By The Hoodless Wonder
Circumcision is not a word that rolls off the tongue exactly, so I avoid saying it out loud whenever possible.
It just isn’t a fun word, on par with vasectomy and enema. Part of my aversion for it likely stems from the fact I still can’t believe I subjected my adult penis to such a substantial makeover. Believe me, my own circumcision, at the age of 23, lacked any sort of ceremonial significance.
No coming of age ritual or late blooming religious fervour drove me to this act of terrifying voluntary mutilation. My reasons were purely medical. After much deliberation, I decided to heed my doctor’s advice and get the job done. Briefly, my foreskin was just too tight. In the words of the late Johnny Cochran, “If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit.” In my case, acquittal came in the form of a 45-minute procedure, with me staring at the ceiling while a doctor took a knife to my favourite organ.
Yes ladies and gentleman, I was fully conscious for this ordeal. The thought of being put to sleep scared me more than a quick flick of my experienced doctor’s wrist. The male nurse made a valiant attempt at conversation while he held me still, but in retrospect I think I was doing most of the talking.
Frantically, I bounced from one topic to the next as though they had shot some form of speed, along with the freezing, through the base of my penis. The doctor stayed cool and composed, never looking up from his work to respond to my disjointed rambling. Mercifully, the local anesthetics meant all I could feel was a slight tugging. The worst part came the following morning when a routine involuntary erection woke me in excruciating pain.
Try talking your penis out of a boner. Ice packs don’t work. Non-sexual thoughts don’t work. The only thing to do is to stick your torso out the window on a cold December morning and hope the neighbours aren’t up. This ritual of morning torture continued for a week or so. But otherwise, any signs of my sex drive had conveniently disappeared during my convalescence. Those first few post-op days I couldn’t believe my own stupidity.
Incorrigibly pessimistic, I was convinced gangrene was setting in. This risky business had claimed my penis forever. But after a month of waddling around my house bowlegged, things were looking up. Minus the pain. That first fitful erotic encounter with myself was a major disappointment, like sex with a complete stranger. Years of honing a groove were lost instantly, and only time will fully reacquaint two age-old friends.
Actual sexual contact, on the other hand, has so far proven much better without my undersized straight jacket — particularly blowjobs. At first, I was reluctant to introduce my new hardware to the world, worried poor Franken-cock was a frightful sight. The fact that my doctor had referred to his creation as “a work of art” (and I swear he did) was no consolation. Losing your virginity for the second time is way more fun, on two levels.
Firstly, one is no longer the trembling, two-pump chump that made a mockery of sex on that fateful night long ago. But at the same time, the new hoodless regime allows for the exploration of uncharted sexual terrain. I can hardly believe I put up with my faulty foreskin for so long. If circumcision eventually causes a loss of sensitivity, my new penis and I are still well within the honeymoon phase.
Few men can claim to have hands-on experience of both camps. Being a long-time member of the turtleneck community, I am loath to admit this new situation is a better one. But in my case, it is. Surely many men are able to live happily and comfortably with their foreskin.
Different strokes for different folks, I guess. But now safely a full-fledged member of the other club, there’s no looking back.
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