But the next half hour I spend upright in
the HTS, feeling like an entombed mummy, protective gauze wrapped
around my eyes, my ears, my mouth. I wear a heavy lead drape over
my genitals—when Dylan first saw it, he laughed, called it a
chastity belt. “For all the good it’ll do you,” he joked
“It’ll keep you out,” I
replied.
Dylan shook his head. “I’ll find a way in,”
he promised. At the time I was glad for the heavy drape, though,
because it pressed against the swell at my groin and deterred the
erection beginning to grow at the tease in his voice.
Inside the HTS it’s dark and even though my
eyes are closed, bandaged shut, I believe I can see red beams
dancing around me, lasers sterilizing my blood—it’s a queasy
feeling, almost like sinking very fast or maybe standing too
quickly, it’s sudden like that, makes me lightheaded and dizzy and
my stomach churns sickly. Shanley said it makes some people sick,
didn’t he? I remember him saying that.