A Tale of Two Decisions: My Circumcision Story

The banana is my penis!!:-) Do you guys get it?!!

The story of my circumcision actually begins at birth, though the procedure itself wouldn't happen for another 18 years. I was already making things complicated from the start – arriving at a hefty thirteen pounds and change, presenting my mother with what the doctor called a "clear and concise choice": they could either break her hip or break my shoulders during delivery. My father, in what would become family legend, screamed, "Break my wife, not my son!"

That protective instinct might explain what happened a few days later when the topic of circumcision presumably came up. While I wasn't present for that particular discussion, the result was clear enough – unlike most American boys of my generation, I remained uncircumcised. So did my brother Alex. It was a decision that would shape my teenage years in unexpected ways.

Fast forward to high school. I was deep into competitive sports, which meant countless hours in locker rooms with my peers. It was there, amid the casual nakedness of post-practice showers and change sessions, that I first began to feel like something was wrong with me. Each glimpse of my teammates' bodies planted seeds of doubt in my mind – seeds that would grow into a forest of insecurity.

By senior year, as I was coming to terms with my sexuality and starting to explore romantic relationships, those feelings of being "different" intensified. Picture this: a fresh-faced 18-year-old gay kid from the Midwest, where "different" isn't exactly celebrated, deciding to get plastic surgery. Being uncircumcised in America already comes with its share of curious looks and awkward moments, but combine that with the vulnerability of coming out in the heartland and the heightened self-awareness of teenage years – well, it was a perfect storm of self-doubt.

Looking back, it's almost comical – my first major adult decision wasn't about college or career, but about voluntary genital surgery. I convinced myself I was somehow broken, that I needed to be "fixed." So I did what any self-conscious teenage Midwesterner with too many complicated feelings might do – I scheduled an appointment with a urologist. In the grand tradition of Midwest nice, I probably apologized to him three times before the consultation even started.

(Side note: Let's just say the doctor was unsettlingly casual about medical protocols. His decision to examine me without gloves is probably material for either a strongly-worded Yelp review or a therapy session – I'm still deciding which.)

When I emerged from surgery in a Diprivan-induced haze, I was greeted by an unexpected sight: my mother sitting next to my bed. Apparently, the nurses had called her, despite my legal adult status at 18. In that foggy moment, mortification tried to creep in – here I was, fresh from voluntary genital surgery, face-to-face with my mom. But something stronger took over. This was my decision about my body, and I wasn't about to be ashamed.

Through the pharmaceutical fog, I looked her straight in the eye and told her what I'd done. She just nodded, accepting it with a simple "OK." Looking back, I'm struck by how extraordinary that moment was – not many parents would react with such quiet acceptance to discovering their kid had gotten cosmetic surgery behind their back. But then again, my mom had already chosen to have her own hip broken rather than damage her child during my birth. Maybe accepting her son's choices about his own body wasn't such a stretch after all.

Once home, I lay in bed, floating on a hydrocodone cloud, staring down at what used to be my familiar penis. What I saw instead looked like an overinflated Twinkie that had somehow lost a fight with a freight train. The swelling and bruising were spectacular, turning my nether regions into a modern art masterpiece in black and blue.

The next three weeks were an exercise in patience. Everything was going fine until my teenage sex drive decided to wake up from its medical hiatus. I held out as long as I could, but one night, desire overcame common sense. I convinced myself that if I was gentle enough and quick enough, surely three weeks of healing was sufficient.

FYI: It was not sufficient.

Forty-five minutes later, I found myself in the ER, trying to explain to a triage nurse why I couldn't

show her my "open wound" in the middle of the lobby. It's hard to maintain dignity while holding an ice pack to your crotch and attempting to mime "burst stitches" without making eye contact.

Do I regret the surgery? No, I don't think so. But the human psyche works in mysterious ways. In an ironic twist, I developed a fascination – you might call it a fetish – for what I'd chosen to remove. Perhaps it was my subconscious mind's way of mourning what was lost, or maybe just another reminder that our relationships with our bodies are more complex than we imagine.

I've been thinking about all this lately while watching shows like "Dr. Pimple Popper" and "Botched." I can't help but wonder how people end up in those situations, though I understand the drive that gets them there. Let's be honest – I won't pretend I look the same way I would have if I'd let nature take its course. But if there's one thing I've learned from my experience, it's that your body isn't the place to be bargain hunting. You shouldn't be thumbing through coupon books when it comes to medical procedures.

Since then, I've had LASIK surgery (a total game-changer for an engineer like me), and I have to laugh – somehow having lasers reshape my eyeballs was way scarier than the circumcision. But the principle remained the same: do your research, find the best doctor you can afford, and for heaven's sake, make sure they wear gloves.

What's the moral of this story? Maybe it's that patience is a virtue. Maybe it's that our choices about our bodies, whether made by our parents or ourselves, come with unexpected ripples that extend far beyond the physical changes themselves. Sometimes those ripples turn into entertaining stories, sometimes they turn into surprising new desires, and sometimes they're just another chapter in the ongoing story of how we come to terms with who we are.

Just remember: always follow your doctor's post-operative instructions. No matter how convincing your libido's argument might be. And whatever choices you make about your body, know that they might surprise you in ways you never expected – but at least try to ensure those surprises don't end up on a reality TV show about botched surgeries.