“Are You Going to Circumcise Me?”

Everyone expected the intake center to be staffed entirely by women. All the men were needed for the war, including us, the draftees.

This was a new facility, run by a contractor, set up in a hurry to meet the demand for fresh troops. It opened two days before my induction date.

I stepped off the bus out front, having been told we couldn’t drive ourselves here. No one would be able to take our cars home, they said, because we would be transported straight from the facility to boot camp. They also said to dress in throwaway clothes, because we’d be leaving in uniform.

That made for an interesting combination of appearances in the holding room. We’d all worn our shabbiest clothing, but we were also freshly washed and shaven, because we all knew we’d be examined up-close by women.

I waited in the room with several dozen other guys, age 18-25. Nobody had much to say, as we were all strangers. So when the door opened and a big woman stepped in and barked, “This way!” we jumped.

“In there,” she pointed to a white, tiled hallway, and we dutifully filed into it. We found only benches and large wastebaskets. As soon as we were all inside, we heard her voice again: “Strip down to the skin, leave your clothes and shoes in the bins, and go through the other door. No socks. No nothing.”

At least the place was clean, I thought, and when I took my sandals off I noticed the floor was warm. Then I hesitated taking my pants down because I suddenly remembered: I’m probably the only guy here who isn’t circumcised.

Not that it should be a big deal. My girlfriend assured me she loved the velvety softness of my foreskin, the way it drooped over the glans when my penis was flaccid (“Like a shar-pei puppy!” she giggled), and she loved to see the foreskin slowly unfurl when she tickled my ear with her tongue. We spent many hours playing hide-the-glans with her hands and mouth before she finally let me into her. The feeling inside, she said, was like a well-oiled massage. It was the first time she’d had a simultaneous orgasm.

But I also knew that in the year I was born, something like 98 percent of the boys in my region had been circumcised at birth. The doctors claimed it was for health reasons. In fact, it was all about money. Pharmaceutical and cosmetics companies paid cash for every foreskin, and the adult-sized ones commanded the most. But because virtually all the males were circumcised as infants, and the few who weren’t wouldn’t give theirs up later, not many full-size foreskins made it to market.

Parents went along with routine circumcision because they didn’t know any better, and handed their boys over to be circumcised within days of birth. In grade school, I’d noticed those dry, bare glandes at the trough urinals, and I thought they looked pitiful, almost dead, with their rough surface and brownish color. At the sight of that, I’d learned quickly to skin back my own wiener (as we called them) as soon as I took it out to pee, so my foreskin wouldn’t be noticed. Through careful attention, I’d kept my uncircumcised secret for all of my school years.

Of course, as time went on, I heard other kids talk about circumcision. The girls seemed especially repulsed by foreskins, calling them “nasty” and “gross” even though they’d never seen one. The anatomy textbook in our health class showed a smoothly circumcised penis, not even a scar line or frenulum to disrupt its clean-shorn appearance. I was quite certain there were no other penises like mine around.

So here I was, about to put my prepuce on display for the first time. I took a deep breath, shed my shorts, and stood up, ceremoniously tossing my clothes into the nearest bin.

I was at the back of the line going in, so on my way out, I walked past almost all the guys. I felt eyes on me in passing, but of course no one spoke. If they looked, they could see something was different about my penis, but they also knew it would be inappropriate to ask about with someone they hadn’t even met.

The check-in room would be different.

A few guys had gone in there ahead of me, and when I saw they were standing side-by-side, I joined the lineup. Before us were a dozen brand-new white desks, chairs, and scales, accompanied by computer workstations, each one staffed by a young woman. They busied themselves with keyboards and papers, occasionally sneaking a glimpse at the growing line of naked young men before them. It was then that I really began to feel uncomfortable. I never imagined I’d be exposed like this.

One of the girls, a lean redhead, kept glancing up at me. Not at my face, but at my penis. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on her work for all the distraction it caused her. Finally, she got up in a huff and went to speak with a girl at another desk. The redhead faced away from me, whispering, but the other girl gave it away by looking straight at my groin, then at my eyes, then down. She nodded, then quickly left the room. The redhead went back to her desk, pausing to glare at me one last time before resuming her work.

I saw the other girl re-enter the room, then go to an older woman standing near the back. I could read their lips just enough to make out a few words.

“uncircumcised”

(glance)

“foreskin”

“circumcision?”

(shrug)

“he’s not circumcised”

A chill swept over me. My scrotum tightened, elevating my penis to point straight ahead. Now my foreskin stood out more than ever.

Just then, the big woman from out front passed down the line, asking our names and checking them off on her tablet. By the time she got to me, it appeared most of the girls at desks had gotten word about the guy with the foreskin. They were all looking at my penis, then up at me, then at each other. A few shook their heads. One in particular, a blonde with caramel skin and perfect little breasts, stared right at me. She turned to glare at her co-workers as if to shush them, but they kept watching me and, occasionally, whispering “uncircumcised” and “circumcision” to one another and nodding.

The big woman asked my name, ticked me off her list, then looked down at my penis. I heard the shutter click in her tablet. She shook her head and sighed.

“You gonna have to get that thing trimmed before you leave here.” Then she moved on to the next recruit.

My mouth suddenly went dry and my heart started pounding. Were they actually planning to circumcise me?

As the big woman finished her round, the girls at desks started calling us by name. One at a time, we walked over to a scale, then sat down at a chair next to a desk, where a girl took our vital signs and asked us our medical history.

The blonde with the little breasts called my name.

Heading toward her, I became suddenly conscious of how my penis bobbed with every step. The other girls didn’t even try to hide their curiosity, eyeing me the whole way. When I steadied myself on the scale, my foreskin nipple pointed straight ahead, almost touching the vertical part of the scale. I sat down and offered my arm for the blood-pressure check. She fumbled a bit getting the cuff in place.

“My name is Betty,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I have to ask you a few questions and check your vitals.”

“Okay, Betty. I’m Marcus.”

She switched on the device, which automatically squeezed my arm and recorded my pulse. When the display beeped, her eyes widened.

“Are you taking any medications?”

“No.”

“Your heart rate is through the roof, but you look to be in good shape.” She keyed in the data, then her eyes darted side-to-side, and she leaned over and whispered, “Are you afraid they’re going to circumcise you?”

I swallowed hard.

“Are they?”

Her jaw clenched.

“I hope not. I don’t think it’s required. But…” her voice faltered, “they circumcised my brother at one of these places. I don’t have to tell you how bad that was for him. And for his girlfriend.”

Suddenly I realized I might never again feel my own girlfriend rolling my foreskin over her tongue.

“Is there any way out of this?” I caught my eyes scanning for a door.

Betty shook her head. Her lips were tight, as if she were trying to stifle tears.

“You’d be running down the road naked,” she pointed out, obviously, “and they’ll catch you wherever you go.”

Betty took a deep breath, then began a series of questions about my medical history. I had little to report, and when she was done keying in my answers, she handed me a printout.

“Take this to the doctor in room number 6,” she said. I noticed her hand was shaking. Then she whispered, “You have a perfect foreskin. I’ll be praying they don’t cut it off.”

I stood up, and once again felt all the girls’ eyes zero in on me. I fought the urge to cover my penis, still standing at 90 degrees from the tension in my testicles, and kept my paper at my side. If this was the last time they saw my foreskin, I was determined to give them a good, long look.

At the back of the room, a guard held a door open for me. She had straight, black hair tied in a ponytail, and her contoured navy uniform made for stark contrast with the white smocks all the other women wore. I noticed on her belt a canister of pepper spray and handcuffs. So even if I tried to break out of here, I wouldn’t get far, and then they would circumcise me anyway, in restraints.

I walked down a corridor with numbered white doors. At “6” I stopped, and noticed another naked guy heading into another exam room, followed by a doctor’s assistant. I took a long breath and entered door number 6.

This was yet another white room, much smaller, with medical equipment and white cabinets lining the walls. An exam table stood in the middle. I placed my form on the counter and took a seat on the table’s crackly paper. For the first time, I began to feel cold.

I was accustomed to long wait times in a doctor’s office, so the sudden opening of the door startled me. A tall, middle-aged woman in a white lab coat entered, holding a tablet. She gave me a curt smile and a nod, then took my paper from the countertop and studied it.

“Marcus,” she said, and I nodded in response. “I see you’re in overall good health, according to our survey.” Again, I nodded. She focused on some notes at the bottom of the form, then glanced quickly at my penis, then back at the form.

“I’ll have an assistant take a blood sample, then we’ll get on with the exam,” she said, flatly, “So don’t go anywhere, OK?” I almost detected a trace of a smile.

Only after she left did I realize she hadn’t told me her name.

After a few minutes, a young woman entered with a small tray. She was petite, spunky, and cute, the sort you’d want working alongside you in tight spaces. She set the tray on the counter.

“Okay, I’m gonna draw some blood. This will just take a minute. Hold out your arm?”

I dutifully laid my arm on the platform next to the exam table. She started prepping my inner elbow with a betadine wipe.

As she cleaned, I noticed her eyes darting several times to my penis before locking onto it. She carried out the longest needle-prep scrub I’ve ever experienced, rubbing the solution in until my skin started to burn. Although I wasn’t erect by any means, the tightness in my scrotum and the stress of the situation had lent an abnormal firmness to the base of my penis, causing the body of it to swell slightly and the glans to flare. The corona bulged inside the foreskin, as did the big vein along the top. This was something the assistant had never seen.

Finally, she looked up at me with a start and stopped rubbing. She turned to get the sample needle and several vials. Then she tied my upper arm with a length of rubber tubing.

“What does that do?” I asked, looking to distract myself from the uncertainty ahead.

“It makes your veins stand out so I can find one easier,” she replied, “Makes everything firmer and bigger.”

“That’s helpful, I’m sure.”

“Yes.” And she poked the needle into my arm.

With my heart still racing, it only took a minute to fill all three vials, one after the other. As she waited for the blood to stream in, I again noticed her eyes jumping toward, then locking onto, my foreskin. As she stared, I felt a cool breeze from her breath stir the hairs on my leg and scrotum. The base of my penis involuntarily pulsed, then the shaft bucked as a drop of pre-cum made its way up my urethra. It settled inside the nipple of my foreskin, causing it to bulge. The assistant’s eyes flared and she caught her breath.

Just then the last vial filled up, and she slipped the needle out and stuck a band-aid over the puncture. She turned, picked up her tray, and said, “The doctor will be back in a minute,” and left.

I sat there on the table, looking around the room for something, anything, to distract me from the dread of my situation. In every direction I saw only white and stainless surfaces. I looked down at my tense penis, sticking almost straight up now that I was holding my legs together, and wondered what a dry, keratinized glans would feel like. The scar and bloody stitches of a circumcision were too awful to even contemplate.

And why the hell did the military care if I was circumcised? It’s not like we were joining forces with the Israeli army, where foreskins were certainly nonexistent. But even if we did, I bet their dark-haired, olive-skinned conscript girls would find something to complain about … or else I’d be a celebrity. “The Uncut Soldier” – I could sell tickets to show them what the women in the check-in room had gawked at for free.

Just then, the same big woman who’d taken my name in the other room entered, carrying another tray. She glanced at me and set the tray on the countertop, then took a quick look at my penis. She looked up at my face, shook her head slowly, and left.

The tray contained a hypodermic needle, a vial of clear liquid, two scalpels, clamps, a stitching needle, thread, gauze, forceps, and surgical scissors. All of it clean and sterile.

If it was possible for my testicles to climb higher into my abdomen, they did so when I spotted the forceps. I’d seen them in surgery videos, and they’re used for clasping flesh while it’s being cut.

My racing heart had started to make my head hurt. I knew this feeling: fight or flight. But there was no escape. My penis was in the hands of the physician…

… who came through the doorway at that very moment, wearing rubber gloves.

“Okay, Marcus, we’re going to proceed with the detailed exam now,” she said as she took note of the tray and wedged her stethoscope into place. “Take deep breaths while I listen.”

I breathed in and out a little faster than I meant to. She paused after the first check.

“You’ve got quite a pulse going there, Marcus. Are you nervous about this?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’ve done this many times, so I hope that gives you confidence. Nobody’s died yet,” she started to chuckle, then moved the stethoscope to another place on my chest.

I studied the doctor’s features. She’d been a very attractive young lady, I could tell, and she’d aged into a confident, refined-looking woman. I wondered if she had any sons, and whether she’d had them circumcised. I’d heard that doctors’ sons were the most likely to keep their foreskins. Maybe she’d see fit to let me out of here with mine.

“All sounds good. You’re a healthy young man by any measure. You’ll make a fine soldier as soon as you’re approved for duty.”

I nodded. She stepped around me to look into my ears, then my nose, then had me say “ah” for the throat check.

“Now, I need to check you for hernia. Stand up.”

I knew how this would go. She scooted a wheeled chair up and sat eye-level with my groin. With her gloved hands she lifted my penis up.

“Oh, my,” she said, as she felt my tight scrotum. “I may not have to press very hard on these, because they’re already in position. Now cough.”

I coughed as she pushed gently on my left testicle, then again as she prodded my right. It felt like her fingers had tunneled into me.

“That’s good, then,” she said as she rolled her chair slightly back. “Now let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Or the elephant trunk, as it is. I see that you’re uncircumcised. That’s the first prepuce we’ve seen here since we opened. Fortunately, I’m well-experienced with them.”

I felt dizzy standing there nude with the fate of my penis in this stranger’s hands. This was my time to act. In the very next second, this woman could order me to lie down, inject my penis with anesthetic, roll my foreskin open for the last time, and slice it off. And there was nothing I could do to stop her.

I had to speak. I tried to sound calm but the words burst out of me.

“Doctor, are you going to circumcise me?”

Without missing a beat, she replied, “I don’t have to circumcise you if your foreskin isn’t adhered to the glans, or diseased, and if you can demonstrate that you don’t have phimosis. Unless you want a circumcision anyway, which I can do for you. If you’ll lie down, I can get an assistant in here and we’ll circumcise you in just a few minutes.”

I shook my head frantically.

“In order to pass the phimosis test, I will have to see your foreskin retract fully while you’re erect. Do you think you can get an erection now?”

The future of my sex life would depend on my getting a hard-on right here, right now.

Of course, I nodded. She looked at my penis expectantly.

“Well, first let’s check for adhesions and STDs.”

She grasped my covered glans with forefinger and thumb, and slid the skin easily off the glans. The drop of pre-cum spilled out onto the floor.

“Oh,” she said, “you’re a little excited by all this attention, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Your foreskin has been a tremendous distraction to the girls out front. It’s all they’ve been talking about for the past half-hour. Some of them think circumcision is mandatory for all recruits. Several asked if they could observe you being circumcised.”

She continued pushing my foreskin down until the glans was fully exposed and the corona popped free. She tugged the glans to reveal the sulcus, studied its depth closely (I could feel her breath on my cold, moist glans), then tipped my penis up and stretched the frenulum until it stung.

“Well, your foreskin works normally, and all the surfaces look healthy,” she said, closing the skin back over the glans. She cocked her head. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be circumcised? It’ll be cleaner, and the girls you meet will like it better. All the other boys,” she gestured toward the check-in room, “have been circumcised, so you’ll fit in better with them.”

I whispered, “No,” and shook my head, then repeated for good measure: “No. Please don’t circumcise me.”

“I know some boys’ parents didn’t get them done when they could have, but it’s never too late. I’ve circumcised hundreds. Even full-grown boys like you,” she returned her eyes to it. “and that’s a … large foreskin you have.”

“No. I don’t want that.”

“Well, then let’s see you retract your foreskin with an erection.”

With a shaking hand, I took hold of my foreskin’s end, which had formed a kind of spout after the doctor’s rough handling. I tugged at the lip, but felt hardly anything. I encircled the corona with forefinger and thumb and pulled the body of my penis straight (this almost always increases blood flow), but nothing happened. No filling sensation, no “click” in my prostate … nothing. My scrotum and pelvic floor were too tense to let any sensations through.

She up looked at me through her eyebrows. I felt I was about to cry.

“You have to retract that foreskin with an erection or I’ll have to cut it off,” she said. She watched me rub my penis for a moment, looked over at the tray of instruments, then stood up. “I think we have something here that may help you.”

She turned and started opening cabinets. In one of them she found a clear, plastic tube with black rubber ends. One of the ends had a hole in it. She unscrewed that end, took my foreskin, and pushed it through the hole. Then she stretched my penis out by the foreskin and slid the rubber cap down to the base.