I Missed Myself

She lowered her head and sucked on me until my weary penis became hard once again, and then she rolled over on her back and asked me to take her from behind. As I thrust myself again and again into her tight ass, tears began to roll down my cheeks and onto her back, and when I finally came for the last time, I cried out in despair.

She said nothing as I got dressed and pulled some money out of my wallet. When I tried to hand it to her, she shook her head, and handed me a card with her name and number on it. “Call me when it’s over,” she said. Before I could respond, she pressed a finger to my lips. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?” she asked.

I shook my head. “What did I say?”

“You were crying about something. I thought you were talking about dying at first, but then you said something about not being able to have sex ever again.”

I started to stammer something, but she cut me off. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just want you to know that there is another way for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just call me after it’s over. There’s a whole other world out there for you. I know from experience.”

I finished dressing in a hurry and left her without another word.

It was worse than any nightmare. I remember waking up in the recovery room in a paper gown with a catheter draining my scrotum, a dull ache from where my balls used to be. When I was able to sit up and pull back the covers, I saw an empty sac and two bandages along my “bikini line.” As Dr. Griffin explained it to me before I went under, the surgeon made two 4 inch incisions in my lower abdomen, pushed my balls up through my pelvic region, and out they came. A snip here, a stitch there, and I was no longer a man. I lay my head back on my pillow, and cried myself to sleep.