(I don’t see a forum for fiction. I hope it’s OK to post this here. It’s set in the not too distant future. Part 2 will be posted below.)
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 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 an assistant 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.
Only after she left did I realize she hadn’t told me her name.
After a few minutes, a young woman 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?”