined to see such available for as low as $12.00. I sat mesmerized. The models used on smaller livestock such as goats or lambs could perfectly circle the scrotum of a human male.

  I can just about recite every word of instructions as to its use...

  Restrain the kid.

  With the prongs of the elastrator facing the kid, expand the band by squeezing the elastrator.

  Place the band over the scrotum and testes, close to the body, making sure that both
testes are below the ring.

  Release the elastrator and pull it from the band, making sure that the band is close to the body and that the teats are not trapped in the band.

  The scrotum and testes dry up and drop off in about two weeks. Check them regularly after that if they have not fallen off. Check them for infection and spray with antiseptic, if needed. In a few cases, they may be hanging by a small amount of tissue, and you can cut them off with a clean scalpel or sharp knife.

  For some reason I stared lengthily at the website. Intended for farmers, both the number and sizes of elastrators was disconcertingly impressive along with explicit instructions for use by the novice.

  Guess I should be thankful to have something left there. Quite gracious of the doctor.

  ‘So if you want to be a smoothy, as some of my boys like to reference the removal of all this excess skin, just let me know,’ the smile beneath the surgical mask broadening with the suggestion.

  Her eyes twinkled and I imagined her smile to match the gloating look of the nearby Nurse Sueann.

  I shudder again thinking about the offer.

  Tons of office paperwork can offer remedial distraction until one needs to use the men’s room. Then, like it or not, I must feel down there, my penis indeed seeming to shrink.

  Yes, along with the photos taken for my South American benefactor, Nurse Sueann measured my entire anatomy, chuckling in a most irritating manner as she stretched out my flaccid member and held a ruler.

  ‘Four and a half inches. The feminine world is not going to miss your prowess,’ she proclaimed.

  And so the pre operation standard was set. I have subsequently not achieved such ‘robust’ length with any follow up visits to the doctor’s office. Though once I did become erect. Yes, a few days after the pain of the scrotal openings subsided, I awoke one morning with nocturnal penile tumescence. I stroked myself a bit, but knowing the ultimate result would be disappointingly anti climactic, I decided that endeavoring to arrive at work on schedule was a better use of my efforts.

  I have since not again achieved full erection.

  Friday arrives. My superiors know I have had recent surgery, no embarrassing details offered. So it’s facile to announce a need to depart at 3:30 p.m. for a doctor’s appointment. Not a complete prevarication, my counselor is a doctor... a PhD in psychology... and I will eventually be in her office.

  But first it’s to the beauty salon to endure what I suspect will be a test of my remaining masculinity.

  To be coifed!

  My hair is somewhat curly. Thus its growing length is not overly noticeable. But my counselor wants it to be styled in the manner of that young trollop in the park. Parted in the middle, the simple styling hung straight down, cut straight about the neck an inch or two below her ears, bangs festooned her forehead about an inch above her eyebrows.

  ***

  “Yes, Mr. Warren,” the young girl seeming to repress a giggle. “The back room. Your counselor has made the arrangements.”

  I follow to the back of the bustling salon. I receive some questioning glances, but in New York it is not completely uncommon for a man to benefit from the offerings of a woman’s domain. The girl leads me into a small room with the expected adjustable swivel chair. She points.

  “It’s probably best you get out of that nice suit, Mr. Warren. The various hair formulas can be quite powerful and will stain.”

  Why is it I am not alarmed?

  She closes the door. The room is well mirrored and I cannot help looking at my five foot two inch frame, lithe but rapidly plumping where a guy does not normally plump. My curly hair is frumpily gathered atop my head, styling not a coveted attribute in a stodgy accounting department. When I pull up and out to straighten, I note it has indeed become long, as my counselor suggested. I have not given it much thought, with all the physical and emotional trauma of late. Guess a hair cut has not been at the top of my agenda... or so I justify the neglect.

  The door opens. As I hoped, in steps a woman of maturity, the receptionist I found to be too young to understand the intended proceedings.

  “I am Molly, Mr. Warren. Were you not advised to remove your suit?”

  The voice is husky. The tone forceful. The look disapproving. Her stance, arms akimbo, one of instant authority.

  “Ah... yes... well I’m just here to get my hair done.”

  “As is everyone else. Disrobe. To your skivvies. Hair dye can be destructive to good clothing.”

  “Hair dye? I’m here for some styling.”

  “And that you shall have as well. Your counselor suggested you be made into a blond. Something about a style and shade you noted in the park. Tell me what it looked like... the style. Any particular shade of blond?”

  This brings alarm. My hair is brown... dark brown. I arrived thinking any untoward efforts today could be unraveled by the time Monday morning work beckoned. But dyed as a blond?

  “Ah... well if my counselor insists,” I am demure and once again mentally recite to myself the long agreement which covered the cost of acute medical care and this subsequent ‘counseling’.

  I unbutton my suit jacket. The woman takes it and hangs it as I step out of my shoes and unbuckle my belt. She watches with intensity. She is a no nonsense women of some forty years. I will once again be challenged... and lose.

  “I assume it can be washed out... the dye?”

  No answer. She just points to the chair as I hand her my trousers.

  “What was the style? Describe it for me.”

  I do. She nods, commenting that the style has been prevalent of late due to some up and coming movie starlet.

  “Take off your undershirt too. We’ll need to straighten your hair and that can get sloppy. So you’ll see why I need you out of that suit Mr. Warren. Powerful ingredients. Otherwise it’s easily done.”

  Molly glances downward.

  “What happened to your body, Mr. Warren? No hair on the chest, arms or legs...”

  It will be a long appointment. My transformation begins.

  ***

  I cannot believe it’s me! I am incredulous. Molly proves to be a magician! I stare into the various mirrors in combined excitement and embarrassment. My hair is a gaudy shade of blond. I have bangs. The curls of hair are now exceptionally straight and precisely cut in a straight line from the right jaw bone to the left.

  “It’s termed a ‘page boy’,” Molly informs, her gaze intense in assessing her own work.

  I cannot help thinking how effeminate I appear, the style complementing Nurse Sueann’s depilating efforts.

  “Sit back, Mr. Warren. Just a little more tidy work and I think you’ll be ready to show off.”

  I am compliant of course, my thoughts running wild, fearfully imagining my return to the accounting ‘cave’ on Monday. So as I sit back and Molly begins working my eyebrows it does not occur to me to protest. The small and limited strips of hair are also trimmed, plucked then dyed as well.

  “This will wash out,” my words coming across more as a plea than a question.

  “Your counselor gave instructions for permanent dye. It will grow out in time, but you’ll look rather silly if you don’t continuously color the undergrowth. I have you down for a follow up appointment in two weeks.”

  I am sickened, but my thoughts are diverted as Molly finishes plying her craft at my eyebrows and playfully but brazenly tweaks my left nipple.

  “You look cute. And I think your counselor wants you to look cute. You will please her.”

  Spoken with the assumption that pleasing my counselor is my only goal, Molly steps away and tosses me my undershirt.

  “Two weeks. And the advantage of permanent coloring is that for the most part you can shampoo normally. I’ll give you a bottle of mild formula on the way out. The bill has been taken care of.”

  ***

  My counselor greets me with all the expected superlatives.

  “My, my how pretty you look, Mr. Warren!”

  I ente
r her inner sanctum, already disgruntled by the cute and knowing smile of her secretary receptionist, endured as I waited to be summoned.

  I wonder if she knows I am ‘counseled’ while completely nude.

  The short walk from the salon was tough for me, strolling rapidly through midtown at rush hour, not knowing how to counter the riveting questioning stares... man with girlish hair?.. or girl wearing men’s attire? I just gazed straight ahead and tried to ignore.

  But there was a reaction... down there. And I do not understand it. I felt twinges. The attention brought some form of ‘pre arousal’ for want of a better term. I do believe that had I been intact I would have stiffened. But then if I had been intact would all the stares... some rather adoring... have given rise to the twinge?

  I am confused by my own reaction.... physical and emotional. My mind is in a dither. And oddly I am glad to finally be in the seclusion of my counselor’s office.

  By rote I begin to remove my clothing very much aware of how the counselor insists that I present myself to her.

  “Very alluring. Very effeminate. And I think you like it!” my counselor begins with the psychological barrage.

  Before I step to lie on her couch, she grasps my right hand, just as Nurse Sueann is wont to do.

  “Come let’s look at you.”

  She guides me to a closet door and opens it. On the back is a full length mirror, apparently used between appointments and at the end of the day to assure her presentment. She pushes me to her front and stands behind. My eyes widen in shock... and I must confess rather pleasant shock. My denuded, hairless form is indeed alluring, disgustingly alluring unless one is a pedophile. At age 24, I have the appearance of a prepubescent boy... with testicles excised more likely a prepubescent girl. But for some reason I take joy... and she knows!

  “You look cute as a blond.”

  I do indeed... and I am both ashamed and yet oddly stimulated.

  “How do you feel?”

  And this is when I begin to understand the need for counseling. I know how I feel, but cannot express it... perhaps dare not express it.