The Masculinity Assessment

The old repurposed school bus bounced along the winding mountain road. Small patches of the old yellow paint were visible where the newer blue had chipped away. The interior smelled vaguely of burnt rubber and oil. The sun had not yet started to peek over the hills, but the sky was lightening up. Darren Parcell sat in the back behind 18 other recent male high school graduates on their way to the Eastern Kentucky Federal Male Assessment Center. All of them wore identical white sweatsuits with identical looks of dread on their faces. They were on their way to take the Primary Occupational Masculinity Assessment, or POMA.

The POMA became a required battery of tests for all 18 year old boys in the US years before, when the Patriarchal Order Party took power. The results of the POMA determined a man's official place in the male hierarchy, and thus his chances and possibilities in society. There were twelve possible outcomes: A for Alpha was the highest, followed by B1 (First Beta) through B10. B9 and B10 were required to fulfill a period of indentured servitude before legally becoming men. At the bottom of the scale was C, for Compelled Laborer. Slaves. Those who cannot be trusted to look after themselves, and were legally considered boys for life.

The minimum rank to be accepted for University education was B5. Darren tried not to be too worried about it. He believed himself to be at least Fourth Beta, maybe even Third. Though in the back recesses of his mind there was another worry. A worry he tried very hard not to think about on this bus ride: that an 'H' might be appended to his score. Life with an 'H' before your 'B' was difficult.

Darren tried not to be too anxious about it. He did fine with the ladies, or so he told himself. There was no way he was going home a registered homosexual.

Darren's brown eyes squinted behind his dark mop of bangs as the sun finally made its appearance. The bus pulled into a parking lot at what appeared from the outside to be a suburban office park. Four bland brick buildings with large tinted windows surrounded an artificial pond. A man boarded the bus. A very fit man in his 50s. Blond, with a natural tan. Darren could tell by the man's slightly longer-than-usual hairstyle and the fact he was permitted to have a moustache that this man was at least a Third Beta.

"Good morning boys! Welcome to your POMA! My name is Dr. Foster and I'll be one of your assessors for the day. The assessment is scheduled to take 12 hours, but with your help and cooperation, we'll try and get you home a bit quicker than that. If your last name begins with L through R, I'll also be your post-POMA guidance counselor. Do you all have any questions?"

There was a moment of silence, then "No, Master," replied Kurt Alberts, the handsome muscular redhead at the front of the bus, after glancing back at the others.

"All right then. First things first, off the bus!," Dr. Foster ordered.

Dr. Foster jumped out and the boys filed out after him. He started walking around the back of the building and gestured for the boys to follow him. They did, and around back was a quarter-mile track. Dr. Foster led them to the edge of the track, and without further ado, turned around and barked, "EIGHT LAPS. GO!"

The boys did not need to be told twice. They ran like none of them ever had before. Darren was doing well. He was the second boy to finish the first lap. He knew his whole life was counting on this. As exhausted as he was from getting up at 4:00 that morning, he found a reserve of energy he didn't know he had. The burning in his chest almost felt good, and he was glad he took the advice to quit smoking months before the POMA. His friend Paul remained in the lead. Some of the chubbier boys were struggling, but even they forced themselves to keep up. Eric Hashmore, the tall skinny ginger boy with welfare-issue yellow-framed eyeglasses lagged at the end. Kurt Alberts and Dean Blount overtook Darren, and he collapsed on the dewy grass after finishing fourth out of 19, his face pale and blue, gasping for breath. "That's one test down," he thought. He had no idea what was coming the rest of the day.

Dr. Foster applied some NanoHeal tape to a nasty scrape on Casey Wilkins' arm. He had fallen on the last lap, but still finished in somewhat decent time. The wound would be gone by dinnertime. He then instructed the boy to strip. Any tiny injury was taken very seriously and a full inspection was necessary for the incident report. Casey's face turned bright red. "Come on, get that suit off." Foster ordered. The doctor had the ability to go from paternally charismatic and friendly to menacingly dominant at a snap. Casey immediately jumped to and removed his shoes, followed by his sweatshirt and pants. He stood on the grass in his bright white briefs. "Those too."

"Yes, Master," Casey tried to sound normal. Off they came. Dr. Foster performed a visual head to toe inspection on the slightly pudgy brown-haired boy. Two attendants in lab coats came out of the building and crossed the grass to the track. One documented Casey's vital signs while another took a series of photographs. Casey felt humiliated. He didn't see a reason for so much fuss over such an insignificant injury. At least he would not be alone in his nudity for long.

Foster guided the boys inside and into a large locker room. They were instructed to discard their white sweatsuits and shower. Darren Parcell did not hesitate in doing exactly as he was told. He had always been quite shy about his body, but the words his father told him before he left that morning still rang loud in his head: "Every single thing you do there is part of the test. They're gonna be watching every move you make." Darren's father was a B3; he knew what he was talking about.

Darren stripped. His 5'10", 160-pound frame was fit enough, but not overly muscular. He had a little bit of a soft belly under his moderately developed pectorals. His pale white complexion contrasted nicely with the thick dark coat of body hair nature had blessed him with. He had smallish but respectable genitals that on very cold days were sometimes obscured by his thick bramble of pubic hair. The hair in his crack and around his buttocks made them look like two perfect round boulders in the grass. Darren was an avid cyclist and his legs and large thighs were much more developed than his upper body.

Darren walked past Dr. Foster on his way to the showers, those boulders bouncing. On the way he got a good look at Foster's ID badge. 'B1' it said. B1! Darren had seen a few First Betas from a distance over the years, but had never met one in person. "That's as much man as a beta can be," he thought. Almost as masculine as an Alpha. Darren had never met an Alpha at all. He briefly wondered if Alphas actually existed before biting his tongue to punish himself for such a blasphemous thought.

There were a number of showerheads hanging vertically from overhead pipes. They were high up enough that it was more like one giant shower than multiple individual ones. The boys crowded into the spray. Several plastic dispensers of dark green soap were hung about the space. Darren entered the tepid water and soaped up. It smelled vaguely like Christmas. His eyes could not help but glance over the other boys and their bodies. Some of them lean, some of them chubby, some of them rippling with plump muscles. His gaze grazed their genitals too. All sizes, all shapes. All of them uncircumcised. Well, for now at least. He knew B5 through B10 would be going home with a fresh tight cut.

His eyes kept going back to Paul Krause. Paul was the only boy there Darren knew before that day. They went to high school together. Darren was reliving those showers after gym class when he would admire Paul's generous musculature and meaty, swinging genitalia. Paul was even more breathtaking now than in high school.

He became acutely aware of his own penis. It was plumping. It was firming. Darren knew his genitals were on the small side, but he had been told that was just a tiny part of the assessment. He wasn't so sure about that. Every high-ranking Beta he had ever seen nude had some serious meat. Darren worried about what his erection could signal. In male etiquette, he had been taught that a casually semi-erect phallus was a sign of healthy virility in any social situation, but a FULLY erect penis might be construed as a sign of homosexuality or hostility. Thankfully his penis seemed content to stop at about 2/3 hard. A respectable display of maleness.

Dr. Foster flicked a switch on the wall. The lights brightened and the water became ice cold. He came to the edge of the shower area and looked over the boys. "Hand at your sides!" he ordered. "Everyone stand apart and face me, but keep fully in the water!" The boys turned to face him, some gasping from the cold. His eyes examined them one by one. Darren could feel a sense of electricity as Dr. Foster's eyes scanned up and down his body, and a sense of relief when his eyes went on to the next boy. It was short-lived relief. Dr. Foster's gaze returned to Darren. They scanned up and down, and then unmistakably on his genitals. The water stopped.

"Everyone out but Campbell, Parcell, and Zumanski." The others bolted out. Darren stood there with the other two boys, suddenly aware of how cold it was. And how his breath was still recovering from the run. He was shivering visibly. His erection receded to a gumdrop, and his scrotum tightened. It was one of those moments he appeared to be all pubes down there.

Dr. Foster entered the shower area and approached Hunter Zumanski. He got inches from the 6'8", obese, but very muscular moose of a boy and eyed him over, head to toe. Then he stood back and gestured for Hunter to follow the others. "Yes, Master," Hunter said before carrying his huge frame out of there, beer-can like cock bouncing over balls the size of lemons.

He came over to Darren. Dr. Foster performed the same close up examination of Darren's fairly average body. Darren wished he knew what this was about. Dr. Foster reached out the back of his hand and very gently grazed the soaking dark pelt of hair that covered Darren's torso. Foster's fingers found their way to Darren's unruly mop of pubic hair and he just barely ran them through it. Darren's heart was racing. Not just from the run. Finally Dr. Foster said he could go get dressed. Darren left the shower area and saw Dr. Foster go over to the delicate, slender, Justin Campbell.

Darren could not help but pause and watch as Dr. Foster eyed Justin's tanned and nearly hairless body over. Darren saw Dr. Foster lift his hands and place them upon Justin's soft, rounded hips. His diminutive cock began to perk up under its narrow brow of sparse light brown pubic hair.

Justin gasped. It was the first time he had ever been touched by a man. Dr. Foster rubbed Justin's stomach before moving up his torso to cup his puffy, plump chest tissue. Foster guided Justin to turn around. "Hold your ankles," he ordered.

"Yes, Master." Justin tried to butch his voice up as best he could. He tried to get control of his quivering body, but Dr. Foster was the most attractive man he had ever seen. Foster's touch sent pulses of ecstasy through him. He bent over and Foster gently spread the young man's buttocks apart, revealing a perfectly pale pink anus between those golden cheeks. His touch felt like elecricity. Despite how nervous and downtright terrified he was, he couldn't help but react to the waves of pleasure and animal instinct he felt. As hard as he tried to suppress it, his anus puckered and pouted with desire. Doctor Foster moved his face within an inch Justin's hole and exhaled a gentle stream of hot, moist breath onto it. Justin's face winced in horror as his penis bounced to full erection, and ejected a gush of prostatic fluid that hit the tile floor with an audible "SPLAT!"

Darren's own cock bounced up too and suddenly he realized he had been spying. He ran to join the other boys.

They would not see Justin again until the bus ride home. The rest of Justin's POMA would be conducted separately for the safety of the other boys. He would end up HB9/I25. Ninth Beta, Registered Homosexual. Indentured with eligibility for free male citizenship at age 25. He would get two weeks to spend with his family after the POMA, and then he would be placed with a wealthy older couple in Manhattan as a domestic servant, or "floor boy," as New Yorkers called indentured or enslaved males. Justin had always wanted to see the Big Apple.

After they donned the flimsy, silky white shorts and tank tops that had been provided. Dr. Foster led the remaining eighteen barefoot boys down the hall. They had breakfast. Followed by a long multiple-choice examination. Darren tried as best he could but every question seemed like a trick question. Then there was an essay portion. The questions seemed just as cryptic and multi-meaningful. This was followed by a long series of questions in which they were asked to choose from a selection of abstract shapes. Which shape makes you happy? Which shape makes you angry? "Don't think too hard, just pick," Darren's father had warned him. "First instinct."

The boys were then marched into a gym with weight machines. They were instructed to do a series of different lifting exercises with increasing weights. Darren didn't find any of it too difficult. At least not any more than most of the other boys. Most of them had been lifting at school in preparation for this day. One seemed to struggle. Tall, skinny, freckled, ginger Eric Hashmore. "Everybody out but Hashmore."

As the other boys clustered together in the corridor outside the gym Eric stayed behind. "On the floor. Pushups," Dr. Foster barked at him. Eric got in position and began pushups. Or what he thought were pushups. "Keep your back straight!" Eric tried and tried, but with all his effort could only get out six proper pushups. "Stand and disrobe." Dr. Foster held out his hand as Eric handed over his shorts and tank top. He stood there nude, panting and sweating, as Foster radioed for security.

Eric's POMA was over. TB10/PT/RA. Temporary Tenth Beta, eligible for re-assessment upon completion of a physical fitness training course and nutritional program. Two grim looking guards escorted the scrawny copper-topped boy up to the third floor for outprocessing.

"Don't you all think harshly of Eric. This does not read on his masculinity in the least. Part of being masculine is not judging others who haven't had the same advantages. He's gonna get his second chance and he deserves it. I think he'll do well." Darren knew from Eric's bright yellow sneakers and glasses that he was from a poor family and therefore would get a do-over. He still felt sorry for the boy. He had heard about those fitness camps. They were no joke.

He led the boys into a large, brightly lit room. There were a number of men in lab coats. The boys were once again instructed to strip down. Around the room separate stations were set up to take vital signs and measurements. Darren was assigned to go the the blood pressure station first. He had his BP taken, then onto the temperature station. Both oral and rectal, then weight & height, and then body measurements.

Body measurements had three attendants with tape measures who quickly went about measuring every dimension of his body: neck, waist, hips, legs, thighs, arms, chest -- you name it. Then to his surprise one attendant grabbed Darren's foreskin and pulled it taught while another measured his flaccid penis. "Two point nine," he said to the third attendant with the notebook. Then circumference: Three even. The short fat one who measured his penis then reached behind his testicles with two fingers and massaged deep into his taint. It worked. His penis inflated almost instantly to full erection. He got measured again. "Four point six," barked the attendant. He then took the circumference again, "three point two." Darren had always believed himself to be at least five inches long. Oh well. The attendant then grasped his testicles firmly in his fist and said simply, "C." Darren didn't have the foggiest clue what that meant.

He was then directed to the next and last station to have his heart & respiration rates taken along with his blood oxygen level, first resting, then again after 50 jumping jacks. His throbbing member bounced as he counted out those jumping jacks and he didn't notice as a wad of precum flew out of him and hit the freshly waxed floor. He was too distracted watching Paul at the measurement station.

The boys were led back to the cafeteria without getting dressed again. They had lunch. The choices were beef stew or a mixed green salad with chicken and citrus vinaigrette. Even the lunch choices seemed an obvious test and every boy got the beef stew. It tasted very institutional. While they were eating, a kitchen worker came out with a bucket of hot soapy rags. "Please wipe up any sweat, urine, ejaculate, or pre-ejaculate from the seats, tables, and floors before you leave." With a group of naked 18-year-olds, there was bound to be some of each.

After lunch they were taken to a very strange auditorium with what looked like dentist's chairs instead of theatre seats. Each boy was seated and attendants went around the room attaching electrodes to the boys' temples, chests, and stomachs. Around the base of each boy's penis they secured a small black band with a blue wire coming out. Finally the attendants inserted a black bulb-shaped device about the size of a golf ball into each boy's anus. There were some grunts and groans from the crowd -- the attendants didn't put a lot of effort into being gentle. The bulbs had a green wire. Along with blue blue wires from the penis bands, they were plugged into the left arms of the chairs. They were instructed to lean back and get comfortable and over each boy's head a tiny camera came down from the ceiling, trained on their eyes.

The lights went out. On the screen a series of videos played. The videos were all very short. None of them made much sense to Darren. The first one was a clown juggling, the next a film of a car accident in black & white. Some of the videos were pornographic. Some that weren't seemed oddly erotic, like one of a man with hairy arms kneading pizza dough. Some were very violent. A great many of them looked like clips of contraband TV shows and movies from before the war. Darren recognized the hairstyles and clothes from old family photos. Some people in the videos had old personal comms devices. Ubiquitious in those days, highly illegal now. Hundreds of these clips played while they just lay there and watched.

When the lights came up, Michael Romano was gone. His POMA was over. C/CIIS. Compelled Laborer, Criminal Inclinations Incompatible with Society. He would spend the rest of his days as a farm hand in Iowa. He would not be getting two weeks with his family and he would not be eligible for reassessment. The boys were shocked there had been a pre-criminal among them all day. After the electrodes were removed and bulbs were roughly extracted, they huddled together and prayed thanks to the Alphas for protecting them.

The remaining boys were once again marched to the cafeteria. Still nude. This time it was not to eat. They were each given a piece of blank paper and told two write down what masculinity meant to them. They were given sixty seconds.

In Darren's head, he heard something else his father had said. He wrote one word: Duty.

From there, the boys were called one by one to leave the cafeteria. Darren was the fourth called. An attendant led him to an office. Dr. Foster was waiting inside.

"Congratulations, Parcell. You are a Fifth Beta!" It was not what Darren was hoping for on the bus ride up there, but his heart still swelled with pride upon hearing it. God and the Alphas bless America. He could go to college after all! Dr. Foster reached out to shake Darren's hand.