Say hello to my monster.

Say hello to my monster.

As with most American women, I lived in fear of the foreskin. OK, “fear” is a bit intense since I didn’t even know that foreskin existed until college. I knew some men were circumcised and some were not, but up until I saw a photo of an uncircumcised penis, did I really understand what the word “circumcision” really meant. I never asked, I didn’t care, and because I had only had sex with one person at the time and he was circumcised, it was a non-issue.

My freshman year in college I had a neighbor who “loved” foreskin. When I say “love,” I mean this in almost an obsessive type of way like how I felt about Kirk Cameron when I was 8 years old. I didn’t get, I didn’t understand from where this obsession came and when she showed me a photo of an uncircumcised penis online – a flaccid one, mind you – I nearly died from horror. It was ugly.

Actually, it was beyond ugly. It was foul looking, vile; it was wearing an outfit that seemed so unnecessary to me. I vowed to run like hell if I ever saw one, although I knew, as an American, the chances were pretty slim. At 19, I assumed I’d end up with a boy from Boston – no matter where my travels took me in life. Boys from Boston don’t have foreskin.

Then I moved to New York City.

New York is probably the biggest melting pot on the planet. We say the States in general are, but the hub is definitely the city in which I live. I can walk down a street and hear three different languages in just a single block and I love it. By the time I was living in the city, I was banging my first love again, and that image of foreskin, the one I saw on the computer that day, was a distant memory. However, the Swede situation wasn’t that far off.

And so came Swede into my life with all his Swedish-ness: his snobby preferences for stinky cheese, his perfectly made glögg every Christmas and his foreskin. The first time I took him home and made my way down his stomach to his cock, his erection hid the truth. It was when I put my hand on it and stroked upward that I realized it.

“What the hell is this?” I asked.

“I’m Swedish. What do you think it is?”

And that was my first, and far from my last, face-to-face moment with foreskin. With the multiple French men, the Irish dude, the one-night stand in Barcelona, and of course the up and down roller coaster of Swede for almost four years, I became accustomed to foreskin. In fact, it was all I knew until last spring when I met Tattoo Guy. After so many years of foreskin, he looked naked to me. Wasn’t his cock cold without its li’l outfit?

I stand before you as a convert. And what I’m about to say has shocked, and even horrified my friends (that’s what it tends to do to some American women): Foreskin is great. I’m serious, you guys; it’s fucking awesome.

Foreskin makes handjobs the easiest task in the world. No need for lube, no chafing, and your arm is less likely to get tired if you’re with one of those guys who really enjoys them. The extra skin is your best friend in these situations as it slides back and forth with ease, as you’re doing half the work as you would with a circumcised penis.

Men with foreskin enjoy sex more. Well, this is what the word on the street is, but it does make sense. If a part of you anatomy is covered up the majority of the time, how could this not be true? The sensation that comes with an uncircumcised penis is apparently extremely intense. I even know a few circumcised dudes who would love it if their foreskin would grow back. I don’t think that will be happening any time soon.

The “dirty” factor seems to be a bit of a lie. I know that the snipping of the foreskin, outside of some religions in which it represents the baby’s ceremonial entry into the faith, is meant for cleanliness. While I’m sure there are some men in the world who don’t wash as they should and are probably walking around with some sort of funky spunk wedged underneath all that skin, I’ve yet to encounter it. Frankly, I don’t even want to think about that, so neither should you.

Foreskin sort of make cocks look like monsters, and monster are cool. I’m currently with someone whom I completely adore (more on that later), and I told him straight-up his uncircumcised penis looks like a friendly monster from Star Wars. Any Star Wars references will win over a man, because deep down they all want to be Han Solo, just as I would like to be Wicket.

Basically, foreskin is awesome. I’m not saying I would never be with a guy because he doesn’t have foreskin, but I think the weird stereotypes that American women – some of them – have about foreskin need to be forgotten. It’s natural; if it wasn’t necessary in some way, it would have evolved right off, as supposedly our pinky toes will in time.

Besides, who doesn’t occasionally want to think about Star Wars when they’re in bed? Ewoks, Han Solo and the Death Star? Sounds like a fucking party to me.


Photo: Columbia Pictures