Somewhere Special

“Erica, you can do this. This is what you want. Remember?”

Talking to myself again, out loud, in the mirror.

But I was right. It was everything I wanted. Not having the burden of what I was born with. I could finally have freedom from the expectations and wouldn't have to feel bad about saying no so goddamn much.

The first time I saw the adverts, I thought it was a joke. Some stupid satire.

Your body. Your future.

Freedom from expectation.

Choice without compromise.

Reclaim what has always been yours.

That sounded like freedom to me. The freedom I'd wanted.

People misunderstand asexuality, I think. And seeing as this world is so intent on sexual politics ruling everything, I wanted to remove that from my equation.

It's my own decision, after all. I knew plenty of asexual people. We all meet for tea and biscuits and sympathy on the third Friday and fourth Tuesday of every month, don't you know?

Some are perfectly happy with their bodies. Some fuck. Some want kids, so yes, that means fucking and having intact vaginas and all the rest of it.

Asexuality wasn't some badge I wore that dictated how I lived or loved. It was just what I was.

I entered a large, nondescript building that could either have been a Silicon Valley tech conglomerate headquarters or a hospital.

Funny, that. I suppose it was technically both.

I walked over to a rather demure-looking man at the reception desk.

“Ms Daniela? The team are waiting for you in the conference room on the first floor. You can head up right away.”

There were a lot of steps, and maybe it was because I knew what this meeting was about, but my briefs were wedged and twisting where they really shouldn't. I knew I should have worn looser underwear.

When I walked into the conference room, there was an empty seat at the head of the table waiting for me. The other chairs were occupied by the team: a plastic surgeon, a surgeon, an anaesthetist, a gynaecologist, a scrub nurse and a microbiologist.

A lawyer was also present to ensure my rights were upheld when I signed the contract.

It was reassuring to know that I had all these experts working to ensure my procedure was a success.

At the opposite end of the room was a large flat-screen monitor. After introducing themselves, they directed my attention towards it.

I was rather embarrassed by the unflattering image of my lower half on a hospital bed.

The plastic surgeon stood and pointed to my labia and clitoris as though he were explaining Pythagoras' theorem.

He discussed the incisions he would make to reduce blood loss and ensure removal was completed with minimal damage. It would be like removing a battery from a remote control.

He turned to me.

“Now, Ms Daniela, have you stopped smoking and lost the required five kilos?”

All eyes shifted towards me.

“Um, yes.”

I felt hot. Or maybe I was hot. Both, probably.

“And when was the last time your vagina was used?”

The microbiologist piped up.

She was a woman, which would have put me at ease, had she not just asked about my sex life in such a clinical manner.

I found it all a bit much as each expert explained their role and how the procedure would be carried out to the highest standards possible.

My genitalia would be removed and my tubes would be tied.

So, no more periods.

There would be some alterations to how I urinated.

Charming.

I wasn't entirely sure which part of that sentence bothered me most.

Still, they were the experts.

I was scheduled in for an appointment the following week. I'd only have to rest for two or three days. Then I could return to work and live my life the way I wanted.

I'd kept it quiet from most people. Only Allen, my oldest friend since primary school, and my sister Monica were aware. Although they were nervous on my behalf, they knew it was what I wanted, so they supported me.

The team suggested it might be a good idea to go out and have one last hurrah with my genitalia.

But I declined.

I'd stopped having sex three years ago and had no desire to experience it again.

Instead, I was going to lounge around and watch television. I might even read a book or listen to music. Just keep myself calm until the big day arrived.

The weekend came and went so fast I didn't really feel I'd benefited from it.

The team had given me steroids and a handful of other supplements to help my body cope with the procedure and the transition.

They said I needed to be in the best possible physical condition beforehand.

Apparently, the stronger I was going in, the easier I'd recover coming out.

That made sense to me.

Everything they told me seemed to make sense.

Tuesday crept up on me and although I was excited, the usual jitters most presumably feel before going under the knife had started to settle in.

I must have watched the videos they provided me with more than a dozen or a couple of hundred times.

In truth, while I didn't like the idea of so many people looking and touching my body, I found it fascinating. 

By tonight, you'll be a new Erica.

I told myself that quite a few times.

In the house as I had some toast with orange marmalade. 

On the way to the hospital. 

While waiting on reception as the demure-looking man, who was called Reynolds, kept glancing at me over his glasses and computer screen.

I was used to the male gaze. I knew he found me attractive. 

I also was suddenly glad he wasn't privy to the images the team saw.

By tonight, you'll be a new Erica.

I repeated the mantra as I was led down a corridor that looked as much like a tech company office as it did modern hospital and was asked to strip off and wear a special white gown that protected little of my modesty.

Fortunately I didn't have to worry about the team looking at the large Celtic tattoo that ran up the side of my body from my waist to my armpit

 I was told to lie down and then anaesthetics were administered. 

The room went blurry then black.

It was what felt like minutes, or could easily have been hours, when I felt a jolt through my head and woke to find Allen and Monica by my bedside in a similarly white room.

My tongue felt like sandpaper, and my eyelids clung to one another.

“Hello, sleepyhead.”

Monica flashed a grin before nodding towards the water dispenser.

Allen got the hint and poured me some fresh water, while Monica helped adjust my pillows so I could sit upright.

It was only as I sipped my water that my pelvic muscles tried to... well, move or shift my genitalia, when I remembered why I was in hospital.

I smiled.

“Want to see?” Monica asked, apparently understanding my facial expression.

“We haven't peeked. Scouts' honour,” Allen chipped in.

“He wanted to. The perv. But I stopped him, sis.”

Monica rolled her eyes at Allen.

“Um... okay. Yes.”

I sounded weary and wary all at once.

I slowly lifted the quilt and rolled it forward to reveal my very short hospital gown and my legs.

Carefully, I pulled the hem upwards.

More thigh.

Then more.

“Oh, shit.”

Monica was the first to speak.

My mons pubis came into view.

And it was...

Barbie-like.

Smooth.

Almost unnaturally smooth.

For a moment, I just stared.

I had expected scars. Swelling. Bandages. Something that looked like evidence of what had happened.

Instead, there was almost nothing.

“Is that... normal?” Allen asked.

“I think so.”

I looked down again.

The strange thing was that it didn't look like a wound.

It looked finished.

Complete.

Designed.

I reached down to touch the skin and it felt smooth, almost plastic but I definitely still had working nerve endings as I felt electricity surge through my fingers from my body.

It was just strange.

"You don't regret it do you?"

It was Allen's turn to speak, as he asked a very searching question.

"No. It's just. Different. A lot to adjust to, I guess."

Tiredness crept up on me and as I drifted the consultant entered the room and told Monica and Allen they could come back in the morning to take me home but I needed my rest. 

I felt his hands pull my gown down and cover me back over. But I was too tired for anything but sleep.

Morning came and it was a quiet drive home. The team had each been in to assess my initial progress and were all pleased. They even thanked me for providing a successful test example that might help others.

I felt better at least that it wasn't in vain. It would take a little getting used to but it wasn't really that I missed having my labia or any other part of them. I didn't regret it at all. 

Allen and Monica stayed with me for a couple of hours. We had a meal and discussed the future. Then I excused myself to bed. I heard them leave as I slowly drifted off to sleep.

The next thing I remember was pressure, persistent and shifting pressure around my or where my vagina used to be.

My body reacted unusually to the pressure. As I came to in the dream there was a silhouette between my legs.

I screamed and woke.

What the fuck was that?

I looked at some of the pamphlets the company has given me and found a troubleshooting guide.

"Sometimes you may feel phantom orgasms and vaginal spasms. The nervous system and brain take some time to get used to the new normal"

"Crucially, this is not a sign of anything other then the body mourning for its loss and will pass with time."

"It is completely natural." 

That did not put me at ease as much as they perhaps hoped.

Another spasm and I was sure I felt liquid. I carefully stroked the area. Dry.

Okay, Erica you might just be exhausted after the events.

This is a good thing. No a great thing. Remember.

The next few days were a strange mix of meetings with clients and days when I'd sit and just relax. 

I was starting to feel like the Erica I always wanted to be.

Then I had a meeting with Henry Hillingdon, a client who had been looking to work with the company I represented for years. He always had a thing for me, which made me feel rather uncomfortable.

This time it would be different though.

I was the new improved Erica, after all.

He had invited me to his office to discuss his expectations and what he was willing to pay.

The conversation flowed much better, especially as I was freed from the burdens. I even told him I had elected for surgery. My boss had told me to personalise the pitch and get them on side.

He looked rather shocked and said it was "a waste of a good bit of flesh".

I laughed a little, because I was trying to move forward.

His crestfallen face was a picture that will stay with me though.

A call came through from his office. A delivery. He excused himself and told me to help myself to the nibbles his staff had prepared.

Cocktail sausages and caviar was a strange mix but he was a strange little man.

I felt relaxed.

The aircon helped, as I felt a little hot around my collar and the site of the operation.

At first it was bearable but as Henry came back into the room and placed his delivery under his desk, the heat increased. It felt like pressure again. Hands maybe? Why did it feel like hands?

"Are you okay, Erica?" Henry asked curiously as I tried to get comfortable on the chair and suddenly the room felt smaller.

Just spasms I said, just back spasms I lied.

I couldn't help but notice as the pressure built, Henry seemed to enjoy my discomfort.

Arrogant little shit.

I think he imagined he had the upper hand in our negotiations.

It was also then that I noticed one hand was under the table. 

I did think for a second if he was doing something inappropriate.

But he couldn't be.

As he placed his hand on the desk, the pressure eventually stopped and my body shuddered.

Okay, that was weird.

Maybe I've went back to work too soon. I thought.

There is always the chance that it might take longer for me to recover. As it differs from individual to individual. According to the company.

Fortunately Henry agreed to a contract though with terms that benefited him more than our company.

My boss was not happy really but agreed that I had done my best under the circumstances.

Over the next few weeks, life returned to some sort of normality, apart from the sharp and intrusive reminders that I had undergone surgery.

At the post office, when I was collecting some stamps, I felt a dampness or hot wet air around my pubis and felt my body seized up.

My hands clutching the counter as the post office clerk asked if I was okay.

I wanted to say, do I look fucking okay?

But instead maintained my cool and just excused myself, apologising to the queue behind me.

Then I sat in my art class, trying to paint a vase of flowers and a bowl of fruit.

But I couldn't concentrate.

The pressure was back.

A little pain with it this time.

It felt as though something was down there.

Something that shouldn't be.

Like two years ago.

Like my last time.

But that was fucking nuts, right?

I became paranoid that everyone in the class was staring at me when, in reality, only our tutor, Mr Demarco, seemed to be watching.

His gaze made me uncomfortable.

It felt like he knew something.

But that was paranoia talking.

Must have been.

He was probably just sitting there with his phone in his hand, watching stupid memes or porn as usual.

Disgusting pig.

But a great artist.

Maybe I was irrational. But I couldn't shake off what I was feeling.

I decided to visit the hospital again and speak to someone.

The reception I received as I walked in the door was a little frostier. Reynolds though was delighted to see me and asked if I was satisfied with the procedure.

I said I had some issues. He sat at his desk and told me to take a seat. He would make some notes and pass them on to the team.

"What kind of issues? Leaking blood?"

"No nothing like that. You're going to think I'm mad. I know what the pamphlets said and what the team told me but the phantom orgasms and spasms don't feel very phantom and have increased in regularity and intensity.

He looked, at least initially, concerned and typed on his compUter.

"What does it feel like? I know it's an awkward question but I have to ask to put forward this request from."

"It's different each time but similar. Sometimes it feels like a hand is gripping my genitals. Other times it feels more intrusive, heavy, moist."

"Moist?" He asked and I thought I saw him lick his lips, but he took a sip of water so I thought nothing more of it.

*Listen, is it Reynolds? No offence but I want to see the team that worked on me."

"All in due time, Ms Daniela. I'm not going to lie to you but this all sounds fairly routine. But I can still proceed with a request if you wish?" 

His smile.

I don't know if he was deliberately being condescending or was trying to ease my paranoia.

"I would please." I maintained my ground.

All the times I had come to this building I hadn't noticed just how big it was and that there seemed to be a number of different companies or organisations that occupied its vast space.

e-sense I had heard of but was unsure where and there was a logo for something called a Sid.

I was ushered into a plain white room by a very abrupt and impatient security guard. The member of the team who visited me was the microbiologist.

Gone was the "you're one of the team" atmosphere of before that was replaced with the level of contempt doctors often have when women book appointments for talk about their periods. 

"Erica. Reynolds told me about your situation. Are you having regrets or looking for a bit of sympathy? You chose this remember. We told you the potential side effects and phantom orgasms. Have you had any tears or is the wound leaking or anything?"

I didn't know how to respond. Her rudeness and short attitude stunned me.

"No but..."

"But?"

It felt like I was getting nowhere.

"But nothing. I'm just fucking uncomfortable."

"You had surgery darling to remove your vagina, what did you expect? I'll give you a few minutes to collect your thoughts then I need to ask you to leave. I have a very busy schedule and you're taking me away from customers that really need my expertise and attention."

Then she walked out.

What the fuck?

I felt like crying but as I let my head fall into my hands, a voice roused me.

"Ms Daniela? Time for you to leave!"

The same impatient and rough guard grabbed my arm and made sure I knew he wasn't playing around.

Reluctantly I left and just sat in the car.

Sobbing and feeling pains and uncomfortable spasms.

If I didn't know better it felt like a mouth was down there. No, fingers. Fingers and a mouth? 

Fuck, I was going insane or was I? 

I tried my best to drive home. I just needed to get to my bed. And needed some codeine.

Every few minutes I felt pressure and was reminded of why I hated sex.

As I walked up the path, I only vaguely noticed Allen's car.

As I walked in my house..I didn't really notice the voices at first.

I just wanted to get to bed.

One thrust after another made me buckle as I heard the voices from my room. What the fuck?

"You're right, Mon, it's much better in Erica's bed."

"I told you Allen. Now fuck me. Fuck me hard. Close your eyes and imagine I'm her."

I pushed the door open, holding my belly and the space where my vagina once was.

Allen rolled off my sister and looked sheepish.

"What's going on?"

I just stared as I felt my world fall out of my head.

"We were going to tell you. We've been seeing each other."

As I looked around the room, and then to the bed,   something strangely familiar was there. My gaze turned to between Monica's legs and yes, unless I was completely losing my mind, that was my... vagina.

"What have you done?"

"Well it was going to waste on you wasn't it?"

"Erica, I'm.."

" Shut the fuck up, Allen."

"Don't be mad at him, you know he's loved you for years. I stood back and watched. Waited and hoped he'd choose me"

"How is that even possible" I said, pointing towards her pelvis.

"The organisation helped."

"And you were okay with it?"

Monica just shrugged and Allen averted his eyes as I heard voices coming into my house from downstairs.

Finally, perhaps it was the organisation come to help.

As I turned to face the door, two men came in.

"Ms Daniela, come with us please."

They grabbed an arm each and I tried in vain to fight them off.

"Where are you taking me?" 

"To somewhere special!"

*

Thanks for reading!

This is my response to the always wonderful and creative LC and her latest Dollar Challenge - Quote Me Baby (Women's Edition)

This is the  third of three loosely connected stories. Different people, different circumstances, but perhaps not entirely different worlds.

To understand more, please read Beneath My Tongue and Optimisation.
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