Augmentation

by Tommy Rowlands

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​   By the end, Mum degenerated into a frozen lake of her own excretions. Sarah was the only one to articulate what I was too terrified to feel. Resentment. The hatred towards Mum for being inflicted with such a vicious disease. Sarah vocalised the worst thoughts imaginable. Vitriol uncensored. It was a celebration of pain, a reckoning I was too numb to express in ways more eloquent than neat vodka and Mum’s benzodiazepines.

    Tubes and cannulas—to feed her, drain her, and keep her intoxicated enough to stop the tears—turned her body into a strange facsimile of a theme park. I’d trace their varying paths imagining tiny rollercoasters travelling through the plastic loops and bends. That’s my job, you see, designing these mathematical marvels. She was very proud I’d achieved my childhood dream career.

    The doctors told us that she could still see and hear and feel, that was why they kept upping the dose, pushing her closer towards pharmaceutical oblivion. I didn’t allow anyone to take care of her most degrading ablutions. She once told me that she’d given birth alone. A single mother from the outset. I wasn’t willing to abandon her dignity. I owed her that. Washing her crystallised some thoughts regarding my own body. The body she’d nurtured, protected and disciplined without anyone’s help.

    Sarah said I’d chosen an unusual way to deal with inadequacy, when I told her of my plan. It was the first time she’d named it. The feeling, I mean. I don’t think any man likes to think of themselves as inadequate. ‘It’s only been six months since we lost her. What I’m trying to say is that maybe you just feel guilty or angry or something.’

    Sarah was practically minded enough to counteract this devastation with fellatio. She was unexpectedly slow, tender even.

    Our sex life had grown visceral and violent, in the weeks leading up to Mum’s death. Rough fucks in the kitchen. Faces pushed against the wall, the table. We’d stuff our fingers into each other’s mouths, desperate to conceal the shameful sounds of life from my mother dying upstairs. Our grief was as insatiable as our libido.

    Antiques Roadshow played on the TV. I imagined Fiona Bruce’s tits as Sarah’s hand and mouth worked their charms. I pictured Fiona’s perfectly smooth arsehole. I imagined spitting into her mouth, her spitting into mine. Her slapping me and calling me a dirty little cunt. I came the same moment an ugly doll was valued at nine grand. Totally unrelated except for the timing of the gasps.

    Sarah and I stared at my cock afterwards. ‘Are you really sure?’ she said, ‘It’s a perfectly reasonable penis.’

    ‘From inadequate to reasonable,’ I said, ‘fucking hell, Sair.’

    ‘You know I’m right though, yeah.’

    I unbuttoned her jeans, burying my nose and tongue into her like a ravenous
stray. She slapped my head and pulled me deeper, rocking her hips faster until I was dizzy with hypoxia. Fiona Bruce could never compete.
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I made the appointment a few days later.

    I feel the sweat dripping from my armpits. Smiling specimens of masculinity, all glossy abs and shiny teeth, stare hungrily from magazines fanned across the table. Do I feel guilty? Inadequate? If I didn’t, surely I wouldn’t be doing this.

    The receptionist clicks her fingernails together each time she stops whatever she’s doing. She didn’t smile when I gave my name, when she told me to take a seat. Probably best not to, in a place like this, with people. Like me.

    I clear my throat, hoping to elicit a response from her. She clicks away at her fingernails. I’m nauseous. Too much coffee and not enough breakfast. The receptionist glances my way. ‘Everyone’s apprehensive their first time,’ she says. She’s right. I am apprehensive. Scared that everything will stay the same, regardless.

    The receptionist stands. ‘Doctor’s ready. Follow me.’ She steps from behind her sweeping Corian enclosure, its modernity at odds with the Edwardian building. Both of her legs are titanium prostheses. I scan down to a pair of white Air-Force Ones. ‘This way,’ she says. I imagine the hint of a smile in the corners of her eyes.

    I follow. Her gait swishes her ponytail like an inverted metronome. I try not to think of sex, concentrating upon the vague antiseptic miasma and the deep pile carpet my feet sink into with each step. What am I doing? I could turn around. Leave. Instead, I smile at the doctor and shake his outstretched hand.
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    The Royal Oak on his wrist seems fitting. It’s the sort of watch I’d wear if I didn’t have a brutal mortgage. It’s not as pedestrian as a Rolex or as elegant as a Patek. It’s masculine, expensive and assured, just what I’d expect from a guy I’m trusting my penis to. The expense of such care is further exemplified by the walnut panelled walls, vintage modernist furniture, and a futuristic operating table. I take a seat.

    ‘May I call you Peter?’

    ‘Pete,’ I reply.

    ‘Aryan.’ The doctor touches his palm to his chest. He holds his gaze a little longer than is comfortable before looking across to his screen. ‘Benedict. Peter. Sorry, Pete Benedict.’ He stares at me again.

    ‘Yes.’

    The doctor doesn’t ask me why I’m seeking his services. He talks me through the various products, their differences and similarities, what works best for volume, best for rigidity. He tells me that the most expensive product is the one he prefers due to its performance and stability. I agree it’s what we should go for. I kind of want to make him proud. Being fatherless does that to me, with other men, sometimes. Seeking approval.

    I look at his mouth. He has a miniscule gap between his front teeth that he’s decided to keep even with the excellent dentistry he’s obviously endured. Clean shaven, the strength of his beard casts an argent shadow that matches the ripples of pomaded mercury passing for hair.

    I think of my mother. She loved the gap in my teeth enough to shed tears when braces corrected it. She’d have swooned at this man, I suspect. The gap. His eyes, green like sea glass. Yes, he was the type of man that she’d covet on those long lonely nights that took their toll. I think she would’ve admired that he’s chosen to help men with their insecurities, even if it was in this way. And, for money.

    I think about whether I’d have told her. That I was going to do what I was doing. Would her curiosity have been greater than her embarrassment to ask for a peek? I visualise us giggling together, at the absurdity of shame between a mother and her son. It would have been Sarah that told her. They both liked to gang up on me. It was their shared love language.

    God, I miss her.

    ‘If you’d like to undress and take a seat on the table. I’ll give you some privacy.’

    The doctor leaves his office. I’m amused by the offer of privacy. I take off my shoes, my trousers and my pants. I keep my socks on. My favourite ones are red. It felt a little bold to wear them today so I opted for purple. Red means love. Purple is noble.​

    I want to feel noble.

    I slip my arms into the surgical gown and look around the office for any signs of the doctor’s life outside these walls.

    Wimpole Street hums and beeps below. Does he live nearby, I wonder. He can
afford to, surely. Or maybe he lives in Esher or Oxshott, some countryfied enclave close enough to drive into London from. Somewhere with tennis courts. Does he play tennis? Maybe he prefers squash, like me.

    A knock on the door precedes the receptionist’s entrance. She carefully crosses the threshold from the deep piled corridor to the antique parquet of his office. Black surgical gloves are snapped on before she sets up a surgical trolley with the necessary paraphernalia. Her legs gleam as she increases the lighting from a discreet panel on the wall. ‘Are they comfortable?’ I ask.

    ‘As comfortable as you can imagine.’ She removes the gloves, replacing them
with a fresh pair. She points at the lighting panel. ‘I touched it.’ The doctor enters.

    Should I chat as he gently squeezes the shaft of my penis? Maybe ask him if
he’s going anywhere nice on holiday, or what team he supports when he pulls back my foreskin? ‘Twelve mls will add around one and half inches in girth. We can top up with another ten or so in a few months if you wish to augment further.’ I nod slowly. ‘We'll apply a topical anaesthetic before we begin.’

    The receptionist (or is it the nurse?) punctures the foil on a little tube, the size and shape of a mini-toothpaste, and squeezes its contents onto the base of my dick. With two fingers she smooths the cream across the area. This is where the cannula will enter, from the base towards the tip. The doctor explained this. ‘Do you have kids?’ I ask him. My tone, a little uncertain, even for this situation.

    ‘The procedure won’t affect your ability to conceive,’ he replies.

    ‘I know. I’m just wondering. I’m…’ I shake my head. ‘Sorry.’

    ‘We’ll take great care. I understand,’ says the doctor. He smiles at the reception-nurse. She smiles back. A gap! The same miniscule gap. ‘Farah, my daughter.’

    ‘Dr. Farah,’ says the reception-nurse.

    ‘And you?’ he asks.

    ‘Not yet.’ I reply.

    He holds his gaze over me again. ‘Benedict,’ he says, ‘Benedict.’ He goes to his screen. I can’t be sure but I think he whispers “eighty-seven?”, he looks across to me. I purse my lips. His left eye twitches subtly. We both stare at each other. It's like a schoolyard battle devoid of competition. He wins, nevertheless, with a smile that forces me to look away.

    ‘It will feel unusual but it won’t hurt. There’s anaesthetic within the product.’ Dr Farah places a syringe into his right hand. ‘I suggest closing your eyes.’ His left hand grips the end of my penis, pulling it straight. The filler feels cold. Cold and then friction. No pain to speak of. A strange sensation, something akin to the first time I sniffed cocaine and felt like balloons were expanding in my sinuses. Like a balloon in my dick? Not that, no. It feels like contraction and expansion at the same time. Within seconds, I feel nothing at all. I open my eyes.

    Another syringe. The doctor runs the cannula up and down the shaft of my prick like he’s clearing a blockage from some pipe. The route of the needle swells under the soft skin. I feel untethered, ready to float away. My lips tingle. Mouth’s dry. I close my eyes again and take some deep breaths. My body isn’t mine. Is this what Mum might have felt when doctors were brutalising her body?

    The doctor informs me that the procedure is over. I open my eyes and see Farah leaving the office. I look at my swollen, bruised penis. ‘For the next ten days,’ begins the doctor, ‘I want you to massage the filler six times a day.’ He squeezes KY jelly onto me and demonstrates the technique. I feel nothing. ‘Put these on,’ he says, holding a box of surgical gloves. ‘There will be migration and you may feel little beads forming. This is perfectly normal, but the massage will ensure optimal results.’

    I feel the gel moving underneath the surface and twist my coiled fingers around my dick with the same movements the doctor just performed. ‘The swelling and bruising will increase over the next twenty-four hours before subsiding. Paracetamol and Ibuprofen will help with any discomfort.’

    ‘What about erections?’ I ask, ‘Should I do this when I’m erect?’

    The doctor smiles, ‘Invariably, you will become erect. That’s a normal response. Please try to avoid sexual activities or masturbation for at least a week, however. Do you have any more questions?’

    I shake my head. I am grateful for the privacy to dress, this time round, if only to swing the new heaviness about a few times before I put my pants back on. Sarah will be pleased and amused with her new toy. Once I’m dressed, I text her to say I’m on my way.

    Sarah’s already in the restaurant by the time I arrive, a glass of champagne, untouched, in front of her. I order a beer from the waiter, ‘So?’ She says.

    ‘You first.’

    Sarah slides her hand onto my lap. ‘You!’

    I jerk automatically, knocking the table with my knee. The tables next to us look over for a second before going back to their conversations. Sarah raises her eyebrows, her smile radiates like sunshine. ‘He had the same gap I used to have. Between his front teeth.’

    ‘Is that relevant?’ she asks.

    ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ The waiter arrives with my beer and asks us if we’re ready to order. Sarah shakes her head. ‘His daughter was there. Same gap. She’s got titanium legs.’

    ‘What’s the obsession with the gaps? Did it hurt?’

    ‘It’s just that I thought about what Mum would say. He’s handsome.’

    ‘You’re handsome,’ Sarah exclaims, the tables next to us looking over again. ‘Is it humongous now? Threatening?’

    ‘Sair! Shh. I don’t know. It’s swollen.’

    Sarah leans over to kiss me. The restaurant’s cacophony drowns out the
multitude of thoughts racing round my mind. Cutlery. Glasses. Chatter. Music. It’s frenetic and soothing. ‘I miss her,’ I say. ‘I wish I could have done more.’

    Sarah stares at the waiter to get his attention, raising her chin and smiling once she has his eye. ‘I’ll have the burger. Medium-well. Extra cheese, no lettuce,’ she says.

    ‘Same,’ I say, when the waiter looks at me.

    ‘When can I try some bionic dick?’ she whispers in my ear.

    ‘Sair...at least a week.’

    ‘Was she pretty? His daughter? What was she doing there, anyway?’ Sarah links her fingers and rests her chin on her hands. I love her.

    ‘She’s a doctor too. She was assisting. She was pretty sexy, actually. I mean her legs weren’t off-putting.’ Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘So, tell me. How was it?’

    ‘We won the commission. A few tweaks to the design but...’ Sarah looks teary.

    ‘I’m so proud, Sair.’

​    ‘I’m pregnant.’ Sarah stifles a howl. Tears flow freely. The people at the other tables pretend not to look this time round. ‘I’m not sure if it’s the best time.’ Her lip trembles. ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready. The practice. My body. I’m not ready to give my body over.’

    ‘No one’s ever ready for that,’ I say, ‘but sometimes we don’t get to choose.’

    ‘I get to choose, Pete. Of course I get to choose.’

     ‘Not this time. This belongs to us. A family, Sair. A mum and dad. A baby. I need this. I’ve never needed something more.’

    ‘A baby won’t erase your inadequacies, Pete, and being a dad won’t make up for you never having one. It won’t fill the void your mum left.’

    I disagreed.

    ‘I feel like a man, Sair. For the first time, I really feel like a man.’



    
Tommy Rowlands is a London based writer of contemporary fiction and poetry.