Checkpoint Ahead

The sign for me to stop appears almost without warning. It’s six-foot wide and the letters are spray-painted from stencils.

INSPECTION STATION AHEAD — ALL VEHICLES MUST STOP.

Two cars ahead of me slow to a crawl as they enter the single lane of traffic created by the orange cones. I can see a group of men in pressed shirts with their sleeves rolled up standing by a folding table with a stack of clipboards. They’re not wearing badges of any kind but they have the same look as those guards working at the airport.

Nobody in line seems to know what’s going on. Our engines idle and somewhere behind me a truck pours gray smoke out its exhaust.

One of the men steps toward me with his clipboard and raises two fingers.

“Please step out of your car.”

I do so readily, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.

“Don’t worry. This is just a routine inspection.”

He glances at the clipboard, checking the text again, before looking back up at me.

“Drop your pants, please.”

There’s something deeply unsettling about how ordinary he makes his request sound. It’s comes out with the boring tone of a man who’s clearly asked this one-hundred times today already.

This now makes more sense. I remember reading about this in the paper a few months back. I haven’t been pulled over for it yet, but I realize I’ve probably just been lucky so far since I don’t travel that much usually.

The parish council said the stops are a public health initiative and I remember it vaguely being something about a moral restoration. The details were lost on me in the moment. It’s something about making sure all men meet some standard or another.

A few lengths ahead, a driver stands beside his pickup with his jeans pulled down to his knees. His inspector is making notes on the clipboard. It feels like a livestock evaluation quite frankly.

The official in front of me clears his throat and I undo my belt, the clinking sound feeling louder than it should be. I slide my jeans and underwear down while the inspector writes something down.

“An erection is needed,” he points his pen at my dick.

“I’m just supposed to get hard?”

“There is a non-compliance fine,” the man says as if that is supposed to help me suddenly get a boner.

I do my best, tugging my cock to do my duty. The man’s blank stare and the heat rising in my face both do their part and I’m soon standing at full attention.

“Hold still,” he pulls the cloth tape measure from his pocket, the expression on his face still bored by it all.

He stretches the tape measure from base to tip before scratching something else on his pad. I see another car come to a stop further down the line. Engines turn off and drivers get out as they are greeted by the officials.

“You’ll need a secondary process.”

At that, two more men step forward without speaking. One of them gestures toward the tent beside the table where a perplexed-looking man stumbles out, zipping up his pants.

I follow them inside. It’s considerably hotter and sweat breaks out on my forehead instantly. I notice another table with clipboards as they close the flap behind me.

“This is the compliance station,” the first man informs me even though he has to know I don’t have a clue what he means.

“I don’t understand.”

“No man in this parish is permitted to exceed our leader,” the second man puts down his clipboard. “His measurement was used to create the legal maximum.”

It takes a moment for that to register. “Maximum?”

“You’re over the limit,” the first man gestures at my still erect cock.

“Wait. Wait. Wait. What does that mean?”

“Strictly routine. We’re here to ensure no man exceeds the maximum.”

“Hold on!” I protest and back toward the door.

“It won’t take but a minute,” the first one’s tone is still strictly business.

“Should we at least let him empty himself one last time?” the second asks.

“I don’t have time for that. Do you?”

“Fuck this noise!” I feel the panic overtake me and try to dash for the door.

The second man grabs me by the arms, holding me solidly in place as the first man picks up a small velvet pouch from the table, pulling out a polished steel cage. I exhale instantly, those initial fears of my mind subsiding as the first man lubes up my cock and balls so the base ring can more easily slide on.

I realize this isn’t a discussion and there is no appeals process. As my dick wilts, it takes barely a moment before the remaining part of the device is secured and the lock clicks shut.

“You may continue on your way,” the second man gestures to the exit. “You are now under his keeping.”

I pull up my jeans and walk back to my car, completely confused. Who voted for this? Did I vote for this?

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“Remember who owns your cock.” - Douglas Degenaars, The Naked Men and the Clothed Men Who Enjoy Them Series