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I guess I should feel better about the lack of scarring, but I don’t. For some reason the relative aesthetics are not too meaningful... down there.
“I’ll need a fluid sample,” Nurse Sueann announces with a degree of jubilance.
I glumly nod, disguising my own enjoyment of the debasing process as Nurse Sueann arises to retrieve a specimen jar.
Yes, to be acclimatized. Why is it I take this? I curse my own meekness. But oddly, Nurse Sueann’s holding of my hand does indeed bring comfort of late. And in offering a sample... well, I guess I have not much else left when it comes to pleasure.
“It’s best to keep that prostate gland in order. You’d not want to have trouble with that!” So what more justification can I ask for in lying naked, feet secured well parted in stirrups, a stern uniformed nurse authoritatively tending to my perceived needs?
Yes, I am to be milked. She never uses the term, but that’s the process, my penis treated like a cow’s udder as greased and gloved fingers extract what I now so reluctantly give up.
And I have come to enjoy watching, looking into the glowing face of my nurse as she takes command. Once again mechanically, clinically, rhythmically stroking away, two fingers slipping into my rectum, my male glands oddly reveling in ceding to the dominion of a governing woman.
“It’s so nice and soft, I do believe it’s shrinking even faster.”
Strangely, the words do not distress. Yes, I am acclimatizing. More memories flow as Nurse Sueann patiently milks, her fingers deft as always.
***
“Can I get dressed?”
I sit in the doctor’s office, released from the stirrups after her thorough examination.
“I think men like you are more comfortable this way. Besides, it saves me time. I have another patient waiting.”
I nod, unintentionally offering concurrence.
“I’ll be frank, Mr. Warren. You need immediate acute care. It’s cancer. The chances of such metastasizing increase by about 2 percent per week. Right now I estimate you have a 90% chance of recovery. Next week it will be less.”
I am shocked. Her words snap me from the torpor induced by Nurse Sueann’s extraction of sperm. I ejaculated for her at her behest and filled her specimen jar.
“We’ll have your sample tested, but I’ve seen too many cases to have any doubt. You’ll need an immediate orchiectomy.”
She pauses, letting set the horrific reality.
“That’s the removal of the testes, Mr. Warren. Simple and quick. It can be done on an outpatient basis to keep the costs down. But it’s still $4,000. What’s your insurance deductible?”
“$5,000,” I mumble.
“You’ve got it, I trust.”
I do not. She seems to know that, becoming reticent in order to let the dilemma further sink within.
“Can you raise it? Timely? Wait another month and you’ll have an 80 percent survival chance. Plus there is the cost of counseling.”
“Counseling?”
“It’s mandatory for men who lose their balls,” her choice of words becoming suddenly unprofessional in realizing she has a potential deadbeat patient.
I join her in silence. She relaxes and sits back, seemingly quite comfortable. Too many years in the medical profession, I conclude. Too many orchiectomies?
“I don’t have the resources,” I stammer, too stunned to elaborate.
“There is a possible alternative,” the doctor cautiously suggests. “But you’ll need to make certain... certain conciliations.”
I nod in preliminary agreement. Have I a choice?
“A woman of means, based in South America. She will offer financial assistance... even cover the cost of counseling... her choice of counseling,” she strangely enunciates in a provocative manner.
