Cubicles

Discretion just wasn't possible. I was trying to keep my eyes on the white, almost angelic, brightness of the tech's coat. But, angel-like to describe a person working here was as misleading as me trying to pretend I wasn't completely, totally, fascinated with what was happening inside each of the small cubes.

As we passed one cube, my lab tech ("my" lab tech, why not?) spoke to the lab tech who was in the cube. I didn't hear what they said, but it caused a chuckle from them. I noticed my son even smiled. What did they find so funny? Their laughing only added to the anxiety I was already feeling. My son was looking around freely, but I tried hanging on to the boundaries, the parameters of remaining civil, conservative, even if these were borders of my own creation.

Then, I remembered that I would soon be the occupant of one of these many cubicles. Cubicles made of walls less than five feet high. Walls that mocked the true meaning of why one had walls. They could have saved their money, saved me some money, by just using rope to cordon off small boxes. But, then the techs wouldn't have a place to pin their company memos, or pictures of their kids and wives, their kids in baseball uniforms and prom dresses.

I've drowned out all the noises with my own wild thoughts on this trek through the labyrinth. But, now "my" tech has brought us to what will now be "my" cubicle, mine for a short time. My son and I enter my cube. Possessions: things we think are ours, things we want to be ours, things we want to keep.

I gain a new perspective, a perspective from the inside, as a man walks past my cube with his son and led by "his" lab tech. I've been released from my own thoughts, for now. I see the man and he seems lost, confused. Did (or do) I look this way? I hear him say loudly, "I'm gonna have my dick and balls cut off." His tech and my tech look at each other and chuckle. I feel embarrassed for the man, then wonder, Did I say something like that? Is that why my tech and the tech earlier were laughing?

The man in the cubicle next to mine is crying lightly. His son is by his side. I notice more sounds, more men whimpering. I feel shame for them but is there any such thing as taking this like a man? I promise myself I'll get through this without shaming myself or my son. I can go through the motions. I can tune out my surroundings. I can retreat back into my mind. The jetliner crashes to the ground in what I imagine as an atomic explosion and I realize I can't tune it out. I can't tune the others out of my vision, out of my hearing. And, I probably can't tune myself out of the others. With even more dread, I realize I can't tune my son away. We're her for him. I'm here because of him.

There is no anger for why I'm here. Like any man, I only have the desire to uphold manliness ... to uphold manliness? I don't want to embarrass my son. I want to set an example. I want my example to be one of strength, determination, and especially one of no fear.

How can I not fear the unknown? What comes next? I know the ultimate outcome, but what steps must I take to get there? What humiliations must I endure? How can I feel so vain, thinking, when the time comes, I'll be more of a man than these other men. I'm sure they made a pact with themselves (the same as I have) to remain brave, determined ... strong. I've already broken my promises, promises before they were made. But, I can control the future. I can control how I react from here forward.

My son is watching the tech make adjustments to the chair. Not "my" chair. I would never claim that. Though I'll be sitting in its harsh claws, it will never be mine. I'll more likely belong to it. What would it call me? My occupant? My prisoner? My prey? No, it will never be mine. My tech has prepared it to fit my dimensions. I'm fighting to remain in control. He asks me to remove my clothing. How quickly control is lost. With the chair prepared, now he must prepare me.

A white, folding chair sits alone. I assume this is where I need to place my clothes. I turn to it and remove my baseball cap. With my back to my son and my lab tech, I've created for myself a false sense that I have privacy. I put my cap on the chair. I pull my T-shirt over my head. I fold it and lay it on the chair with my cap. I'm stalling. Guiltily, I turn to see if my son or my tech know that I'm stalling. My son is watching me, but I sense he doesn't realize my fear. Maybe he does and he is only trying to make me seem brave whether for my benefit or his.

My tech is in a conversation with another tech. As I bend down to untie my sneakers, I listen to their conversation. They're discussing what they're going to have for lunch. I don't recognize my emotions, what I'm feeling. Am I upset that such an important event to me isn't important to them? That they can't show me more respect, respect my fear? That their lunch is more important? Or, am I relieved that my tech is preoccupied and not watching me? Is this a deliberate action on his part to allow me a modicum of dignity? Should I be thankful to him for this?

On the floor beside the white, folding chair, I've sat my sneakers side by side. I'm pulling my socks off of my feet and laying them on top of my shirt. My tech and the other tech have agreed on a place for lunch today. They're going to Burger King across the street right after I'm finished. I fold my Tommy jeans, pick up my shirt, cap, and socks. I place my jeans on the chair, my shirt on my jeans, then my socks on my shirt, then my cap on top of my socks.

Boxers. I'm wearing my silk boxers. I wore my silk, plaid boxers today. I'm trying to stay in control. I have a hard-on. I lower my boxers and step out of them. As I'm folding them, I'm looking down at my dick and my balls. I've always been proud of my cock. It's thick and very well shaped. I was circumcised at birth. It curves upward. I lay my boxers on top. They'll be the first thing I put back on, and, besides, I feel it helps to know I can grab them quickly for coverage.

The two techs have ended their conversation. I turn around, and my son looks at my hard-on. I can't read his face. I care what he thinks. I know there isn't much I can do about my cock. With that, I had no control. I can't deceive myself. I'm standing naked in front of my son with my dick sticking up and a pearl of precum sits on the hole at the end of my dick. And, I yell out, "I'm having my dick and balls cut off." Then, I whimper. I think I made the whimpering noise because I lost control, not because I'm getting my dick and balls cut off.

Throughout the building my words are repeated by hundreds of other men. (Could there be a hundred men in here?) One right after another, some overlapping. Did I start this? Or, was this here all along?

I'm directed to the chair. My tech instructs me on how to place my butt on the short metal tray protruding from the support post. He then lifts my legs and places my knees over two metal bars. I feel the cold sinking into my skin, but I don't think this coldness is a new sensation. My legs are now open, and I am surprised to find what looks like such minimal support is actually comfortable.

The chair holds me in a sitting position. My tech explains that I'll help him remove my genitals. He tells me to grab my scrotum in each hand and pull it taught. I do this and he uses a scalpel to slice down the middle. I cry out from the pain of my flesh being cut open. I don't let go. As he cuts, I'm opening the hole by continuing to keep the skin taught. I see my balls fall out.

Tears are running down my face. I'm crying, but I no longer care about any contract I made with myself. The pain is stronger. The humiliation is stronger. I'm asked to take my right ball in my hand. I hold it with my fingers. My tech slices through the cord. At first I don't realize I have room to move it away. My tech tells me to hand the nut to my son. I look at the testicle in my fingers as I place it onto my son's palm. I bring my attention back when my tech tells me to hold my last nut. I cry out again when the cord is severed (this time I think more from the pain of the final loss than for the physical pain), but I remember what I'm to do. I hand the testicle to my son.

Everything is moving so quickly. I feel so much pain and discomfort. I'm looking down at my cock which has remained hard throughout the removal of my balls. To my amazement, there is cum all over my stomach and chest. My tech is wiping it up. He tells me I shot off each time he cut the cord. I hadn't realized I was doing that. I jerk as he wipes off the head of my dick. It is supersensitive but he ignores my spasms and the grimace on my face.

I scream out to let everyone know that my son is holding my cut off balls. As the tech begins slicing through the top of my dick against my abdomen, I scream that my dick is being cut off. I'm holding the cock by the head and pulling it away from my body as the knife is going through. I'm crying loudly and becoming incoherent. I had long given up what little control I felt I could maintain. The knife completes its course through the base of my dick. With tears flowing down my face, I hand the severed dick to my son.

Looking up at the ceiling, I try to concentrate on not concentrating on my emasculation. My tech continues working on my empty crotch. He has to pull out the root. As he is finishing with me, I listen to the men who are just beginning what I've completed. I hear the ones who are leaving and announcing that their cock and balls are gone. I'll soon be making that announcement.

It is time for me to get dressed. I think to myself, what is the point? Why do I need clothes when I have nothing to cover? I think that sometimes it is not a matter of why, but when. While I'm feeling weak and drained, but not totally emotionless, I notice my son is happy and energetic. He's carrying his new toys in a paper bag. He's already decided what he's going to use for show and tell tomorrow.