Becoming a Roundhead
There’s nothing like having another man handle your balls to may your cock shrivel.
As the specialist, Mr L. handled my two love-eggs, squeezing them ever so slightly, he looked as if he was enjoying himself too much for me to point out that even someone like me, with a distinct lack of medical knowledge (or other men’s pubic areas in general) knows that a circumcision starts some way up from the balls.
“Nothing wrong there.” He commented.
Thank God. I think it was a delaying tactic because, on hearing the magic words “Please drop your trousers and lay on the bed” my cock, which has never been on the majestic side of a size graph, shrivelled practically inwards.
I swear Mr L must have thought I was female at first look. I was almost waiting to hear him say “ahhh, yes, I can see the problem – you have an enlarged clitoris.”
“No, doctor, that’s my penis…”
After giving me the good news that my balls weren’t in bad shape, skillfully avoiding any comment on the butchers job of a ball-pube shave that was done a few weeks back, he then examined my foreskin. And kept examining it. And still kept examining it.
“Well, it looks fine to me.” He said, finally looking me in the eye.
Now was no time to sit and be quiet.
“That may be all well and good Doc, but you’re not the one whose foreskin splits during sex!”
Fearing that I may have to resort to getting a hard-on to satisfy his need to see me fail to retract the foreskin (and let me just stop here to a) ask if everyone is still with me here, or if everyone’s gone at the sheer description of it all, and b) if you’ve ever (EVER!) heard of someone threatening to “resorting” to getting a hard on), I quickly sat up.
I did the typical man-thing of trying to make the cock look bigger (and Christ knows we’ve all done it, and still do before going swimming in tight shorts), I pulled back the foreskin, showed him the tightness and blanked out everything else until I saw him write “scarring” on the forms. A cock with a scar. How hard am I?
Believe it or not, whilst all this was going on, we actually had a conversation about our families. I also remember vividly hoping that as he played with my balls (and on reflection, “play” is probably the wrong verb to use), I wouldn’t lose a stray pube in the wind-up part of his Gucci watch).
Scribbling his notes he sent me to the Day Stay Ward to get an appointment.
Making my way to the Day Stay Ward, I found the reception and handed over my file. “I’m here to get an appointment sorted.” I said, indicating the file.
The receptionist looked briefly through the notes, let out a knowing “ahhhh” sound, and asked “Have you got time now?”
If she saw the sheer terror that coursed through my body as I reflected on her question, she didn’t let on.
“Erm, I’m in a bit of a rush right now,” I replied, wondering just why people moaned about the NHS waiting times when it seemed they were willing to cut the end of my knob off at a moments notice. “Will it take long?” I asked, tentatively, and unsure why, of all of the questions I could have asked, I chose that one.
“Not at all, about 20 minutes?” I was told, “all we will do is sit you down and talk through the operation so that you know what’s involved when you come in for it.”
I almost fainted with the relief of not having to suffer a circumcision there and then!