https://circumcisedyoung.bdsmlr.com/post/400140107

By TheWonderOfWillows



It’s hard to describe the how you felt when you were young, especially hard to do it accurately. It’s enough of challenge sometimes to describe how you feel now. So without further ornamentation I suppose I’d better get on with it here. My father met my step-mother when I was only nine. My oldest sister was twelve my other eleven. They were happy for him, happy he was kind to her and happy she was kind to him. I was just happy to have a mother, there was something about having a woman’s voice in my young life that soothed a deep seated need. I loved the high and lilting songs she sang in her native language, the sweetness of the words that always seemed hover just that evanescent bit longer when they ended in a vowel. I loved the colorful clothes she wore and the high spicy notes of the new food she cooked for us.


It was two years later than they had the wedding, our family was small as my father was a bit older and his parents modern. Hers was vast, she had seven brothers and they all joked about their baby sister growing up even though she was thirty-six, an age I still can’t imagine myself as I write this. They claimed it was long overdue that she marry, her mother claimed so also and was glad she’d have grandchildren. It was an obvious point of pain that their daughter, our step-mother, could not conceive on her own. Her mother and father were both adamant that we would join the faith but she and her brothers interceded on our behalf. The wedding was a dry, but that didn’t affect me, I was drunk instead on the stories my new uncles told of a seemingly free and idyllic childhoods spent chasing one another through twisting streets and burdening the adults they met.
There was no honeymoon, both claimed to be too old for that. Instead a few days after the wedding my father and new mother went to out for nearly a day and my father spent a few days out of work. It seemed he was in some pain. I thought nothing of it until a few weeks later. That was when they explained to me that there was one holdover of my new mother’s culture she could compromise on. My father had been circumcised. It was a practice I had never heard of and I asked them, in my innocence, what they meant by that new and strange term. My mother took the lead then and leaned close to me and took my hands in her own. They were soft and surprisingly warm as if she’d been wringing them in the anticipation of a difficult but necessary task, the kind so often avoided until it was doubtlessly time to undertake it.


She explained to me then, in her calmest voice, an almost tense voice of thinly veiled energy, that in her culture young men have their foreskins removed. She explained that it was cleaner, that it was harmless, that it was an act of beautification and health. My father then interjected that while it was not part of our own culture he had no regrets at such a small change. He placed his arm around her and looked me in the eye as he told me he had no regrets, that it really was a small thing to please her and how worth it it was to please my new mother who he loved so deeply and certainly. He explained also how she’d asked him to have this minor surgery if they were married and how he’d nearly abandoned the prospect but decided to go through with it. It was then my new mother shocked me, her sweet voice almost breaking with nervous awareness, that she had asked to have me circumcised as well. I processed this slowly and then with fear and looked to my father but he maintained a stoic silence and I new I would undergo this treatment. I would be cut in two weeks time.
It is said anticipation of the thing is greater or worse in some measure than the thing itself. I am not sure of that myself but I can say those two weeks were spent in fear. Worse yet they were spent with my sisters knowing my impending fate. My mother had made sure to announce it to them and in front of me as well. They had been shocked themselves then curious, asking a flurry of questions to our new mother. She silenced them then but made sure to mention she’d explain more in private. She did not think it appropriate to cover the topic with me present. It was an objectification I would never quite get over. I was not to be privileged by her explanation, I was only to have my father’s for the time being and he was difficult to pry information from. He would merely tell me what a small matter it was, how little I should worry. Perhaps it was a happy thing that I was only just discovering the pleasant sensation my foreskin could give me, I might have missed it more then


My sisters were quite around me for the next few days sharing only greetings and giggling between themselves. Though they had always done this it felt like it was always about my looming appointment. I once overheard them call it a “penis trim” and then laugh short stifled little laughs. That hurt me to the point of tears and I cried in my room to avoid them. I once asked my mother if the girls would have to have any special treatments or surgeries. She simply assured me that girls were pure and clean, that there was no need to change them at all. I burst then and yelled in indignation that I was fine too, that my father was fine, we did not need to change. She barely reacted then, she merely paused then turned maternal and assured me it would be better to be cut, I’d be better than the other boys then. She ended the conversation then with a stern admonition that I should be brave and just accept my cutting, that all her brothers were done and they were fine. I dropped the conversation then.


The day before my cutting I was advised by her not to eat or drink that night. It was a brief but unpleasant fast. My parents were strict in watching me, my sisters in contrast to their previous behavior were kind and offered supportive words. My oldest sister, now a teenage offered that she had looked up what would be done to me and that she thought that circumcised penises were much nicer and that it would be good to be cleaner. She even went so far as to say she was sorry she would not get to meet more boys who were cut but that she might try to do so in the future. My other sister agreed they were nicer but also offered most girls would find it a nice surprise. This was little consolation and I cried then and begged them to intercede on my behalf. They held me and then said just to accept things. Our mother had explained it all and it would be better.


The next morning I was awakened by my father who advised me calmly but firmly to dress in athletic clothes and come downstairs, my sisters were to sleep through the whole affair. My mother waited dressed in her finer street clothes, she smiled and asked if I was excited. I could only mumble that I was frightened. She told me she knew I would be brave but her demeanor suggested it was a command as opposed to statement. It was not long before we were off. We rarely drove much as my parents took the bus to work but that day we took the car to the clinic. It was a small unassuming building of brown brick and marked only by a small sign. We parked and got out, my parents walked with me towards the building. It felt like a monumental structure though in reality I doubt it had more than six rooms. The name on the sign in the front seemed to be one from my mother’s homeland. I had no doubt it was her choice.


When we entered we were greeted by a receptionist in clothes like my mother’s. They spoke in my mother’s native tongue, her voice still so pleasant and sweet. It seemed they knew one another and there was even a bit of laughter exchanged after a pause where both looked at me. I felt once more like the mere subject of another person’s whims and felt then what I only now can identify as a feeling of diminishment. I never wanted to feel that way again. My father was silent the whole time, he seemed far away as if he were imagining another place. Eventually we were called and my mother and father walked with me to the room. I was made to undress and dawn a robe. A young woman native to my own country came in and took my vital signs, height, and weight. She and my mother chatted briefly in my language. She seemed indifferent to my plight. I thought she might raise a point against my forced acculturation but she said nothing.
Finally the doctor came into the room, he was an older man – probably in his late fifties with a snow white beard. He spoke to my mother in my native language. Then in my own he advised me lie back and relax. It was then the nurse returned with some a cup of water and a pill. I was advised to swallow it and did so. The effect was profound and I soon found my anxiety at the whole thing abating though it seems likely that it affected my memory to as things soon started to blur at that point. My mother told me I was lucky, many boys in her country had no pain killers or pills. She told me to be brave. They all left for a few minute and I heard them speaking nearby though I didn’t terribly care about what. Only the doctor and nurse returned then, with a tray of tools. They moved a screen over my midsection. I felt the cold of the numbing agent then the pain of three shots. They left again and returned a bit later. They tested my sensation and asked if I felt pain, I told them I did not. The they went to work. The process was short I barely remember it, only the shock when they moved the curtain and a clear plastic ring was bonded to my penis behind the now bare glans. I felt no fear then due to the medicine. I only felt shocked.


I dressed and then left the room and was greeted by my smiling mother who hugged me and told me I was brave. We returned to the waiting room and the doctor invited my parents into his office. They returned with some papers and a small bag and we left and returned home. It was only at night the pain started but it was manageable. I refused stubbornly to show I was affected though I think it was naive to believe it did not show. My sisters were especially kind to me in those few days. It felt like a dream to me. I suppose that is a blessing as it lessened the humiliation of my mother and father checking my wound before I bathed. The rest of that week was spend with mild pain and itching. School was difficult then but I got through it.
The next week the ring fell off and I was confronted by my new penis in its singular form. It seemed so naked and vulnerable encircled by the bright red line just behind the glans. The skin was tight and the glans a deep and unhappy mauve. I was acutely aware of the glans rubbing the fabric of my clothes. I hated my new penis then, I felt ashamed when I saw it. I felt like I would always be less of a man though my mother claimed I could now be one, that it was the skin that was boyish. The same week we returned to the same clinic for a check. The doctor happily pronounced me to be healing well. My mother was happy and my father relieved. I was told then I no longer had to bathe as carefully and could return to sports the week after. It was a relief that I could have at least some normality again. On the way out my mother and the receptionist spoke again, then looked at me and giggled girlishly. It was only when we got home and my parents were out of the room that my oldest sister informed me that the rim of my glans, my corona, was visible through the thin athletic pants I had worn. I felt utterly humiliated then


As time wore on I healed completely and began to grow up in a literal sense. I hit mu growth spurt and my voice deepened. I was proud of my new need for deodorant and tiny excuse for a mustache that graced my upper lip. My penis grew too and I began to get frequent erections. They were tight to the point of nearly being painful but this soon subsided. I learned also that my penis provided new unknown pleasures though something always seemed a bit off, like there was just a tinge of pain when I played with my bare glans. It didn’t stop me but I soon discovered through conversations at school that I needed lubricants to get the same from my self pleasure that the other boys did. It was one of the few time that I recalled my circumcision and truly thought about it. I delved into researching the topic and learned that my own glans, and my father’s, had likely been desensitized by our surgeries. The fact that it was very little was not comfort and I wondered how such a thing could be called “small” or “cosmetic”. I once raise my concerns with my step-mother, she merely laughed and admonished me for my greed. She told me men get plenty of pleasure. I raised my concerns with my father and he merely told me there was no undoing what was done.


It was another year and a half before I met my first girlfriend. She was a friend of my middle sister and a bit younger than her but still older than me and more experienced. I was not her first and she delighted in the comparison between my penis and that of the other boys she knew. She liked the look of it and claimed it was much prettier than the others and said she cut her own sons. I do not know if she was serious. I had my first experience at oral sex with her and she claimed she much preferred to perform the act on me as she had easy access to the glans with no skin to move. I was happy enough then to be cut. I supposed it was not so bad. I did not learn until a bit later that part of my intrigue to her was that she had learned I was cut from my sister. I would have been upset had I learned before hand and was glad I did not. I soon learned a few who knew my sister were similarly interested and I wonder if she had intentionally promoted me as a learning experience. I asked her about sharing the information but she simply played coy and apologized, saying it had “just slipped out.


So now as I look back, ready to graduate college, I think It was best that I was cut. It is true it cuts down a bit on my pleasure but the women I have known were always pleasantly surprised by my penis. My current fiancee is from the United States where I learned that male circumcision is a normal practice. I was surprised by that but happy at her happiness. She told me she did prefer cut men and would have insisted I have the surgery if I were not. I suppose it is a strange confluence of events that I would wind up in a situation so similar to my own father’s. I would never have guessed it, or that one day I might well consent to cut my own son at my wife’s request. There is no moral to this, it is only a recounting of events. However those events are ones that have influenced me for my whole life, I still feel a tinge of powerlessness from time to time and I still feel the humiliating sting of first seeing my altered penis. My step-mother – my mother – is so fond of my fiancee, I suppose in the end my circumcision was really for her all along. I’ll never ask of course but I’ll always believe it was more than just a cultural preference that led to my father and I being cut.