I don’t remember when I first realized that I held membership in the club of circumcised men. That is, I don’t know when I realized that circumcision was even a thing, and that it had been done to me as an infant.
For one, I did not have many points of comparison growing up, which might have shown me that not all penises looked like mine. What furtive glances I did manage, I most likely saw other circumcisions: In the year I was born, 67.8% of American boys born in hospitals were circumcised, according to the CDC.
Somewhere along the way, maybe in a health class or maybe from other boys on the playground, I learned that I was missing something. This didn’t phase me much—after all, how can you really miss something you never had to begin with?
But that changed once I started having sex with men and discovered the beauty—nay, the joy—of the foreskin.
😈 This is your content warning! 🌶️ If your sensibilities aren’t offended already, this post is only getting spicier from here.
On some level, it was pure curiosity: I had absolutely no personal experience with foreskin, and I relished the opportunity to, ahem, get up close and personal with it.
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