And now I can breathe easily once again. Everything is as it should be. From the depths of swelling, infection, despair and an agonisingly long wait, my penis is risen.

After all the trauma, both operations and a number of hospital visits and routine check-ups all progressing along the lines of:

“I wonder if I could see the doctor quite soon?”
“I’ll have to check her appointments… can I ask what it’s regarding?”
“It’s about my penis. Could she fit me in somewhere?”

Would I go through it all again? Simply put, “No” is the answer. I’ve lost around a stone in weight since the first operation, and I’m pretty certain it isn’t all foreskin. The condition didn’t inhibit any normal function of my penis with no pain ever being felt previously. The only thing I’ve gained from all this is the amount of people who’ve seen my cock. And a lack of embarrassment about showing it to people. Form an orderly queue.

I’m reliably informed that all that happens now is that a crust forms around the wound site before it drops off (the crust drops off, my penis stays firmly on). I know I’m relying on a regenerative system now proven to not be as effective as Wolverine’s here, but all signs are good. My only mutant power seems to be self-cleaning ears. My brother has it too. Do you ever get this thing where you feel something in your ear, and it’s a bit of earwax which has just fallen out? Sometimes the wax is flakey, but occassionally I hit the jackpot and it’s a giant lump of gooey mess that falls out. We’re the next step in earvolution. Okay, we could have asked for better mutant powers like super-healing, death rays from our eyes, the ability to control the weather, or whatever, but it’s a start. Maybe our children will get the cool super powers, but perhaps they’ll just become cleaners. As long as they’re happy.

On a side note, my brother had researched the problem of phimosis and had immediately found a couple of websites suggesting steroid cream as both an easier and pain-free solution. Though he didn’t want to rub it in. This is unfortunately a myth, and doesn’t apply to true 100% British natural phimosis.

If you’d have told me a year ago I’d be writing 1,500 words on my penis, I’d have called you a silly lamb and would have quite probably sent you to Alcatraz. But here it is. Writing about the experience has been somewhat cathartic, and, from what I gather, it’s amused/shocked/intrigued/disgusted a significant amount of people. Well, this is it, I’m afraid. Like penises (penii?), every story has a beginning, middle and a (bell) end.

I hope you’ve enjoyed mine.

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Morphine can be a hallucinogen. This could explain my thinking when I briefly awoke later and, looking underneath the bedclothes, was convinced the head of my cock had altogether been too much bother for the surgeons to deal with, so they’d settled for simply slicing it off. I slipped quickly and peacefully back into a dreamless slumber. Thankfully morphine is also a strong relaxant.

Miserable didn’t begin to describe my state of mind. I was back in hospital for a circumcision revision. Infection had set in, and my penis had taken it upon itself to heal by the unusual method of squeezing itself to death. The medical term for this, incidentally, is ‘paraphimosis’, and this was what having a circumcision in the first place was supposed to prevent any possibility of. Incidentally, when you’re enquiring about phimosis at your local GP, don’t mishear the condition as ‘parrot phimosis’. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I didn’t want it. God bless an internet education. Arriving at the hospital around 2am in a bloodied pair of boxers, my dressing gown and a pair of trainers, I’d been summarily examined and carted off in a bed to Ward 5. It would have set my mind at ease slightly more if the surgeon could spell “circumcision” correctly on the consent form.

This lengthier hospital stay saw me in a bed next to Les, a 52 year old guy who had an infection in his knee which lead to an amputation of his right leg. Naturally that made me feel better immediately. He seemed to deal remarkably well with it, considering, and seemed to enjoy my company. He passed on a few notes and tips to me, all punctuated with copious amounts of eye-rolling.

Les Says…

Les was given a Brevel by his landlord. He invited a couple of mates around one day. One brought a sliced loaf of bread, another provided the cheese. Les and his friends then had a toasted cheese sandwich party.

Hosptal is so boring. You start anticipating meal times, the TV, a poo. There’s nothing to do except sit in self pity until visiting time. Then it’s all go, updating people on your condition, your concerns, your bowel movements. I got cheap laughs by inviting people to feel my wee tube. Catheters are horrible things.

Les Says…

Never ever go outside without a jacket. It may be all sunshine and clear skies, but it could turn to rain at any moment. With a jacket on, you prevent your clothes from getting soaked. To date, Les has been caught out twice.

When the bandages came off, my penis looked a lot better than it had the first time round, and the doctors were hopeful I could be discharged the following morning. All the antibiotics they’d pumped into my veins had sorted out my pus-sy penis without having to resort to any kind of amputation.

Les Says…

Whatever you do, don’t get addicted to heroin. If you put some in his hand, Les wouldn’t accept it as a present.

So today, the swelling is continuing to die down, leaving alarming bruising. I still walk like I’m sneaking after people, but yesterday the doctor pronounced it “very nice” and “a lot better than when I last saw it”, so I’m hopeful of a full and short recovery. I won’t go into the horrors of nocturnal erections which wake you up in crippling pain as your penis struggles against the strains of the stitches. But I will leave you with lovely imagery

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I was brought out of my dreamlike state by someone calling my name from two beds down. A voice I recognised immediately despite my confusion, and a voice I never expected to hear in a hospital ward. Especially not today.

“Barry!” It was Luke, my insane friend. He held a magazine in his hands, “Do you want to read this article about sharks?”

I mumbled a reply in the negative and lifted my bedcovers.

Phimosis is a genetic condition where the foreskin doesn’t completely pull back over the cock head. My version of it was mild; there was no discomfort or pain at any time during… anything, and everything worked as it should. It’s quite common and one of the major medical reasons for adult circumcision.

Joining the ranks of 60% of Americans, the same percentage of Americans who fully believe you can catch bird flu by eating chicken, by becoming circumcised was a difficult decision. My girlfriend had advised me that having it done lessened the chances I’d catch AIDS. I was unconvinced by this alone, the chances of me contracting AIDS already 0%, but my doctor’s cautionary tale of a patient with foreskin cancer killing him at 30 was enough to persuade me.

Then there was the situation of telling people. To begin with I was quite embarrassed by the whole thing, considering claiming I was becoming Jewish, or simply adopting a limp for some time. I could claim that I wanted to lose weight, and thought I could just get rid of excess body parts; next up: the appendix. I got over it, though, by writing about it on the internet.

There it was. Bandaged up like Jack Nicholson’s Joker post-toxic chemical swim, my penis was in poor shape. Stitches through the head attaching it to the remnants of my foreskin, along with severe swelling made it look like some sort of Frankenstein balloon representation of a cock. At least my worst fears were unfounded and they hadn’t mistakenly turned it into a fanny, though I had made my girlfriend promise she’d still love me if that had been the case.

After my sandwich I duly waddled to the toilet and dribbled out some piss. Luke was told his operation on his arm couldn’t take place today, furthering my suspicions that he’d just come along to surprise me in his own inimitable way. So he came outside with my girlfriend and me, insisting on waiting at the foot of each stairwell, arms wide open to catch me should I fall.

I’m just waiting now for my penis to emerge from the swelling, bruising and stitches like a butterfly from a chyrsalis, reborn anew. That’ll take around four to six weeks, so may very well be a lovely purple-headed Christmas present. In the meantime I’m medically advised to not partake in any sports, and, if I’m feeling horny, stimulate only my nipples or prostate. More things I’m sure I should be sharing with the world.

1: Although America is perhaps the most famous country for needlessly maiming its children at birth, like Nazism in the 1930s, circumcision is on the rise in Germany.

2: Also, according to the internet, 60% of Americans:

# resolve balances
# are at least “somewhat interested” in tracing their family history
# believe religion can solve all of today’s problems
# can name just 5 of the Ten Commandments
# correctly answered 13 when asked how many stripes are on their flag
# think the poor are just lazy

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