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"Good morning, Urology Specialists. This is Teressa. How may I help you ?"
The voice was sweet, and obviously young, and made the muscles in my chest constrict even more tightly around my ribs. I had been dreading, putting off making the call but when I called back to my doctor in Dallas he had prodded me again to do so. I cleared my throat.
"Yes, uhm, hello. My name is Rick Tilman. I need to make an appointment."
"Fine. With which doctor?"
"Dr. Eddington, please."
"Have you seen Dr. Eddington before?"
"No, I haven't. I was referred to him by Dr. Smith in Dallas."
"It's nice to see Dr. Eddington has a reputation that spreads all the way to Texas."
"Yes, I guess he does."
"Are you having any particular problems, Mr. Tilman. Or ?"
I wanted to say, Hell, yes, I'm having problems! Huge problems! I left my dick and balls in a metal bowl in Dallas; I piss from between my legs -- just like you, honey buns; and I'm never, ever going to get any more pussy -- including yours, Teressa, you sweet sounding little thing.
Instead, I took a deep breath and said, "Uhm, well, the truth is, uhm, I had cancer and was operated on about seven months ago. They had to remove my, uhm, my, uhm, male equipment."
"Oh, I see."
"Dr. Smith just wanted me to establish a, well, a ‘relationship' with a urologist in this area to monitor the situation. Mainly, I guess, in case I get any UTIs."
"I like, totally, understand," said Teressa. "I had one last summer and I was miserable for days."
"Yes, I had one not long after my operation, and was not happy."
"May I ask you something?"
"Does Dr. Eddington treat other men in my situation?"
"I've only been here two months, just since I graduated from the CNA program at the community college. I know of at least two others, though." She paused. "But I'm not sure if he had everything removed. I think they may still have their balls." I heard a little gasp from Teressa. "Ooops! Sorry. I meant testicles."
I chuckled. "That's OK. That's what I call ‘em, too."
Teressa sighed, relieved. "Hey, but you know who could tell you a lot more? Becky. She's our office manager and Dr. Eddington's head nurse. I just saw her go by. She's been with him, like, forever. She's really nice, though. Would you like to talk to her?"
"Sure. I suppose."
"OK, Mr. Tilman. I'm going to put you on hold for a minute."
"Fine. And Teressa, thanks."
"Oh, no problem. Good luck!" she told me, bubbly as a cheerleader, as if living with the permanent loss of my genitalia was a race to run and won. "Becky will transfer you back to me to set up your appointment."
I held on the line while Elton John sang "Rocketman". When I placed the call, I had not planned to get into any big dialogue about my situation, and certainly not with women. But Teressa seemed friendly and not too shocked by my revelation, and I did want to be sure that I was going to see someone who had a solid background in treating men with penile cancer. Beyond any urologic problems I might have, I wanted to be sure that Dr. Eddington would be on top of possible signs that the cancer had returned.
When the line picked up an older voice came into my still nervous ear. "Good morning, Mr. Tilman. I'm Becky Collier, Dr. Eddington's nurse," she said -- professional but friendly, and younger than Teressa's quick bio had indicated. "How can I help you?"
"Did your receptionist tell you my situation?"
I heard papers shuffle on her desk. "Just that you're new to the area and have recently undergone a penectomy due to cancer."
Becky Collier, R.N., reeled off the word -- penectomy -- as easily as most people would say appendectomy or lyposuction. I felt a little twinge of anger and my voice came out flat and hard. "Yes, and a bilateral orchidectomy and prostate removal."
I thought I would impress her with the extent of my emasculation, and I suppose I did. She paused. No more shuffling papers. "I am sorry. I know it must be very difficult for you."
The splinter of anger slipped away on the sincerity of her voice. "Yes. Yes, it is."
"How long ago was your surgery?"
"What stage was your cancer?"
"Stage III, penile."
"Do the doctors feel there were adequate margins for long- term success?"
Nurse Collier was asking in diplomatic med-speak whether the doctors removed my dick fast enough to save my life, or whether the cancer was still eating me alive.
"You of all people should know how doctors are when it comes to cancer," I replied, just as diplomatically. "They wait five years before deciding whether any treatment was a success. But, in general, they think my prognosis is good."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it," she said, and her voice told me she really was. "Now, how can I help you?"
"Obviously, I feel rather, uhm, awkward about my situation." I paused by Nurse Collier made no comment. "I just want to make sure that your office, Dr. Eddington is experienced in dealing with men in my condition. Especially in regards to the cancer. Teressa said you'd been with the doctor forever, so --"
Becky Collier laughed. "She did, huh? ‘Forever'? I guess fifteen years is ‘forever' when your nineteen."
I chuckled. "I have to admit, you don't sound quite as old as the mountains."
"Some days I feel it, though. You sound rather young yourself, for penile cancer. It's a good deal more common in older men."
"Yes, I know. Guess I got lucky. I'm 41."
"Ohh, Mr. Tilman, that is young to be dealing with something like your surgery."
"Rick. Call me, Rick. I only discuss details of my penis, or lack thereof, with women who call me by my first name."
She laughed again. I liked making her laugh, and she was a woman who enjoyed laughter, I could tell.
"All right, Rick. To answer your questions, our urology group and Dr. Eddington in particular have a great deal of experience dealing with penectomy patients. We're the largest urology group in the state and Dr. Eddington has a national reputation, so we get referrals from all over the state and along the border of surrounding states as well," she said, as if reading from a resume. "Dr. Eddington works with everything from pediatric cases -- like when a baby boy is born with a retracted or deformed penis; to teenagers and men who've suffered traumatic injuries -- gunshots, car wrecks, farm accidents, chain saws."
I wanted to ask, but let it pass.
"And he also sees at least 10 to 12 penile cancer patients a year. Not all of them have undergone or need radicals such as yours," she explained. "Probably 80 percent are partials, but we see and do our share of radicals as well."
"Do you assist Dr. Eddington in surgery?"
"Yes, I do."
I was silent a moment, remembering Dr. Smith's surgery nurse, looking down at me with eyes more pale blue even than the scrubs and mask she wore. They were competent, confident, kind eyes that could not hide a hint of sadness, knowing what that masked band of men and women were about to rob from me. The jewel theft that was about to occur. I lay there then, and sat at the kitchen table holding the telephone receiver now, fighting to remember the gift they'd left behind -- a chance at life, to fulfill other dreams that did not involve sex or marriage or children. Every day, every hour, every time I took piss I had to fight to remember that. Sometimes I won the fight and sometimes I cried.
Nurse Collier seemed to sense in the silence what I was feeling. "How are you handling it, Rick?"
"Handling it? Why, Miss Collier you of all people should know, I don't have anything TO handle anymore," I tried to joke.
She waited a beat. "Becky. Call me Becky."
"OK, Becky," I managed through a lump in throat. She waited again, not pressing, not in a rush; she had, or was making time for me. "You know, good days and bad," I finally said. "Some days I hardly notice it, except for when I take a shower or go to the bathroom. Other days, it's -- Every minute is torture."
"Are you menopausal?" she asked, knowing I would not be able to take a testosterone supplement since I was a cancer patient; and that castration often caused a man to suffer the same sorts of symptoms as a woman during "The Change" or following a hysterectomy.
"On and off," I said. "Some weeks I go through hot flashes, night sweats, insomnia, headaches -- the whole nine yards. Others, nothing. The biggest side effect has been weight gain in my hips and thighs. I've got a bigger butt now than my sister!"
Becky Collier chuckled. "Welcome to the club. I've been fighting the Battle of the Butt for years."
"How's it going?" I asked, trying to picture the woman who went with the voice.
"I'm winning. For now."
"What about your chest?" she asked, knowing that another side effect of castration without hormone replacement could be slight to complete breast development.
"My nipples are puffy and sore all the time, but no fatty tissue forming behind them -- yet."
"Good. You don't want to have to be dealing with that on top of everything else. We can help you keep it that way through diet and other medications that don't involve hormones."
"Oh, good!" I enthused, and meant it. Breast development was a possibility of which I was fearfully aware. Outside of medical personnel, I had told only one person -- my sister -- about my emasculation, my neutering, my "nullification" -- saying, "Sis, I guess we have a lot more in common now." Denise had make a smile as she nodded and brushed a tear from her cheek. Even though Becky Collier was a nurse experienced in the field, it amazed me that I was conversing so casually, so easily with her. I had said more, warmed more to this total stranger in five minutes, than the sex therapist I visited for three months after my surgery.
"How are you doing with your urination?"
"I'm sitting!" I teased.
"Silly! I figured that. I mean with your sphincter control."
The sphincter, I had learned, was the small knot of muscle at the mouth of the urethra that allows a person to control his or her -- or its -- flow. "It's a lot better than it was," I told her. "I had to wear an adult diaper -- all the time! -- for almost two months after the operation. God, I hated that! I felt so, just so completely out of control. Almost helpless."
"Hey, fella, I definitely can relate. My second child had no mercy on me when coming into this world. My sphincter was totally messed up. I had to wear a diaper every minute of the day and night for almost four months after I had Brittany. I was wetting myself more often than she was. Like you say, you just feel so helpless when you can't control that very basic element of your bodily function."
So, Becky Collier had children. And probably a husband with a 10-inch dick that she loved to climb on and -- I pushed the fantasy out of my mind. "How is it now?" I asked.
"Oh, that's been nine years ago. About a zillion Keigles later, I'm basically fine. I wear a mini-pad when I go to the gym because when I really push it, I can leak a little. But that's not uncommon for a lot of women."
So, Becky Collier is friendly, loves to laugh, her youngest child is nine, and she works out at the gym. "How often do you go?" I asked.
"To the bathroom?"
"No!" I laughed. "To the gym?"
She laughed, too. I was becoming intoxicated with her laugh. I didn't want to go to work or put down the phone. I just wanted to sit there with a second cup of coffee and share with Becky Collier all the fears and pain and frustrations I had felt since that first awful day in Dr. Smith's office when he had told me I had cancer and that I would have to have my penis removed.
"Oh, I get there a couple of times a week, if I'm lucky. Between two energetic, athletic kids, a full- time job and a little volunteer work I do at my church, it doesn't leave a lot of gym time for Momma."
"What about your husband? Can't he help out with the kids?"
I was fishing and I knew it. I wondered if she did. If she would sense that for the first time in months this dickless guy on the other end of the line was actually enjoying talking to a woman, was actually interested in a woman again.
"If I could find Jack, he might help. But I doubt it. Kids and marriage never were his thing." There was no rancor in her voice, not the bile that so often bubbles in a woman's throat when she talks about her ex. She'd been hurt, but moved on from it, I could tell. "We divorced five years ago, and not long after he disappeared to duck the child support. Now it's just me and Brittany and Jack Jr. Lord, I wish I had possessed the foresight to name him something else."
If she knew I was fishing, Becky Collier had readily taken the bait. Had opened up a door onto her life, and more than just a crack. I hurriedly fumbled for something to say, not wanting the beats of silence to settle into good-bye. "We can't know what the future holds."
"No, we can't. So, what about you? Are the Keigles doing their job?"
Keigles are isometric exercises often used my women after childbirth when urinary leakage is a problem. Very simple, they merely involve squeezing and holding the muscles of the crotch, releasing and repeating over and over and over and -- "I guess they're working, slowly but I hope surely. No more diapers or thick maxis. I'm down to a mini-pad now, but still have to wear one constantly and change them four or five times a day. Anytime I laugh, or strain or sneeze, I leak a little."
"I know it's frustrating for now, Rick, but that's pretty typical for seven months post-op. Just keep doing those Keigles, as many of them as you can possibly do every day," she advised. "Give it a year. If you're not down to just one or two mini-pads a day, or maybe just a pantyliner, then talk with Dr. Eddington about other remedies. There are drugs, such as Ditropan, that can help. And if those don't, Dr. Eddington can go in and tighten your sphincter surgically or even install an artificial sphincter, if it comes to that."
"Yes, he's done a lot of them."
I heard buzz in the background. "Rick, can you hold for just a minute, I need to pickup another line."
"Of course," I said, terrified that she'd return to "our line" and tell me that she had to go. I could feel the energy of the conversation winding down, but I didn't want to say good-bye. Not yet. I looked for something else to say, a question to ask that wouldn't seem too invasive and yet would test just how comfortable she was with a dickless guy, with me. When she returned, I said, "May I ask you something?"
"You know, I had to wear the diapers, then I went to a maxi pad. I didn't feel like Pudgy the Clown anymore with all that diaper padding and plastic bloomers gone from around me, but it still felt like I was wearing a log between my legs."
"You got that right," she sniggered. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"Now I'm down to the mini-pads."
"Much more comfortable, right?"
"Yes, much. The problem is, when I went from the diapers to the pads, I needed something that would hold them firmly in place, so I won't leak around them," I explained. "I used to wear men's brief's, but --"
"With your hips, your flatness down front, they don't fit anymore."
"Right," I agreed. "My sister bought me a bunch of panties. No, no, nothing lacy or frilly or pink. Just plain white briefs with some elastic in them so they're snug and keep my pad in place. They work fine," I paused, "but --"
"They're still panties," Becky filled in.
"And your not comfortable in lingerie?"
"Well, I -- No, I guess not. I --"
"Good for you," she told me. "You'd be surprised how effeminate many men become, and sometimes very quickly, after your type of surgery. We have several patients that to look at them, you can't tell whether they are men or women. We have others who retain they male identity in half their life, but dress and live as women in the other half. And we have a handful for whom Dr. Eddington has performed complete sex changes. Vagina, the whole deal."
"He does that?"
"Yes, and it's really amazing! They come back for check ups, put their feet in the stirrups, and if I did not know better, I would not have the slightest idea that they were not born female. It's just, well, incredible!"
"Wow! I bet," I told her, leaving out the fact that more than once I had held a mirror between my legs and wondered what it would be like, if I wouldn't be better off to have a have a set of full, thick lips smiling down at the glass, instead of just the dime-sized circle of muscle near my anus. But those thoughts slipped into the background when I heard Becky Collier say, "I'm proud of you, Rick, for wanting to hang on to your maleness."
"Thanks," I said, sounding a lot more confident about that possibility then I felt.
"Anyway, Rick Tilman, you are talking to the right girl when it comes to helping with your underwear problem."
"Yep, I've got just the thing for you. They're called SheBoxers," Becky told me. "I know, you're not crazy about the name, and I suppose, since they're marketed to women, they're technically ‘panties', but they're nothing like what you think of as women's underwear."
"They come in three styles -- longline, which is just above your knees, mid-thigh and shorty. The shorties have legs with elastic cuffs that come down about two inches on your thighs and they fit and look just like a pair of tight men's briefs," she explained. "Except with no fly, of course. And with the legs like they are, no pantylines either."
"That last part is good to know," I told her, and we laughed together, our voices mixing in the moment of this casual yet incredibly intimate encounter we were sharing. I already could imagine Becky Collier in the shorty SheBoxers, the front flat against her tight belly, the material stretching over round, firm hips she thought a tad too wide. I felt a strange tingling around my pee hole. I wanted to hear her say it. "Are those what you wear?"
"Yep, as the matter of fact, I have on a pair of black ones right now," she told me as off-handedly as if she were telling me what brand of coffee she used. "They come in black, white, skin- tone and, I think, gray." The tingle raced through my flat, empty crotch. "I have some of all three styles," she went on as I became aware of the tightness of my fingers on portable phone. "The mid- thighs are great under jeans. The longlines are too hot for summer, but they're really cozy in the winter." Suddenly the prickly tingle died as unexpectedly as it had arrived, as I realized Becky Collier was conversing with me about her underwear with the same ease she might suggest a brand of pantyhose to a girlfriend. There was no reason for her to feel awkward about such talk, after all, as I was no longer a member of the opposite sex. In fact, I had no sex at all, and who would know that better then Becky Collier, R.N. Just a round, flat crotch and a pee hole between my legs, ohhh, so similar to any woman, and to Becky herself. "When it's cold, I like to wear the longlines with knee-highs. But I guess you won't be doing that," she chuckled, but something had gone out of her laugh for me. I felt sad, and foolish that I had even imagined that, despite my dickless state, Becky was flirting with me, intentionally matching me tease for tease. No, it wasn't that, I decided. It was just a intelligent, professional, probably attractive divorcee/mom - - woman! -- trying to make a eunuch feel more at ease in his de- balled condition.
I maked down the lump in my throat. "Gosh, I hadn't noticed the time," I told her. "I have to get to work."
"No problem. I'm the one who was rambling about the wonders of SheBoxers," she said and quickly gave me the name of the local department stores where they could be purchased. "If the clerk looks at you funny, just tell her your wife looks soooo good in them, you just want her to have more."
I smiled in spite of the heaviness that had settled into my chest. "Look, Becky, thanks a lot. I really appreciate your help. It's been really nice to talk to you."
"Yes, you, too. I'll be looking forward to meeting you when you come in for you appointment."
Oh, my God! I thought. That's right! I'm actually going to be meeting her. "Uhm, yeah, me, too."
"Good. Then I'll transfer you back out to Teressa, if you have time to make the appointment now?"
I hesitated. I had told Becky Collier all about my pathetic crotch, my ass like a girl's, my over- inflated nipples. And she'd seen it all before, probably dozens of times. Yet, there was suddenly a part of me that did not want her to see the sexless, empty swatch between my legs. But I did need a local urologist, and, yes, I knew no matter how untouchable Becky Collier was to me, I badly wanted to meet her.
"Yes. Yes, please do transfer me back to Teressa. I'd like to come in as soon as possible."
The Urology Specialists Group in the capitol was the largest, most renowned clinic of its kind in the state -- for several states around, in fact. Dr. Eddington and seven associates practiced and several taught at the state's medical school just down the street. The reception area was marble and dark woods and looked more like the waiting area for a fine restaurant, except that some of the people were holding specimen cups. The paneling and carpet spoke of the group's success, but did not flaunt it.
Frosted glass windows separated he reception area from the working portion of the office. I walked passed a large cherry table where brochures on prostate cancer, impotence treatments and drugs to cure or reduce bladder infections fanned out from a centerpiece of live flowers. Orchids, maybe..
Nervous, I pushed the buzzer next to the sliding window. I was not used to meeting face to face people who knew about my condition -- knew that some eight months ago Stage III penile cancer had maked the complete removal of my penis, testicles and prostate. Because testosterone is a known cancer stimulator, it was off limits to me, causing my body to slip deeper and deeper into a strange no-man's land between male and female. As long as I kept a cotton button-down over my T-shirt, the widening and thickening of my nipples was hidden, and while the change in my hormonal structure had caused fat cells to settle on hips and thighs, giving my a backside with a woman's width and roundness, that could be camouflaged with the right khakis and otherwise passed off as simple "fat-ass, middle-aged spread." While I continued to feel young and always had remained quite athletic and outdoorsy, I had turned 41 on my last birthday. The chemotherapy and anxiety over the surgery and its aftermath had put the first noticeable gray in my head of thick black hair.
The glass partition slid open. "Hi! Can I help you?"
"I'm Rick Tillman. I have a four o'clock appointment."
"Oh, hi, Mr. Tillman. I'm Teressa," she said, extending her hand. "We've talked on the phone several times."
Yes, we had. The first time I called for an appointment I told her about my situation and she had quickly put me at ease, although she was new at her job and not even out of her teens. When I told her I was being referred to Dr. Eddington by my oncologist in Dallas, and inquired as to the doctor's expertise with penectomy patients, she transferred me to Becky Collier, Eddington's head nurse and the office manager. Nurse Collier was just as reassuring and even more relaxed about dealing with my sort of surgery. In the two weeks since I called for the appointment, Teressa had phoned twice. Once to fax me a permission form to get my records from my Dallas doctor, and then the previous day to confirm the appointment.
"I told you yesterday, call me Rick. Under the circumstances, I think we're on an intimate enough basis for that."
Teressa chuckled, a nice laugh, but not girlish. It was a counterbalance to her bubbly personality and her blond good looks. "I suppose you're right. Just sign in and put the time, then come on around. Becky wanted me to take you straight to her office when you got here."
I did as Teressa requested and got a hard glare from a man in his sixties with a urine sample perched on his knee. He did not look like a man who enjoyed waiting for anything. "How come you get such special treatment?"
I started to tell him, "Hey! Get your dick and balls cut off and maybe they'll rush you right in, too." Of course, I didn't say that. "Just good timing, I guess."
Teressa was waiting on the other side of the door. They were almost the same height, he noticed, 5-10. Although very pretty, she was not the runway model type. Her face was too round and she was just on the nice side of the border between being full- figured and plump. Her white polyester uniform hugged her ample curves and was unzipped low enough in the front to hint at her cleavage. The other women in the office must hate her, I thought.
"Welcome to our world."
"You can wait in Becky's office. She actually has a window!" Teressa picked up my file from a counter. "Follow me."
Gladly, I thought, as she turned and her hips began to roll under the snug uniform pants. I could see that her French cut panties had a flower design on them, and that straps of her bra were thick, four hooks, built to hold up a set of large, heavy breasts.
Becky Collier's office did indeed have a window, a big one, with a nice view of the capitol building a few blocks away on State Street. "Nice."
"Yes, it is. In twenty years maybe I'll be sitting in here, or in an office like it," said Teressa. "I'm going back to school for a degree in nursing then maybe a masters in business administration."
It quickly was becoming apparent that all of Teressa's assets were not contained in her C-cups. Or were they Ds?
"Have a seat and Becky should be in a couple of minutes. She's in with Dr. Eddington and a patient."
"Thanks," I said and dropped into a comfortably upholstered wing chair.
Thinking Teressa was about to leave, I was studying her bottom, the flower pattern on her panties, so when she shut the door but for a crack and came back and sat in the chair next to me, I was surprised. Our knees were almost touching and I realized that in sitting I had slipped into my new habit of keeping my knees neatly together or folding them snugly like those of a woman. Why I had developed that habit or even when it started, I cannot say, but now, eight months post-op, unless I made myself aware and reminded myself I did not have to sit tight- kneed, I automatically sat like a woman. Sat like Teressa was sitting, her uniform pants hugging her thighs where they met her crotch. I was sure she noticed the positioning of my legs, but did not seem put off by it.
"Rick, I hope I'm not out of line here. But I just wanted to tell you, you're the first man your age I've met who's, well, had a radical like yours, and I really admire the way your handling it. You seem like such a together guy."
I chuckled. "You're not out of line. That's very kind of you to say. But believe me, there were and still are times when I don't handle it well at all."
In the first four months after the surgery I had mixed booze and pills to ease my physical and emotional pain. Half drunk and half asleep I would feel the rise of a "phantom erection" on my pelvis and stagger into the bathroom, stand there facing the toilet, fumbling in my panties to try to pull out my dick. Until reality took hold and I became aware again of the maxipad between my legs and the emptiness on the front of me. If I was lucky, I managed to get myself turned around, get my panties down and plop my widening butt onto the seat, crying and cussing at the same time as I peed from between my legs. Sometimes, through my sobs, I refused the feminine act of sitting and simply stood there, the hot piss streaming down the insides of my thighs.
There was the anger and embarrassment I felt at the grocery store, at first having to purchase adult diapers for sleeping and maxipads for daytime wear. Then there was the humiliation of men's rooms where I had to walk passed the urinals and settle into a stall where sat and pissed and often changed my pad while out in the room I heard men emptying their bladders, imagined them holding their dicks in their hands, shaking the soft, precious meat when they were done. One Friday two of them were in a jovial mood, and one started the old joke --
"Whew, boy! The water in this damn urinal is too cold for comfort."
"Yeah, and it's deep, too!" the other one joked.
I remembered how my chin quiver, my eyes teared and I fought my sobs until he heard the door close behind them, thinking: "I'll never know. Never ever know again. Never be able to joke with men again like a real man."
Perhaps that seems a small price for a life, my life, I tried to tell myself. Without the surgery, the cancer would have quickly taken him, yet that intellectual knowledge did not always ease the pain of emasculation, of being turned into a neuter. Often in those early months of my new life as a eunuch, and still now and then, there were long nights when I propped on pillows in bed, naked, staring at my empty crotch, a triple bourbon-on-ice in one hand, my .357 in the other, watching an X-rated flick on pay-per-view.
My depression over my "nullification" was deepened by the sudden plunge of testosterone in my system, sending me into the same sort menopausal spasm as a woman suffers after a hysterectomy. Insomnia, night sweats, hot flashes, crying jags, a sudden weight gain in my hips and thighs, extreme tenderness in my nipples. Without my testicles or supplemental testosterone the estrogen-like hormone naturally produced by a man's glands was fighting to take over my system. At first, I hated and resisted those sensations, but as my endocrine system changed, easing the menopause symptoms, I became grateful.
"Can I ask you something really personal?" Teressa said.
"I mean, I'm going to be a nurse and all, and I was just wondering, can a man in your situation still feel, well, horny?" I shifted in my chair and resettled my legs in a tight cross at the knee, a little surprised by the phrasing of her question, though not startled by its nature. If I were in her shoes -- her panties! - - I'd have been curious, too, though I doubted at nineteen I would have had the nerve to ask. Kids are different now, though, and I was impressed by Teressa's directness, her seeming honesty and even innocence. "Look, I'm sorry, if I'm prying too much, just tell me to shut up. OK?"
"No, I don't mind. It's just hard to explain," I told her, having tried to sort out my own emotions about it many times, and still not able to fully grasp it. "Obviously, I don't have anything to have an erection with, or any way to ejaculate."
"True," she sighed, a real sadness on the breath.
But I knew that wasn't the answer she was seeking, nor the one I had been seeking. I had plenty of notions in the back of my head about "getting horny" or the lack thereof, but this was the first time he had ever try to distill that steamy cloud into a few syllable-sized droplets. "When a see an attractive woman, like yourself, I enjoy looking at your face, your hair, your shape." She cast her eyes toward her the big curve of her bosom and shyly smiled. "But for me, now, the world is like walking through a museum full of feminine masterpieces, some of them very beautiful and erotic. But they're all sealed under glass. I can admire them. I can appreciate them. I can enjoy them very much with my eyes, but I can't ever touch them. Not really." Teressa's green eyes were growing damp, but I kept talking, listening to myself, hearing myself express what I'd been feeling for months but had been unable to put into words even during weekly sessions with a sex therapist back in Dallas. "Every now and then I still feel the spark up here," I said, pointing to my head. "And even down here." I patted the flat front of my pants. "But the fire just never ignites. And the more time that passes since the operation, the longer it is between each spark."
"Ohhh," she sighed, brushing a tear from the corner of her right eye. "That's so sad. And you're such a nice looking man."
"Thanks. You make me feel good. And you're not out of line. You're very kind."
Teressa leaned toward me, put one hand on my knee and took something from her pocket. The angle gave me a much better look at her breasts, and I felt sure she knew it. As she squeezed my knee, she handed me one of the clinic's business cards. "I wrote my home number on the back of it. If you ever want to talk, about your situation or anything, just call me. I keep weird hours, so don't worry about calling even if it's the middle of the night."
I was both startled by the offer and by the powerful spark I suddenly felt sizzling in my brain and down the back of my. Was this just a sweet, somewhat naive teenager offering only friendship, a sort of counseling, to a man she knew to be desexed? Or was this woman/child saying something else?
"Hey, I've got to get back to the front desk," she said, standing quickly, moving to the door. "But I mean it, about calling. Anytime. OK?"
"OK," I nodded.
Teressa smiled, a perfect smile that probably cost her parents a fortune. She left the door open and I watched the lovely motion of her hips all the way down the hall.
I was sitting there staring at the card wondering what exactly Teressa was offering when Becky Collier walked in. I stood, slipping the card into my pants pocket with one hand while extending the other.
"Rick Tillman? Nice to meet you."
In many ways, Becky Collier, R.N., was much as I had pictured her, and pictured her, and pictured her -- only smaller. No more than 5-2 and 105 pounds, she was energetic without being frenetic. Her smile lit up her face and the room. Her brown hair was styled in a loose, attractive perm that didn't quite reach her shoulders -- easy for a working mom to brush through in the mornings and go. Compared to the size of Teressa's cups, Becky Collier's breasts required little more than thimbles, but her breasts and hips -- from what I could tell under her green surgical scrubs -- were perfectly proportioned to her small frame, and thus seemed more than adequate.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, turning to a pot on the bookcase next to her desk. "I'm an addict, I'm afraid."
"Sure. I'd love some."
The nurse/administrator's office was neat, but not pathological. I had a sense that Becky Collier could put her hand on any report, or bill or invoice she needed, even though some of those things were in stacks beside her desk and under the window. "Cream or sugar?"
"No, I take it black."
"Me, too. Cream and sugar is for wimps." She smiled.
I took the cup in both hands and sipped it slowly as I studied her office through the steam. Besides books, manuals, reports and the ubiquitous PC, her space was alive with growing plants and pictures of she and her children. From our previous conversation, I knew her daughter was nine. Her son was handsome, around 14, and looked vaguely Hispanic. Both already were taller than their mother. The only other picture on the wall was of she, a distinguished older gentleman and -- "Is that the president?"
"Oh, yes, that's him."
"May I ask -- ?"
"I was, well, I was named national health care professional of the year a couple of years back. Dr. Eddington and I, and several other people in the health industry, were invited to a little luncheon at the White House."
"Wow! That's great. I'm very impressed. And what an honor for you."
"Yes, it was something special. The kids came along and we got a wonderful tour of the White House. And we stayed in Washington for about a week, seeing all the sites. It was very nice."
"What's he like in person?"
"The president? Oh, he's tall. But then everyone is tall to me. He's handsome. Very charismatic."
"He didn't offer your a cigar, did he?"
Becky Collier laughed in the same way she had on the phone. A laugh that showed she enjoyed laughter. "No, not hardly."
"Maybe I should try that cigar thing. I guess it would be better than nothing."
Becky Collier's face settled into a gentle smile. "I think you can find better equipment than that to use. In fact, you probably still have it. You just haven't accepted it yet."
"Do you have a degree in psychology as well?"
"No. But I do have a degree in the nature of men who've had to had serious surgery on their genitals. I've been with Dr. Eddington for fifteen years, remember?"
"You must have started with him when you were fifteen, then."
"I can see you haven't forgotten how to turn a woman's head," she smiled. Then her face became serious, though no less soft and friendly. "So, how's it going? Adjusting any better?"
I thought about how to answer. Beck Collier's face her attitude was one that instinctively engendered honesty. "It's hard to say. I mean, like I told you one the phone, I have good days and bad. Days when I barely notice it except when I take a shower or take a pee. Other days, I'm so consumed by thoughts of it and anger about it that I can barely get anything done. I just want to stay in bed an cry." I looked into her kind eyes. "Not very manly, huh?"
"Very human. Very natural. Very normal, under the circumstances," she reassured. "Don't sell yourself short, Rick. This is a heckuva thing to handle."
I nodded, not knowing what else to say.
"Well, come on back to the examination room and I'll get you prepped for the exam," she said, rising. I looked for a place to put down my coffee cup. "You can bring it, if you want."
I followed her into the hall. "This is a really nice office," I said, for lack of anything better.
"Thanks. I helped decorate it. Especially the reception area."
Looks, personality, excellent professional credentials and good taste. On top of that, she seems to be a good mother. This Becky Collier is quite a package, I thought.
We entered a large, well-appointed examining room that looked more like a surgical suite than what's seen in a typical doctor's office. "You've seen enough doctors over the last year that I'm sure you know the routine. I need you to undress and change into one of those awful little paper gowns, then I need a urine sample," she said, handing me a sterile plastic cup.
"No problem. I'm become a pro at this."
"I'm sure. Well, I'll give you some privacy. There's a bathroom right there," she pointed. "I'll be back in about five minutes."
I waited until the door closed behind her, and began undressing. Shirt, then T-shirt. I felt the small ball of fat cells developing behind my engorged, expanded nipples. I would have almost bet that my nipples and areola already were larger than Nurse Collier's. But definitely not bigger than Teressa's!
I stepped out of my loafers, pulled off my socks and slid my loose-fit khakis down over my ever- expanding hips. My body already had softened from the hard, angular lines of masculine muscle to the round, smooth, malleable shape of a hip-heavy woman. A pear.
Standing there I looked at the flat front of the shorty SheBoxers that Becky had recommended when we talked on the phone and I had expressed my discomfort about wearing "panties" to hold my mini-pads in place. She was right. They were not feminine at all other than the fact that they were sold in the lingerie department and had no fly in front. Otherwise, they fit just like snug combination boxers and briefs and held my pads securely over my pee hole. After a moment I peeled them off, too, exposing my smooth, bare, empty pelvis. I had shaved my increasingly sparse bush the night before as Teressa instructed. Now in the florescent lights of the examining room I felt a little queasy looking at the round shape of my pelvis. With no protective patch of pubic hair to even slightly camouflage my loss -- even to my own eyes -- I felt more exposed, more dickless than ever.
"Fool," I sighed, "you are dickless. How do you expect to look?"
I pushed the thought aside and tried to get down to the business of the examination. Taking the cup out of the plastic wrapper, I went into the small bathroom and sat. After some messy and tearful early experiences, over the last eight months, I'd become rather expert at giving a urine samples like a woman. Using two fingers of my left hand I precisely located the dime-sized urethral opening Dr. Smith had built into my crotch about and inch and a half in front of my anus; then with my right hand position the cup under the spot, against my skin. When I allowed my rebuilt sphincter muscles to open, I felt the cup gain weight and get warm in my hand. Sure I had a good sample, I pulled the cup away and finished into the bowl.
Putting the sample on the edge of the sink, I pulled a few sheets of toilet tissue from the roll, squatted and dabbed myself like my sister, Denise, had taught me. "You'll get used to it," she had assured me. At the time, I thought she was crazy and told her so. But over the months, sitting for a piss and "dabbing" myself afterwards had become nearly automatic, except in situations such as this where I as incredibly aware of every feminine move, of my total dicklessness.
I screwed the lid onto the container and washed my hands, then hurried to get into the paper gown before Nurse Collier returned, as if it might keep her from seeing how I was left. Of course, it did not. After checking my weight, blood pressure and listening to my heart, she drew several blood samples. Then she said, "OK, Rick. I know this is not likely to be something you enjoy, but I need you to lay down and put your feet in these stirrups."
I felt a flush of embarrassment rise in my neck and cheeks. "I'm getting used to it," I managed as I stretched out. "I guess kind of like a teenage girl getting used to the gynecologist."
"Don't feel awkward about, well, feeling awkward," she said, guiding my heels into position. "I've had to lay back and spread ‘em for thirty years and through three pregnancies, and I still hate it."
"Three pregnancies," I wondered. "I thought you had two kids."
Becky Collier paused for a moment as if trying to remember what she'd said. "My first child, a little boy, died three days after he was born."
"I'm sorry," I told her, as she stood between my open legs.
"His name was Jacob," she said, and her eyes were far away, focused on the wall and beyond. Then with a sigh she came back to the room, to her job, to my shaven crotch. "Wow! It looks like Dr. Smith did a beautiful job with you. You're as smooth as a baby's backside. No scarring at all."
"Beautiful!" I grumbled. "I wish I did have some scars. Something I could point to and say, ‘Hey, I really did used to have a penis. It was right there!' But the way he left me, it looks like a I was just born without anything. Come take a look at the ‘Natural Born Eunuch'."
Becky waited a beat. Waited, I think, to see if I had any more baggage I needed to unload. Then, "I want to apologize, Rick. That was a very thoughtless comment by me." She gripped my left ankle with her small hand. "Sometimes we medical professionals get so caught up in technique that we forget no matter how good our work, it's not always easy for the patient to live with afterwards. I'm sorry."
I nodded, but kept my eyes on the far wall, knowing I would cry if I looked at her face. Thankfully, she moved on. "You did a nice shaving job last night, I see. But to make sure we don't catch a loose hair and push it up into your bladder during the cystoscope procedure, I'm going to go ahead and shave the insides of your legs to about mid-way down your thighs."
"OK. Whatever you need to do."
"Hey, but we do have hot lather," she told me with a smile and pointed to a small white canister on the counter that was plugged into the wall. She rotated a switch on the cord and a green light atop it lit up. "While that's heating, I'm going to put these straps on your lower legs so that if I tickle you or you feel a little discomfort during the procedure --"
"I don't kick you or him in the head?"
There was that smile again. "Something like that. Also to make sure I don't nick you with the razor or that you don't injure yourself with the cystoscope."
"You know, I've already had two since my surgery."
"Yes, but Dr. Eddington is going to be your primary urologist for a while, it's important for him to see for himself. He's very deliberate and really takes his time. "Also, we have the latest split- screen video cystoscope and make a DVD record of each procedure," his efficient head nurse explained, tapping a monitor and disc burner. "That way, when you come in for another of these in four to six months, Dr. Eddington will be able to immediately spot any changes in your urethra or bladder."
"Very impressive," I said, and meant it. No wonder Becky Collier had won a national award.
"Thanks. We're very proud of what we do here and the care we give our patients." The light atop the canister changed to red. "Lather's ready."
She positioned a metal bowl of water and a disposable razor on a table next to my splayed legs, then pulled on gloves and placed protective plastic glasses over her eyes before filling her palm with steaming white foam. "Ahh, must be near the end of the can. The lather is a little thin. But I think it will be OK," she said, sitting down on a stool and rolling between my round, soft thighs. I was both disgusted by being on my back, strapped into stirrups, spread eagle as if ready for a Pap smear or something, and excited by the proximity of this kind, attractive, intelligent woman so close to the spot my manhood had once occupied. As she moved her hand along the inside of my left thigh I felt the tingling start around my pee hole, the only remnant of the rush of physical excitement I had once felt regularly as my penis began to engorge, to stiffen. The head of it throbbing. I felt my heart rate increase and my breathing start to become a little ragged. The intellectual side of my brain -- the one that accepted by neutered crotch as a matter of fact -- tried to bring me back to reality.
"Pretty gross, huh? Thunder thighs, and nearly as white as that lather."
"You look like you're in good shape except for the weight gain in your hips and thighs, and that you can't help. What do you enjoy doing to keep in shape."
"Oh, nearly anything, as long as it's outdoors," I told her. "Handball, tennis, swimming, hiking, camping. Plus weights and such."
"Now that you're healed, there's no reason you can't still do all of those things."
"I know, I just -- I feel, and look like I'm carrying fifteen pounds of pudding on my backside."
Becky Collier chuckled as she completed another stroke with the razor, right down to where my thigh met my empty crotch, her hand brushing the smooth surface of my crotch. "I definitely can sympathize, but you just need to do what we gals do. Believe me, the right shorts or sweats can hide a world of ‘pudding'. I can E mail you with some suggestions, if you'd like."
"Sure! That would be great. But they won't all be coming from the women's department, will they?"
"No. Not at all. I'll make sure they're very unisex. All right," she said. "That side's done." She got up and filled her hand with another gob of lather, and smoothed it over the inside of my right leg. The second batch was even thinner. "Did you try the SheBoxers I recommended?"
"Oh, yes! Absolutely," I enthused. "They're all I wear now. Mostly the shorties, but I tried the mid- thighs with jeans, and you're right, they're great. I wore a pair of white ones today."
"Ha! Me, too."
I imagined Becky Collier slipping out of her loose scrub pants and modeling the snug, mannish underwear for me. I could imagine it hugging every tight curve of her hips and crotch -- sadly, just as it did mine. Still, the thought and the lather and her gentle stroking of the inside of my leg was making the sparks really sizzle around my urethra; especially as the overthin lather ran down over my pee hole and dribbled between my oversized cheeks. I wondered if this was how a woman, on her back, horny as hell, felt as her warm juices ran out of her pussy and streamed down to her quivering ass.
"You're good at this," I managed.
"I have years of practice -- on my own legs."
"Maybe you should keep going. Shave mine all the way," I pretended to joke. "Then you could give me some tips on hose as well."
Becky Collier knew there was more pain, and perhaps prediction in my comment than humor. But she kept it light. "Hose are hot and uncomfortable. And believe me, shaving your legs is not a habit you want to get into."
I said nothing but had to admit that sometimes I wondered. With the surgery, with all of the havoc the hormones were creating in my body, maybe I would be better off doing more things like a woman. In fact, my sister Denise almost encouraged me to do so -- talking about how much more we have in common now, how she can now relate to me more as a person and not just a male, how -- "One day, if those female hormones really take over, you may actually gain a ‘shopping gene' like me." We both laughed, but for me, it was to keep the tears away. Another part of me fought to hold on to every shred of manhood that remained. That's why I had asked Nurse Collier about "less feminine" underwear -- just like what she now had on.
"Finished," she said, standing and pushing the tray aside. "Let me just clean you up." She ran warm water over a small towel, wrung it out and wiped away any remaining lather and hair from my thighs, my crotch, even slipping the towel between my cheeks to clean me.
"Thanks," I said, my breathing still fast.
"No problem." She looked at her watch then pulled a sheet from a drawer and draped it over my knees. "Dr. Eddington should be in about five minutes. Excuse me, I need to make a couple of quick phone calls before five. I'll be right back."
I watched the door close, and as quickly as it did I raced my hand passed my belly and under the sheets. It was as if the petite, funny nurse had stuck a Fourth of July sparkler up my pee hole and lit it with the friction of that razor. The bare skin on the insides of my legs tingled, almost painfully. The little knot of muscle in my crotch was opening slightly, contracting, opening, contracting in rhythm with my breathing. With the quivering forefinger of my right hand I circled my hole, stroked it, massaged it the way I might have done with a woman's clitoris. Was that what this was to be now, my clit? Feelings grew, intensified but within a minute or two plateaued. God, I was hornier than I'd been since the surgery. Damn it! I needed relief. I began rubbing my pubic bone and crotch with the full palm of my hand. Damn it! Come on! CUM ON! CUM ONNN!
The handle on the door to the examination room rattled. I jerked my hand away and pressed my head back onto the small, thin pillow, and fought to settle my breathing. Becky and the man I'd seen in the picture with the president walked in. "Hello, Rick. I'm Dr. Eddington. There's nothing to be nervous about."
After five minutes or so of chat about Dallas, Dr. Smith and my condition, Nurse Collier lubricated the cystoscope and I stared at the ceiling as the tube slipped inside me.
Dr. Eddington was indeed thorough and deliberate as he inched the tool deeper inside until finally it reached my bladder. Now and then I glanced at the video monitor and caught a glimpse of my insides. I felt helpless and sad and frustrated, and on the verge of tears. Somehow Becky Collier sensed that and moved beside the table. She slipped her small hand into mine and my grateful fingers closed around. The return pressure was gentle but firm and supportive.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, Dr. Eddington withdrew the scope and I felt urine dribble down to my anus. The doctor said his good-byes, told me everything looked fine and to schedule another appointment in four months. He left as Becky warmed another towel in the sink. "Thanks for the hand," I said as she wiped me clean of lubricant and urine for a second time, and undid the straps.
"I'm glad to help," she said in a way that I knew she meant it. I started to move my legs. "Wait," she said, pulling a thick maxi-pad from a drawer. She pressed it between my legs. "You're having some leakage now and you probably will for a few hours, maybe a couple of days. But if you aren't back to normal within 48 hours, call us. OK?"
"Don't worry, I will."
I took control of the pad and swung legs around wondering if this was what a woman felt life after a hard but unsatisfying fuck -- bored out, her juices and his still seeping out of her over- stretched pussy, the horniness dulled but not elevated, replaced by emptiness instead of satisfaction.
Becky walked over and picked up my SheBoxers. "Let me help."
I felt a little light-headed and was more than willing. She knelt and held the briefs at my feet. I stepped into them and pulled the tab off the pad's adhesive as she slid the underwear past my knees and onto my thighs. I took control of the briefs while using my thighs to hold the pad in place, pulling the underwear the rest of the way up and making sure the pad stuck in place.
There I was, all set. My maxi place, my girl's underwear back on. I snatched the paper gown off my chest, balled it and through it toward the trash as Becky watched my anger peak and subside. I stared down passed my puffy nipples at the front of me, as flat and empty and useless as it had been for the last eight months.
"Rick, I know examinations like this must be very difficult for you." I nodded. "I wish there was some way it could be easier, but --"
"You made it a whole lot easier," I told her. She moved closer and leaned next to me against the table. It was as if the movement drew the words out of me like a magnate. "I know this probably isn't a very good time, but would you consider going out to dinner with a guy who wears the same underwear as you do?"
"As long as I wasn't wearing my pink lace bikinis, I might consider it," she smiled up at me.
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