Everyone expected the intake center to be staffed entirely by women. All the men were needed for the war, including us, the draftees.
This was a new facility, run by a contractor, set up in a hurry to meet the demand for fresh troops. It opened two days before my induction date.
I stepped off the bus out front, having been told we couldn’t drive ourselves here. No one would be able to take our cars home, they said, because we would be transported straight from the facility to boot camp. They also said to dress in throwaway clothes, because we’d be leaving in uniform.
That made for an interesting combination of appearances in the holding room. We’d all worn our shabbiest clothing, but we were also freshly washed and shaven, because we all knew we’d be examined up-close by women.
I waited in the room with several dozen other guys, age 18-25. Nobody had much to say, as we were all strangers. So when the door opened and a big woman stepped in and barked, “This way!” we jumped.
“In there,” she pointed to a white, tiled hallway, and we dutifully filed into it. We found only benches and large wastebaskets. As soon as we were all inside, we heard her voice again: “Strip down to the skin, leave your clothes and shoes in the bins, and go through the other door. No socks. No nothing.”
At least the place was clean, I thought, and when I took my sandals off I noticed the floor was warm. Then I hesitated taking my pants down because I suddenly remembered: I’m probably the only guy here who isn’t circumcised.
Not that it should be a big deal. My girlfriend assured me she loved the velvety softness of my foreskin, the way it drooped over the glans when my penis was flaccid (“Like a shar-pei puppy!” she giggled), and she loved to see the foreskin slowly unfurl when she tickled my ear with her tongue. We spent many hours playing hide-the-glans with her hands and mouth before she finally let me into her. The feeling inside, she said, was like a well-oiled massage. It was the first time she’d had a simultaneous orgasm.
But I also knew that in the year I was born, something like 98 percent of the boys in my region had been circumcised at birth. The doctors claimed it was for health reasons. In fact, it was all about money. Pharmaceutical and cosmetics companies paid cash for every foreskin, and the adult-sized ones commanded the most. But because virtually all the males were circumcised as infants, and the few who weren’t wouldn’t give theirs up later, not many full-size foreskins made it to market.
Parents went along with routine circumcision because they didn’t know any better, and handed their boys over to be circumcised within days of birth. In grade school, I’d noticed those dry, bare glandes at the trough urinals, and I thought they looked pitiful, almost dead, with their rough surface and brownish color. At the sight of that, I’d learned quickly to skin back my own wiener (as we called them) as soon as I took it out to pee, so my foreskin wouldn’t be noticed. Through careful attention, I’d kept my uncircumcised secret for all of my school years.
Of course, as time went on, I heard other kids talk about circumcision. The girls seemed especially repulsed by foreskins, calling them “nasty” and “gross” even though they’d never seen one. The anatomy textbook in our health class showed a smoothly circumcised penis, not even a scar line or frenulum to disrupt its clean-shorn appearance. I was quite certain there were no other penises like mine around.
So here I was, about to put my prepuce on display for the first time. I took a deep breath, shed my shorts, and stood up, ceremoniously tossing my clothes into the nearest bin.
I was at the back of the line going in, so on my way out, I walked past almost all the guys. I felt eyes on me in passing, but of course no one spoke. If they looked, they could see something was different about my penis, but they also knew it would be inappropriate to ask about with someone they hadn’t even met.
The check-in room would be different.
A few guys had gone in there ahead of me, and when I saw they were standing side-by-side, I joined the lineup. Before us were a dozen brand-new white desks, chairs, and scales, accompanied by computer workstations, each one staffed by a young woman. They busied themselves with keyboards and papers, occasionally sneaking a glimpse at the growing line of naked young men before them. It was then that I really began to feel uncomfortable. I never imagined I’d be exposed like this.
One of the girls, a lean redhead, kept glancing up at me. Not at my face, but at my penis. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on her work for all the distraction it caused her. Finally, she got up in a huff and went to speak with a girl at another desk. The redhead faced away from me, whispering, but the other girl gave it away by looking straight at my groin, then at my eyes, then down. She nodded, then quickly left the room. The redhead went back to her desk, pausing to glare at me one last time before resuming her work.
I saw the other girl re-enter the room, then go to an older woman standing near the back. I could read their lips just enough to make out a few words.
“uncircumcised”
(glance)
“foreskin”
“circumcision?”
(shrug)
“he’s not circumcised”
A chill swept over me. My scrotum tightened, elevating my penis to point straight ahead. Now my foreskin stood out more than ever.
Just then, the big woman from out front passed down the line, asking our names and checking them off on her tablet. By the time she got to me, it appeared most of the girls at desks had gotten word about the guy with the foreskin. They were all looking at my penis, then up at me, then at each other. A few shook their heads. One in particular, a blonde with caramel skin and perfect little breasts, stared right at me. She turned to glare at her co-workers as if to shush them, but they kept watching me and, occasionally, whispering “uncircumcised” and “circumcision” to one another and nodding.
The big woman asked my name, ticked me off her list, then looked down at my penis. I heard the shutter click in her tablet. She shook her head and sighed.
“You gonna have to get that thing trimmed before you leave here.” Then she moved on to the next recruit.
My mouth suddenly went dry and my heart started pounding. Were they actually planning to circumcise me?
As the big woman finished her round, the girls at desks started calling us by name. One at a time, we walked over to a scale, then sat down at a chair next to a desk, where a girl took our vital signs and asked us our medical history.
The blonde with the little breasts called my name.
Heading toward her, I became suddenly conscious of how my penis bobbed with every step. The other girls didn’t even try to hide their curiosity, eyeing me the whole way. When I steadied myself on the scale, my foreskin nipple pointed straight ahead, almost touching the vertical part of the scale. I sat down and offered my arm for the blood-pressure check. She fumbled a bit getting the cuff in place.
“My name is Betty,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I have to ask you a few questions and check your vitals.”
“Okay, Betty. I’m Marcus.”
She switched on the device, which automatically squeezed my arm and recorded my pulse. When the display beeped, her eyes widened.
“Are you taking any medications?”
“No.”
“Your heart rate is through the roof, but you look to be in good shape.” She keyed in the data, then her eyes darted side-to-side, and she leaned over and whispered, “Are you afraid they’re going to circumcise you?”
I swallowed hard.
“Are they?”
Her jaw clenched.
“I hope not. I don’t think it’s required. But…” her voice faltered, “they circumcised my brother at one of these places. I don’t have to tell you how bad that was for him. And for his girlfriend.”
Suddenly I realized I might never again feel my own girlfriend rolling my foreskin over her tongue.
“Is there any way out of this?” I caught my eyes scanning for a door.
Betty shook her head. Her lips were tight, as if she were trying to stifle tears.
“You’d be running down the road naked,” she pointed out, obviously, “and they’ll catch you wherever you go.”
Betty took a deep breath, then began a series of questions about my medical history. I had little to report, and when she was done keying in my answers, she handed me a printout.
“Take this to the doctor in room number 6,” she said. I noticed her hand was shaking. Then she whispered, “You have a perfect foreskin. I’ll be praying they don’t cut it off.”
I stood up, and once again felt all the girls’ eyes zero in on me. I fought the urge to cover my penis, still standing at 90 degrees from the tension in my testicles, and kept my paper at my side. If this was the last time they saw my foreskin, I was determined to give them a good, long look.
At the back of the room, a guard held a door open for me. She had straight, black hair tied in a ponytail, and her contoured navy uniform made for stark contrast with the white smocks all the other women wore. I noticed on her belt a canister of pepper spray and handcuffs. So even if I tried to break out of here, I wouldn’t get far, and then they would circumcise me anyway, in restraints.
I walked down a corridor with numbered white doors. At “6” I stopped, and noticed another naked guy heading into another exam room, followed by a doctor’s assistant. I took a long breath and entered door number 6.
This was yet another white room, much smaller, with medical equipment and white cabinets lining the walls. An exam table stood in the middle. I placed my form on the counter and took a seat on the table’s crackly paper. For the first time, I began to feel cold.
I was accustomed to long wait times in a doctor’s office, so the sudden opening of the door startled me. A tall, middle-aged woman in a white lab coat entered, holding a tablet. She gave me a curt smile and a nod, then took my paper from the countertop and studied it.
“Marcus,” she said, and I nodded in response. “I’m Dr. Harris. I see you’re in overall good health, according to our survey.” Again, I nodded. She focused on some notes at the bottom of the form, then glanced quickly at my penis, then back at the form.
“I’ll have Gracie take a blood sample, then we’ll get on with the exam,” she said, flatly, “So don’t go anywhere, OK?” I almost detected a trace of a smile.
After a few minutes, a young woman I assumed to be Gracie entered with a small tray. She was petite, spunky, and cute, the sort you’d want working alongside you in tight spaces. She set the tray on the counter.
“Okay, I’m gonna draw some blood. This will just take a minute. Hold out your arm?”
I dutifully laid my arm on the platform next to the exam table. She started prepping my inner elbow with a betadine wipe.
As she cleaned, I noticed her eyes darting several times to my penis before locking onto it. Gracie carried out the longest needle-prep scrub I’ve ever experienced, rubbing the solution in until my skin started to burn. Although I wasn’t erect by any means, the tightness in my scrotum and the stress of the situation had lent an abnormal firmness to the base of my penis, causing the body of it to swell slightly and the glans to flare. The corona bulged inside the foreskin, as did the big vein along the top. This was something Gracie had never seen.
Finally, she looked up at me with a start and stopped rubbing. She turned to get the sample needle and several vials. Then she tied my upper arm with a length of rubber tubing.
“What does that do?” I asked, looking to distract myself from the uncertainty ahead.
“It makes your veins stand out so I can find one easier,” she replied, “Makes everything firmer and bigger.”
“That’s helpful, I’m sure.”
“Yes.” And she poked the needle into my arm.
With my heart still racing, it only took a minute to fill all three vials, one after the other. As Gracie waited for the blood to stream in, I again noticed her eyes jumping toward, then locking onto, my foreskin. As she stared, I felt a cool breeze from her breath stir the hairs on my leg and scrotum. The base of my penis involuntarily pulsed, then the shaft bucked as a drop of pre-cum made its way up my urethra. It settled inside the nipple of my foreskin, causing it to bulge. Gracie’s eyes flared and she caught her breath.
Just then the last vial filled up, and she slipped the needle out and stuck a band-aid over the puncture. She turned, picked up her tray, and said, “The doctor will be back in a minute,” and left.
I sat there on the table, looking around the room for something, anything, to distract me from the dread of my situation. In every direction I saw only white and stainless surfaces. I looked down at my tense penis, sticking almost straight up now that I was holding my legs together, and wondered what a dry, keratinized glans would feel like. The scar and bloody stitches of a circumcision were too awful to even contemplate.
And why the hell did the military care if I was circumcised? It’s not like we were joining forces with the Israeli army, where foreskins were certainly nonexistent. But even if we did, I bet their dark-haired, olive-skinned conscript girls would find something to complain about … or else I’d be a celebrity. “The Uncut Soldier” – I could sell tickets to show them what the women in the check-in room had gawked at for free.
Just then, the same big woman who’d taken my name in the other room entered, carrying another tray. She glanced at me and set the tray on the countertop, then took a quick look at my penis. She looked up at my face, shook her head slowly, and left.
The tray contained a hypodermic needle, a vial of clear liquid, two scalpels, clamps, a stitching needle, thread, gauze, forceps, and surgical scissors. All of it clean and sterile.
If it was possible for my testicles to climb higher into my abdomen, they did so when I spotted the forceps. I’d seen them in surgery videos, and they’re used for clasping flesh while it’s being cut.
My racing heart had started to make my head hurt. I knew this feeling: fight or flight. But there was no escape. My penis was in the hands of the physician…
… who came through the doorway at that very moment, wearing rubber gloves.
“Okay, Marcus, we’re going to proceed with the detailed exam now,” she said as she took note of the tray and wedged her stethoscope into place. “Take deep breaths while I listen.”
I breathed in and out a little faster than I meant to. She paused after the first check.
“You’ve got quite a pulse going there, Marcus. Are you nervous about this?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’ve done this many times, so I hope that gives you confidence. Nobody’s died yet,” she started to chuckle, then moved the stethoscope to another place on my chest.
I studied Dr. Harris’s features. She’d been a very attractive young lady, I could tell, and she’d aged into a confident, refined-looking woman. I wondered if she had any sons, and whether she’d had them circumcised. I’d heard that doctors’ sons were the most likely to keep their foreskins. Maybe she’d see fit to let me out of here with mine.
“All sounds good. You’re a healthy young man by any measure. You’ll make a fine soldier as soon as you’re approved for duty.”
I nodded. She stepped around me to look into my ears, then my nose, then had me say “ah” for the throat check.
“Now, I need to check you for hernia. Stand up.”
I knew how this would go. Dr. Harris scooted a wheeled chair up and sat eye-level with my groin. With her gloved hands she lifted my penis up.
“Oh, my,” she said, as she felt my tight scrotum. “I may not have to press very hard on these, because they’re already in position. Now cough.”
I coughed as she pushed gently on my left testicle, then again as she prodded my right. It felt like her fingers had tunneled into me.
“That’s good, then,” she said as she rolled her chair slightly back. “Now let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Or the elephant trunk, as it is. I see that you’re uncircumcised. That’s the first prepuce we’ve seen here since we opened. Fortunately, I’m well-experienced with them.”
I felt dizzy standing there nude with the fate of my penis in this stranger’s hands. This was my time to act. In the very next second, this woman could order me to lie down, inject my penis with anesthetic, roll my foreskin open for the last time, and slice it off. And there was nothing I could do to stop her.
I had to speak. I tried to sound calm but the words burst out of me.
“Dr. Harris, are you going to circumcise me?”
She looked at me blankly.
“Of course. Your parents didn’t, so now we have to.”
“I don’t want that.”
“Well, the military doesn’t want your foreskin.”
“Why not?”
“Regulations,” she said with a sigh, poking at her tablet, “Probably to do with hygiene and disease prevention.”
“I’ve never heard of such a rule.”
She set her tablet down and looked at me.
“It’s standard procedure, Marcus. I can’t send an uncircumcised recruit to boot camp, and I’m not going to disqualify you for having that foreskin,” she gestured toward my penis. “We’ll have it off in just a few minutes.”
My eyes darted to the tray, then back to her.
“It is my specific wish not to be circumcised today.”
She blinked twice.
“Marcus, are you resisting my authority?”
I thought about the MP I saw in the other room, and remembered what Betty had said about running naked back to town. My prospects didn’t look good no matter what happened.
“I want to know who I can speak to about this.”
Dr. Harris stood and walked to the door.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and left the room.
I looked around instinctively, as if for a weapon, while my rational mind raced through my limited options. Surely there had to be some recourse for me. An appeal, a higher officer, an official complaint. Anything but lying down for this doctor to cut my foreskin off.
The door opened and the MP entered, followed by another, taller MP. They locked eyes with me and stood in front of the door as it closed.
“Marcos,” the shorter one spoke with an accent, “this will be okay. We’re just here to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. I want to know what’s being done to get me out of here in one piece.”
The MP nodded.
“I understand. You know, we are from Brazil,” she said, nodding toward her partner, “They no circoncise there. Would be better for guys like you in our army.”
The taller one started to smile, then squelched it.
“Can I see?” the short one asked.
“See what?” I replied, unsure I had heard her correctly.
“Your prepucio,” she said, gesturing with her eyes, “All the girls are talking about it.”
Only then I realized that my hands were covering my genitals. I slowly removed them. Both women stepped closer, staring.
“Oh, e boa aperencia,” the short one said, reaching out to touch my arm, “so beautiful. No wonder they all watching you. You got a girlfriend?”
I nodded, then felt a sting in my shoulder. I reached instinctively toward it, but the taller MP caught my wrist. Her other hand held a hypodermic needle, which she had just stuck me with.
“Doctor!” the other MP shouted, and I felt my neck and back weakening. I couldn’t speak, and began falling slowly backward.
“Catch him,” the short MP said, and her partner dropped the syringe and threw her arm around my back, lowering me gently onto the table. All I could do was stare at the ceiling while they wrapped Velcro restraints around my limp arms and thighs.
Dr. Harris re-entered the room.
“Well, you two are professionals!” she said, “We’ll be done with him in a few minutes. You can go back to your post now.”
I couldn’t move my head to look at anything but the ceiling. Dr. Harris leaned into view.
“You’ve been given a muscle relaxant,” she said, “I didn’t want to use it, but you were showing signs of resistance, and we can’t risk you hurting someone or yourself while we take off your foreskin.”
I heard the door open and several people enter. One came alongside the table–Gracie, who’d drawn my blood. She wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my arm and pumped it up. I couldn’t tell much about the others, but I felt someone lift my lower legs while the table was extended. Gracie spoke.
“Doctor, he’s at 220 over 140.”
“Oh, that’s too high,” Dr. Harris said, “Too much risk of cerebral hemhorrage in this position. Better boost him up, and cushion his neck to facilitate breathing.”
Gracie and the other assistant raised my upper body into a reclined, almost seated position. They propped my neck with pads so I faced straight ahead.
Now I could see the room was populated by four young women in addition to the two assistants. I recognized the redhead immediately, and vaguely remembered the other three from the admissions room. The redhead smiled curtly. The others stared wide-eyed at me, then at my penis.
“Prep,” Dr. Harris said, and the assistants went to work.
The first one draped my mid-section with a large paper sheet. She cut a slit in the center with scissors and pulled my penis through it.
The second assistant uncapped a bottle of red-orange gel. She squeezed a stream of it onto my penis, then began rubbing it in with gloved fingers.
Addressing me, Dr. Harris said, “These ladies have asked to observe your circumcision. Since they’re part of the medical corps, I have no problem with that. I’ll be narrating for educational purposes. Don’t forget inside the foreskin, dear.”
The assistant pulled my penis out straight, but seemed unsure how to get the foreskin open.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Dr. Harris said, and with her own gloved hands she roughly stripped my foreskin down to expose the glans. The dollop of pre-cum, which Gracie had triggered earlier, spilled out onto the paper. The other assistant gingerly took my glans in her fingers and began rubbing the gel into my freshly exposed, inner foreskin.
“While smegma is said to have antibacterial properties,” Dr. Harris said to the girls, as the assistant rubbed the antiseptic into my glans, “It’s certainly not enough to protect against infection as the foreskin is cut away. So we must ensure the inner and outer foreskin and glans are sterile before the procedure begins.”
I looked at each of the girls watching from behind Dr. Harris. They appeared transfixed on my penis as the assistant rolled it around, working the gel into every surface. Then I noticed the redhead looking at me, smiling, with her arms folded. Only I could see her raise two fingers in a scissoring motion and mouth the words, “Circumcise you.”
Oblivious, Dr. Harris continued: “Now, the relaxant we’ve given the patient only acts on voluntary muscles, so he can continue to breathe. And he will remain conscious while we circumcise him. But the drug will prevent him from getting an erection, which would complicate things.”
One of the girls started to snicker, then caught herself as the others looked her way.
“Marcus,” Dr. Harris said to me, “If the sight of blood upsets you, you can just close your eyes. You aren’t going to feel the cutting.”
With that, she stretched my penis out and stuck a needle in near the base. It felt immediately hot, then numb. She withdrew the needle and reinserted it two more times in different places.
The first assistant rolled the tray of instruments closer, where I could see the empty vial of liquid. She took the syringe from Dr. Harris, capped it, and set it down. Dr. Harris looked over the tray.
“Gracie, do we not have a clamp?” she asked.
“No, Doctor. They’re on order.”
“We’ll have to circumcise him manually, then,” Dr. Harris sighed, selecting the scissors, then poking my penis with them, “Marcus, if you can feel that, blink twice.”
I stared at her, barely able to blink at all. Fortunately, I hadn’t felt a thing.
The redhead interrupted.
“Doctor, since the patient is unable to move, why do we use anesthetic?”
Dr. Harris sat for a moment, pondering the question.
“Well, it’s true that supplies are rationed, and this lidocaine would be very useful in a combat zone,” she sighed, “But I think it’s the least we can do for our patient. It’s not his fault his parents failed to circumcise him.”
With that, she tugged my foreskin closed over the glans, and attached one pair of forceps on either side of the opening.
“Because this is a freehand circumcision, I’ll be cutting the skin slowly,” Dr. Harris said, repositioning the paper sheet. All the girls, including the assistants, leaned closer. The redhead’s lips parted.
“First, we need to pull the foreskin taut so the scissors will cut evenly.”
Gracie took her cue and picked up one of the forceps, still clamped to my foreskin. The other assistant took the other pair, and they each pulled slightly, stretching my foreskin out to a V-shape.
“Here’s where we start,” Dr. Harris said, inserting one scissor blade into my preputial opening.
I wanted to gasp, but had no control over my breathing. All I could do was stare as the scissors came together with a snip.
My foreskin split, exposing two bright red lines. Drops of blood fell from the cut. Dr. Harris re-opened the shears, then slid them in deeper so the lower blade grazed my glans. She brought the blades together again with another snip.
“Since this patient’s penis is fully developed,” Dr. Harris said, “We can accurately estimate how much foreskin to remove while leaving enough to cover the body of the penis.” She turned the scissors sideways. “And I’m going to cut right � here.”
She snipped again, shearing my foreskin a half-inch laterally. Another drop of blood appeared, then rolled off onto the paper.
“We cut around the body of the penis, which is where we get the word circumcise,” she explained, “meaning to cut in a circle.” She snipped another quarter inch of flesh, and Gracie raised her forceps, placing more of my foreskin into the scissors’ path.
I looked up briefly. The redhead appeared flushed, biting her lower lip. The other girls just stared as Dr. Harris continued speaking and cutting.
“At the maternity hospitals (snip), we collect the foreskins for medical contractors (snip), who make healing tissue for burn victims,” Dr. Harris said, then after a final snip, she held up the strip of severed foreskin for all to see, “And one this size will bring a lot of money.”
She laid my foreskin on the tray. I swallowed hard. The redhead locked eyes with me and silently mouthed, “Now you’re circumcised,” then smiled, slowly.
Dr. Harris continued, “Now, if we’d been using a disposable circumcision clamp, we would leave the patient restrained while necrosis set in. Then we’d remove the foreskin, and the plastic ring would hold the cut together for several days while the incision healed. However, with a manual circumcision, we must stitch the inner and outer layers together.”
Gracie took the scissors from Dr. Harris and handed her a threaded, curved needle. The doctor pinched the severed layers of skin and inserted the needle, tugging the thread through. I felt it pull from below the anesthesia line.
The redhead cleared her throat.
“Will the stitches hurt if he gets an erection?” the redhead asked. No one could see her grin but me.
“Almost certainly,” Dr. Harris replied, “Which is why we recommend rest and pain medication for two weeks.”
As she spoke, she continued to insert the needle, pull the thread, knot it, and hold it up for Gracie to cut the excess. My exposed glans, rocking with each movement of Dr. Harris’ and Gracie’s fingers, appeared dry in the open air. The redhead spoke again.
“Will the glans be less sensitive without the foreskin?”
“Yes,” Dr. Harris replied, “Dehydration of the surface will begin almost immediately, though it may take months for the patient to grow accustomed to having his glans fully exposed. The toughening process is called keratinization.”
“Will the remaining skin produce smegma?” The redhead was on a roll now.
“Not measurably,” Dr. Harris answered, “Smegma forms on the inner foreskin, and I’ve cut most of that away.”
Gracie clipped the final stitch and Dr. Harris let my bloody, denuded penis drop onto the paper. The dry antiseptic lent it a dull, brown sheen. Everyone except Dr. Harris stared at my newly shorn penis, whose surface veins now ended at the line of stitches. The doctor peeled off her gloves.
“Now, Gracie, if you’ll let your partner clean up, we can send the patient to recovery,” she said, then motioned toward the tray, “Bring that with us.”
Gracie picked up my foreskin with forceps and laid it on a small, stainless dish. I watched her carry it out the door, behind Dr. Harris, and the door clicked shut behind them.
The assistant sprayed my penis with saline solution and began roughly blotting it with gauze. The girls looked at each other briefly but continued to watch as my penis bounced after each wipe. The knots in my stitches pulled threads out of the gauze, and she had to stop after every few wipes to pick the little white bits away. The redhead made eye contact with me again and opened her mouth to speak.
“Marcus,” a loud voice said, “Can you hear me?”
I blinked repeatedly as my eyes tried to focus. All I saw were ceiling tiles. Then I turned my head slightly to see Dr. Harris leaning over me with a worried look.
“How do you feel?”
“Um,” I mumbled, “I’m tired. Tired and really cold.”
“Gracie, get a blanket,” Dr. Harris snapped, and the assistant vanished out the door. Dr. Harris peered into my eyes and pulled the lids open, waving a small light. “Marcus, do you remember passing out?”
“No.”
“Do you have a history of losing consciousness?”
“No.”
“Well, you fell over just as you started to ask me a question,” she said, tapping the sides of my face, “Do you remember what it was?”
Suddenly I took a deep breath and sat up. I looked down over my naked body and spotted my foreskin, still attached, resting on my scrotum.
“Marcus?” Dr. Harris leaned in to meet my eyes again.
“Doctor,” I managed to croak, “Doctor, are you going to circumcise me?”
She cocked her head quizzically.
“No,” she said, “It’s not required of recruits. But if you want a circumcision, we can do one for you.” She gestured toward the tray of gleaming instruments.
“I’ll pass,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “Are we done yet?”
“No, I’m going to refer you to your base hospital for some tests,” she said, “We need to understand why you passed out.” Just then Gracie returned with the blanket and spread it over my legs. I leaned back down on the table for her to cover my chest.
“I’m clearing you for boot camp with that caveat,” Dr. Harris continued, “Because other than fainting just now, you’re in excellent shape.”
“Okay.”
Gracie left the room.
“I want you to rest here for half an hour. I’ll be back after that to check on you one more time.” Dr. Harris turned, switched off the lights, and closed the door behind her.
I lay there in the dark, listening to myself breathe. My scrotum began to relax. My mind’s eye started to replay the sequence from when I was unconscious, but I cringed when I remembered the snipping.
I heard a sound from outside the room. The door handle turned, and someone opened the door very slowly. A female figure eased in, but I couldn’t make out who it was. She closed the door gently and made her way to my side.
“Marcus, are you awake?”
I recognized her voice immediately.
“Yes, Betty.”
“You made it through in one piece! I’m so happy for you!”
“Me, too.”
We were both silent for a moment. Then I felt Betty’s hand on my arm.
“We have half an hour,” she whispered, “Can I give you a going away present?”
“Sure.” Then I felt her other hand on my penis.
