by

Kortpeel

Dear Mr. Trencher,

Congratulations on achieving first class honours in your finals.

You will already know that as a graduate you are entitled to full genital regeneration free of charge. I point out that the Ashford Regeneration Clinic specializes in this service and we would welcome you as a patient.

I assure you that it is not an unpleasant procedure.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of assistance to you in this regard.

Yours faithfully

Sylvia Milwall, MD

Director, Ashford Regeneration Clinic

The letter was dated August 21, 2154. Doc Sylvia was on the ball there. Or, more likely, her marketing team were. That letter arrived a mere three days after my notification from the university that I’d passed my finals.

As with all other boys I’d been nullified a few days after birth. Apparently there were major advantages for us in doing so. It was so common and so normal that I can’t recall anyone of my peers ever questioning the reason for it. As it was we were all perfectly happy and content with our status. For us it was simply the way things were.

So normal that no one I knew was very keen on genital restoration. I’d spoken to post graduate students who’d gone in for it and it was only because it was a condition of their bursaries that they bothered. For most guys the idea of sexual organs was distasteful at best and downright obscene at worst. And having external organs always made me think of grotesque space monsters like in holo-movies. From the little we knew of them, male genital organs were delicate and sensitive so having them on the outside had to be a major vulnerability.

Apparently the testosterone secreted by the organs brought about physiological and behavioural changes too. It would give me a ‘sex drive.’ Why on earth would I want a sex drive? I was perfectly content with myself without one. It could be dangerously diverting from the important matters in life. Testosterone was generally regarded as a dangerous mind altering substance much like lsd had once been when it enjoyed a vogue. These days most guys avoided both but a few low-life types had been known to experiment with illicit testosterone and generally they ended up in jail on charges of hooliganism for their efforts. Now I was supposed to volunteer for it!

The guys that had been regenerated would never talk about the effects it had on them. I think they were embarrassed about it. You could see they were broader and more muscular. Their voices were deeper too and, word had it, they grew hair on their bodies and were forever having to shave it off. Yuck! Their skin had gone kind of grainy too. It wasn’t polite to say so but regenerated males were generally considered slightly obscene and potentially dangerous. They were rare too so people were apt to stare at them in public. In consequence they generally kept to their own kind and didn’t go out unless they really had to; which made the sight of one even rarer.

History and sociology had never interested me but now, faced with this regeneration thing it occurred to me that I ought to do some reading.

I learnt that it all started back in 2027 when medicine made a major breakthrough in the regeneration of organs in mammals. Initially the doctors honed their skills by restoring hundreds of thousands of clitorises and labia in the third world and even more foreskins in the first. That was harmless enough but medicine progressed until they could reliably regenerate any organ in the body including nerve cells. Eventually, by 2040 they were practically able to cure old age.

The result of that was a massive surge in the Earth’s population. By 2060 it was ten billion and rising. Fossil fuel resources were exhausted and the waste and pollution from that number of people was a major problem. Energy came from massive fusion power plants and most intercity and intercontinental transport was, and still is, by electric train. Synthetic aviation fuel is feasible but too expensive for mass transport. Generally intercontinental trains are much cheaper, almost as fast and far more comfortable. Electric taxis have replaced the motor car for local journeys. You call up a driverless cab, tell it where you want to go and it will take you there, door to door. It’s faster and safer than the old manually driven car could ever be.

However, technology has its limits and long before 2080 it was apparent that the Earth could not sustain fifteen billion people. Wars, famines and pestilence became limiting factors on the population. There was talk of banning regeneration of body parts and letting old age resume its culling course.

But by then another radical social change was occurring. A religious cult called Christ the Eunuch insisted on castration for all males before they could be admitted to the cult. The Russians had had a similar cult in the nineteenth century. The church prospered and became powerful, as did its followers, but an interesting side effect developed. Zealots in the church castrated infant boys. Most people were appalled at what was then an outrageous idea and demanded that they be regenerated immediately. However, those boys that remained un-regenerated all did astonishingly well academically. They were intensely focused on their studies. Subsequently they did well in adult life. Not only that but they were model citizens too. Observing this effect and mindful that regeneration was always an affordable option other people followed suit. It became the norm. The penis was removed as a sop to gender equality. “Why not? He can grow a new one at any time.” It was a cure for penis envy. Ban penises and there’s nothing to envy. Apparently there had been a time when little girls, observing they had no penis, deemed themselves inferior to boys. This induced in them a life long deference to men that continued even after they’d grown up and ought to have known better.

Boys who, like me, have been nullified at birth are usually quite happy with their situation and very few exercise their option to regenerate. I understand why: I don’t want to get involved in all the complication and distractions associated with having a libido. I’m perfectly happy the way I am, normal.

By 2100 the population was down to 6 billion and falling. The birthrate had come down to 0.3 children per couple worldwide. The global population was the lowest it had been in over a century. Today it stands at a mere 3.5 billion and the authorities are concerned.

I don’t know why a small population should bother anyone. Earth is wonderful place on which to live. The air is clean, you can drink from our rivers and there is an abundance of food and space for all. Who cares if old disused high-rise buildings are crumbling? Who wants to be twenty floors up? In any case the government’s demolition programme is pulling them down at a rapid rate.

Why did the population fall so rapidly? Wars and accidents accounted for a portion but at the time of the dense overpopulation a number of different virus infections took out billions. Those days are long gone, thank heavens, and the immunology people tell us that viruses are no longer a major threat. Meanwhile good old-fashioned nullification is keeping the numbers down.

Of course, mass nullification is bad for some types of business. There are no pimps or prostitutes any more, no property developers either, but the world is managing very well without them.

However, as they made clear in the compulsory social studies lectures at college, the human race does need to procreate and it is expected of graduates to be the ones to do it. I suppose you would call it a de facto selective breeding programme. Or a politically correct version of eugenics, as one of our lecturers put it.

And just to help the new graduate make the right decision, voluntarily and entirely of his own free will, bursaries for higher degrees are only issued to those males who are in or who have completed a regeneration programme. Career training programmes in industry for graduates have the same requirement.

So feeling apprehensive I presented myself at the Ashford regeneration clinic where, after the usual iris scan which proved I was who I said I was, I was placed in the charge of Genital Regeneration Technician Angie Dower. Angie turned out to be a warm friendly person who was enthusiastic about male genital regeneration.

In fact she was so enthusiastic I suspected she had a thing about regenerated men. Some young women do apparently although it is socially unacceptable for them to say so. However, it was her job so I supposed it was in order for her to be enthusiastic about penises and related matters.

She got me undressed, took a 20ml blood sample and sent it off to the lab. Then she did the usual thing with blood pressure and stethoscope, took a few measurements and decided I was healthy enough to go onto the programme.

“Yes, Roddie,” she said, appraising me with her hands on her hips. “You are a very good restoration subject. Her general attitude seemed to be one of approval. “I expect your life partner is very excited about your regeneration.”

Life partnerships are the 22nd century version of marriage. It is a legal contract, usually but not necessarily without benefit of clergy. The change came about because of a row over gay marriages in the early 21st century. The churches took themselves out of the loop because marriage was instituted for childbirth whereas life partnerships are generally in anticipation of no children. Life partnerships are popular because men and women’s different mental patterns complement each other and it makes for a congenial lifestyle for both partners. Also, if the woman in the partnership should qualify for childbearing it makes a good background in which to raise the child.

“I don’t have a life partner,” I told Angie.

“Oh! Really?” This piece of unimportant information seemed of interest to her.

That’s a strange thing about women. It’s as if they have some hidden agenda. When we were kids boys and girls were much the same. We would play together and no-one cared whether you were a boy or a girl. Then about the early teens those kids who were girls changed. Apart from developing breasts and curves their behaviour and attitudes changed subtly. It’s hard to put a finger on it but their interests changed too and they weren’t the same good buddies that they used to be.

My room mate at college was a girl and we’d have long discussions about it. The way Cindy explained it was that the brains of males and females were differently wired and had evolved for different but complementary roles in life. She said that boys being nulloed, although a good thing for all concerned, prevented them from feeling some of the emotions that came with maturity. My take on that was good thing too. Cindy and other young women I knew seemed to live on an emotional roller coaster, overjoyed one minute for no reason and outrageously irritable and irrational the next. That was something I could well do without. I’ve been content to let women be what they are, accepting them without understanding them and getting on with my life.

I explained to Angie that I’d only just graduated and needed to get my Master’s and a career going before I could consider a life partnership. She must have already known that but it still seemed of great interest to her.

“Right then. Let’s get started.” She got me onto an examination table and studied the area where the restoration would take place. She ran a finger lightly over the circular scar around my wee hole, and down the scar where my new scrotum would go. “The first thing is to remove the scar tissue from where you were nullified.”

I didn’t much like the sound of that but instead of surgery she simply applied some paste to the area concerned. “This contains an enzyme which removes the scar tissue and only the scar tissue. It takes about fifteen minutes. Just lay there and relax. Tell me if you can feel anything.” Angie left me alone at that point so I couldn’t have told her anything.

After a while I felt a slight tickling sensation from the area. It wasn’t unpleasant at all but I imagined that scar tissue, which had been with me for all but the first few days of my life and to which I was accustomed, being digested away and leaving raw, tender flesh underneath. I became apprehensive.

She returned with a wash bottle. “What does it feel like?”

“Like millions of enzymes are nibbling away at my scar.”

“And that’s exactly what is happening.” Angie was studying the area, watching the enzymes in action.

Eventually I felt something warm and damp running down on to my buttocks. It was as if urine were leaking out. Angie was giving a nod of approval. “What’s happening?”

“You’re starting to bleed. It’s as if your nullication has only just occurred. “Don’t worry. This is supposed to happen. That’s the whole point of the enzymes.”

I could feel the blood pouring out. Some of it must have been arterial blood. Shit! I could bleed to death like this. Do something woman!

She took the wash bottle and squirted a water like fluid over the area. It felt cold and it washed away the blood but it didn’t stop the bleeding. “This is just to wash away the enzymes,” she explained. “Now we stop the bleeding.”

An aerosol can appeared in her hand. She held it an inch or so away from the area and gave a long spray. It felt bitterly cold. “The spray also contains an anaesthetic ready for the next step,”

I’d panicked and dosed myself with adrenaline. In consequence I was trembling. Now I was embarrassed at having lost my cool.

“We’ll give it a few minutes for the anaesthetic to work,” Angie told me.

And for the trembling to stop, I thought.

“Now the next step is to inject stem cells into the area where the new parts are to grow.” I had no doubt that Angie was enthusiastic about growing new parts. There was satisfaction in her voice as she said it. “It’s the stem cells that regenerate the new parts. The cells are custom made for you from the blood sample I took at the start of this session.”

“How do they know what to become, Angie? Say I grew a new hand down there instead?”

She smiled. “They’ll only grow a new hand if it’s at the end of your arm. Stem cells know where they are in your body from the cells adjacent to them. Knowing where they are, they look at your dna to discover what they are to become for that position in your body. Oh, and we didn’t need to modify your dna to correct for any possible genital defects. Jenny in the lab says you’ll grow a fine set.”

“Bloody marvellous, really.”

“It is.”

I’d stopped trembling and my groin was numb. The anaesthetic was working. Angie produced a device that was a small ring with dozens of short tiny needles protruding from it. It was a multi needle syringe. She placed it carefully over where my new penis was to grow, triggered it and filled the site with stem cells. Next she got busy on my scrotal scar, this time injecting the stem cells with an ordinary syringe, shot by shot but only using the tiniest amounts each time. It took her a while and it entailed intense concentration on her part. She looked up when she’d finished. “Well, that’s the most difficult part over. Now we have to go fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“That’s right. Really it’s the most important part. We have to find the cords that will lead to your new testicles. When you were nullified they retracted up into your body. Now we have to locate the ends and treat them. It’s similar to what we did for your penis and scrotum. She put a scanner sensor on my pubic area and studied a screen that I could just see if I lifted my head.

“Yes. I’ve found them. Using long thin forceps she probed up through the hole left by the enzymes that had digested the scrotal scar tissue. The forceps closed on one of the cords and she pulled it down. It seemed to stretch easily enough and I fancied I could feel something pulling down there. She gently clamped it to prevent it from retracting and then located the other one, pulled that out and clamped it.

“Got ’em. Now we have to do the same thing with the enzymes and stem cells. You’ll end up with a nice pair of testicles in a brand new scrotum.” There was such satisfaction in her voice that I knew Angie was born for her job.

It didn’t take very long. “Now we give it fifteen minutes to check that there’s no more bleeding. There was a comfortable arm-chair with a towel on the seat and I had to sit on that and relax.

“It takes about a year before you’re fully regenerated and can become a sexual being,” she told me. That gives you time to adapt to the changes in your mind and body as they occur.”

I nodded and I must have pulled a wry face. She smiled. “Don’t worry. It isn’t unpleasant at all. There are pleasures in store for you that you can’t even imagine at the moment.”

****

After eleven months and a good many appointments with Angie I was the slightly embarrassed possessor of a functioning penis and two working testicles in their custom pouch. Testosterone in my blood stream was growing hair on my body and making my skin coarser. I also went through an embarrassing few weeks of having my voice break. During that period whenever I wanted to say anything I didn’t know whether it would come out as a gruff mumble or a silly squeak. Testosterone was interfering with my mental processes too. I’d developed a libido which can be simply defined as a strong desire to discharge my sperm into the vagina of every attractive young woman in the world.

Actually “strong desire” doesn’t quite describe it. It’s more of an aching longing that becomes an obsession and interferes greatly with one’s concentration. While I concede that a libido could be a life enriching experience it is also a damned nuisance. There are any amount of pretty girls at the university and it is far more pleasant to contemplate the potential pleasures of inseminating them than it is to concentrate on my dissertation on the miniaturisation of nuclear fusion plants.

If you think it is stupid to take the best brains in the country and louse them up with testosterone in their most creative and productive years I can only agree with you. Yet that is how humanity evolved and I am told that the obsession fades with the passing of time.

Meanwhile I had it at full strength and it wasn’t helping my Master’s at all. Part of the problem was that although young women have a corresponding desire it doesn’t quite dovetail with a man’s. They want an exclusive relationship with a man who will take the time to woo and to court them and slowly progress toward penetration over a period of months. If you were lucky you would find a woman who just wanted it, no involvement and no strings attached. They are rare and usually what they say is not true. Some women just kid themselves they don’t want involvement whereas it is really at the core of their being. I was given to understand that a permanent relationship with a woman could be difficult. Apparently conflict is intrinsic to such relationships.

The best outlet was with the life partners of un-regenerated men. It was accepted that a woman should have some penetration as part of her life experience and traditionally her first child was the occasion for this. All I can say is that there is considerable satisfaction in performing the male role in the process. Does that satisfaction compensate for the frustration and obsession the rest of the time? No it does not. It’s great at the time but it only leaves you with even more frustration after the pregnancy is confirmed and there is no further need for your services. I have no doubt that I was a lot more contented before I had this stupid regeneration.

Despite everything my Master’s dissertation was successful. My idea was to miniaturise fusion power plants. Each fusion plant occupies several square miles of ground. Because it is impossible to run them at anything below full power any excess heat has to be dumped. Waste heat is causing more global warming than burning fossil fuels had done in the 20th century. Small fusion plants will be much more manageable and can be made in sizes suitable for individual households. They will still involve some heat dumping but their total dump will be only a minute fraction as much as the old giant plants. Next step will be to do it on a nanometric scale. Fusion powered robots anyone?

*************

The salary that Fusion Power Inc. are paying me is obscene, especially compared with the austerity of my student days. Even so it is nothing unusual. Most physical work these days is carried out by robots and corporations only need to employ knowledge workers.

But I digress. At least it proves that I am not totally obsessed with libidinous concerns. Currently I have Wilma and her unregenerated life partner Jolyon staying as house guests. My duty as host is to give Wilma some experience of penetrative sex and to impregnate her. She is a lovely young woman and I am happy to do my duty to the best of my ability. She seems to enjoy the experience at a physical level but she really does love Jolyon. Jolyon is quite happy to see the business of getting pregnant as a woman thing and isn’t much interested in it. I suspect that Wilma bores the pants off him with her account of events after each session.

Having house guests means that I miss out on the weekly visits from Sister Rachel. Sister Rachel, a worker from the church of Christ the Eunuch, normally calls once a week to collect semen donations for women who want a second or third child. She has lovely soft gentle hands and her administrations are always welcome.

*******************************

I ran into Cindy, my one-time room mate at college, at a conference on sustainable energy recently. She is still childless and intends to remain so until she has a life partner. She delivered a paper on Archaeology in the Antarctic. It was fantastic. A magnificent and ancient civilisation has been discovered there. Everything had been preserved perfectly under the icecap for millennia. Her work has become important because with the anticipated advent of global cooling, thanks in part to my small fusion plants, it is expected that Antarctica will ice over. Atlantis will once again be lost to humanity.

Cindy and I spent time together talking about old times and our student days. We had a few drinks and it was quite late when Cindy shyly asked me for a favour: “I’ve never seen a real penis, ever. Now you’ve been regenerated…”

Who am I to refuse a request from an old friend? We went to my room and I undressed. Cindy explored those parts she had never seen with some interest. “The rest of you has changed too. You are so much more… muscular and your skin has a different texture.” She looked me. “I like you like that. It really does suit you.”

Needless to say one thing led to another. As if these things were meant to be, my contract with Fusion Power was due for renewal and I declined to renew. I’d decided to accept an invitation from Cindy to accompany her to Antarctica. Fusion Power offered me a fifty per cent raise to sign up with them again.

I wasn’t even tempted. I wanted to see the wonders of Atlantis with my own eyes, and some more of the wonders of Cindy too. I really did like her and she was growing on me.

**********************************

The Antarctic ice cap may have melted but it’s no tropical paradise there. Newcomers are given a special course on how to cope with the cold. We learnt things like taking your breath in short puffs to avoid freezing your bronchus and lungs, not working up a sweat because it would freeze on your skin, the dangers of frostbite and so on. And don’t try to pat sled dogs if they don’t know you.

No life partnership for Cindy and me. We were married by an ordained minister of the church of Christ the Eunuch. Cindy’s a member of the congregation. I never can be, not all the time I have my testicles. Cindy says it doesn’t matter. She wants me to stay as I am.

End