He pressed the mask firmly onto my face. I started to panic; maybe coming here had been a bad idea. The constant buzz of the gas being forced into my mouth and nose began to overthrow my senses. I tried to to move, to fight, to protest, but it was too late -- the cocktail of anesthetics and sedatives was too much for my body to handle. I just stared up, and a bright light stared back, rapidly consuming my peripheral vision with a white blanket of nothingness.
I couldn't really feel the syringe going into my arm, but I knew it was there. I couldn't really feel the drugs that were being pumped into my veins, either, but I knew those were there, too. Over the orchestra of auditory and visual distortions, I heard the man above me say, "This should be the last thing you remember," as he stretched the elastic of the mask over the top of my head.
As the last of my vision was consumed, I made one last strain to see the tray of scalpals, clamps, surgical tubing, and other utensils that I had no idea the use for that was positioned next to me. A euphoric wave passed through my body and rippled through my vision. And then nothing.
Or atleast nothing I could perceive. It seemed like minutes -- maybe it was. I didn't know what exactly they had planned for me. I couldn't even remember how I got here. Without any understanding of when, I returned to the room. My brain hurt, but I couldn't feel anything else. The sweat on my bare chest reflected the burning light above me, and my entire body was hot from its energy. I strained to move, to call for help, but no one was there with me.
The tools on the tray next to me had been replaced with bloodied gauze. "What the hell did they do to me?" I thought. As I continued to regain consciousness, I tried to stand up but an alarm went off and two men in white coats ran in. They pushed me down onto the table and told me not to move.
Slowly my memory came back. I started to remember why I had come here in the first place. I asked, "Is my-"
"Yes we took care of it," one of the men said before I could finish.
"So everything is fine?" I asked.
"Yes," he said," the sex change operation was a success."
I slowly ran my hand over my tender, sweaty nipples to feel the new bumps protruding from my chest. I cupped them gently and smiled. I slowly ran my hand down my abdomen to where my penis used to be. I couldn't feel the shape of my new vagina through the bandage and gauze, but I was certain that the unsightly male genitalia had been removed.
"Thank you," I said.
The surgeon held up my severed penis. "What should I do with this?" he asked.
"I'd like to keep it. I think that my boyfriend would like it for the memories."
He put my removed organ into a jar of formaldehyde, screwed on the lid and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said again.
"You're welcome Jackie."