True lives: Happy Valentines, circumcised or not

True lives: Happy Valentines, circumcised or not

by Rodger Sivewright
article from Thursday 14, February, 2019

Especially for St Valentine's Day we bring you this true  and touching story – it is an adult  theme and may not be for those of a delicate or sensitive disposition. Enjoy, if you can...

 

Happy Valentines, circumcised or not

“CIRCUMCISION" said the consultant, “is the cure for this condition”. 

I didn't like the sound of that at all. I was attached to my foreskin, emotionally as well as literally. Aged 56, we'd been through a lot together. 

Sure it had become red and sore underneath. I'd been referred because nothing worked on it and the STD clinic gave me a clean bill of health. But I'd imagined a wonder cream solution. Certainly not mutilation. It was only a skin condition after all. They don't cure eczema by chopping off affected parts of the body.

“Without it, the worst case scenario is cancer of the penis.”

Now that winded me. Almost anything would be better than that.  In fact, almost any way of dying would be better than that. If the irony didn't kill me first.

The injustice of being assassinated by my favourite part of my body, after years of devoted service to it, was too much. But that would only happen if I ignored medical advice. Millions of men lead perfectly priapic lives without a foreskin. Now it would have to be my turn. I couldn't complain that I hadn't had fair usage.

Waiting for the op, I was recklessly calm. The ‘cut’ guys I asked reported they were emphatically happy with what they had.

To tell the truth, that sore foreskin had become a pain. It made fellatio joyless and a good rutting left it looking beaten up, like a swollen lip. I quickly began to look forward to getting rid of it. Friends teased me about sticking with just the one bald head God had given me, but to me circumcision now looked increasingly like the path to sunlit uplands. I felt lucky that, unlike most blokes, I would experience both states of being. 

And so the deed was done without tears. Or pain. Going to the dentist is worse.  Honest!

I'd been told recovery would take 10 days to 2 weeks. Optimistically I had arranged a tryst with a girlfriend for day 10, which was a Saturday. 

And it was a breeze. For something like 36 hours. Then I fell into a hell of unbelievable exquisite torment.

My stitches each had two very thin, very sharp prongs sticking up on each side in a V, forming what was effectively a collar of fishbone spikes. Or a crown of thorns.

Everything was easy, until around 6.00am on day 3 when I was woken by searing pain. What felt like a red-hot cheese wire was strangling a morning erection. With a yell I curled into a ball and lay there sweating and wincing until it subsided. However, my gruesome predicament was yet to be truly revealed. 

Baffled, my maimed penis miserably recoiled to the minimum possible dimensions. As it shrivelled, its skin folded over its shrunken core and impaled on the spiked collar. Which hurt, oh yes it hurt.

And bled.

It couldn't go up. And it couldn't go down. Every twitch presaged utter agony. The next few days were a titanic struggle of mind over matter, attempting to think myself out of the gothic horror of my plight to the few days ahead when it would all be over. Inwardly I raged that my dressings should actually be wounding me. In a very sensitive place. Whatever happened to the Hippocratic Oath? Why no potion to inhibit erections? It was as if they had never done this to anyone before and didn't have a clue.

But it wasn't a few days. After a week, very little had changed. I could walk short distances but the collar from hell always skewered some part of my penis and there was always blood on my underpants at the end of the day.

Walking also injured me. On the first stroll I took, the usually innocuous seam of my underpants had cut into my exposed glans like a serrated blade. Nobody had warned me of such subtle dangers.

The much anticipated encounter with the young woman eager to be the first to compare and contrast my new cock with the old model had to be postponed. Day after day passed with torment, injury and no sexual relief. A pall of grim despair descended upon me.

At a glacial pace the spikes atrophied away. On day SEVENTEEN I attempted intercourse. It worked a bit, but not properly. I reckoned there was a 70 per cent loss of sensation. 

Over two terrible months, the initial horror faded to be replaced by a much greater crisis. My penis, renowned all my life for its reliability, didn't work properly anymore. And that meant I wasn't me.

Previously, pulling back my foreskin had been like cocking the hammer on a pistol (no puns intended). But that signal could no longer be sent and arousal no longer meant erection. 

The skin that had always penetrated women was gone. The redundant skin that had always bunched at my penis' base during sex now covered it completely. This made my whole penis feel about two inches long and as stimulation of the bottom two inches wasn't enough to keep it interested, erections subsided with disorientating alacrity.

To make things even more desperate, the leading edge of my scrotum seemed to be a lot further forward along my penis than it had been before. Effectively shortening the length of my penis that could be inserted. 

In short, getting erections was a problem. Keeping them was a problem. And using them was also a problem. I could have felt suicidal. Instead I felt homicidal. 

I was furious and frightened. My sexual partners hadn't signed up to a sexual cripple. I own a swingers' sex club for consenting adults, which can involve politely having a certain amount of sex with some of the female clients. Making a decent fist of it was de rigueur. But what if I was effectively an eunuch with a deep voice? 

By day I would lull myself that this surreal episode would eventually return to normal. But at night, I'd wake sweating and punch the pillow, terrified that my social life and source of income had been robbed from me forever. Nothing I'd been told in advance had prepared me for any of this. I faced a life not worth living. 

Then, imperceptibly it did improve. I began to focus on what worked, rather than what didn't. After five  weeks of anguish I put in a performance that I wasn't ashamed of. But it still didn't feel like my cock, it felt like someone else's grafted on.

Then after ten weeks, I was relaxing in a hot tub late at night at my club when a new client climbed in and nestled into me for a chat. She was a slim, cheery brunette with a captivating smile and golden skin. We talked amiably as she pressed her breasts against me and brushed her hand against my thigh and I stroked her naked body gallantly.  She was interested in 'playing' with me, swinger parlance for having sex. I couldn't face turning in a poor show for such a charming young lady so I eventually unburdened myself about my frankencock. She grinned as if thrown an irresistible challenge.

“Do you like deepthroat?” she said. 

I'd been relatively indifferent to blowjobs, especially since my foreskin became so delicate. But in a revelation, I now understood what the fuss around BJs was all about. Without a foreskin in the way, or any tender parts to chafe, only the pleasure was left. And what extreme pleasure this blessed water nymph administered.  

As she squeezed me into her oesophagus with a pop, no way could my brain continue to kid itself that my penis was only two inches long! After almost three months of angst and dejection, here was something that was actually better, much better, than before. That vista of sunlit uplands again appeared on the horizon. I arranged to see her again, privately.

Now, like a phoenix, I have again risen and we have been an item for a few years now. What a way to find a partner. There is a God.

Happy Valentines.

 

Rodger D. Sivewright is an assumed name to protect the anonymity of the living author.

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