[content warning: sexual violence, non-consent, bodily mutilation, nudity]

I don't talk about this a lot. I used to. My energy for it has come and gone over the course of my late teen and adult life. My need for such attention trended similarly. I identify it as my single greatest source of trauma. What's worse, so many people roll their eyes at my pain. Shrugging it off like I'm making a big deal of nothing. Or getting angry at me for asserting there is harm. Or even shaming me for not being grateful.

I of course refer to circumcision. More specifically, routine infant circumcision. I prefer to refer to it "non-consensual genital mutilation" to call it out for what it is (and because even seeing the 'c'-word upsets me), but throughout this piece I will probably end up using awkwardly vague language, for my own comfort.

I also want to make clear that the subject of my condemnation and grief, even when referred to with broad language, disincludes consensual practice, for medical/affirming/preferential/etc reasons. This is fine. I'm calling out assault.

This procedure is one of many things the United States breaks with the developed world on, and holds on to legacy practice for who knows what reason. I won't give a whole history lesson on it and the back-and-forth on health-related arguments, but I will note that I was born in the home state of a certain cereal man who is credited with influence on its contemporary continuation—still religious in nature, but not directly from doctrine, instead intended to inhibit sexual pleasure for puritanical reasons—and in his stomping grounds, by cause or coincidence, my state has one of the highest rates of the procedure in the country.

My personal history with it goes back to somewhere in my teens, where—like many—I wondered what the ring around my penis was. Upon learning what it was a scar from, I—being the self-righteous ignoramus I was at the time—found the status superior, and did some research to find justification for it being done to me.

I didn't find it.

The more research I did, the more horrified I became. At the time, I placed a lot of weight in ideas of perfection and sanctity of the body. But this had been compromised. My sense of integrity shattered. The chance at a whole body, stolen from me, long before I could even be aware of it. I grieved. I would never have normal, complete sex—reproduction was thought sacred to me then, and the sacrament of intercourse was tainted by my sexual organs being partially destroyed. I would never know what it feels like—the parts of my body torn from me, when I was hours old. I would never have control of my own body.

I would never have control of my own body.

It would be years before my OCD diagnosis. Whether the trauma created the control issues I struggled with in early adulthood, or the control issues exacerbated the trauma, I couldn't say. But I don't do well not being in control of myself. If there were something I could do to ease the suffering, the dysmorphia I felt, I had to.

So, of course, I did.

It turns out I was not alone, in being sad or angry or depressed or hopeless about having been compromised. I discovered a device—the TLC Tugger (and there are others like it), for "restoring" a semblance of form and function to the circ'd human penis. Of course, the removed structures are gone for good—fifteen thousand or so nerve endings across 100 or so cm² (about an index card), will not be restored. But—over the course of years—the remaining skin can be stretched to loosely create the appearance of an intact member, especially while flaccid. The head—an internal organ—regains some sensitivity, not being constantly exposed to the elements. A "gliding action" is again possible or more comfortable, eschewing the lube that shows up in media to allude to masturbation. There is still permanent loss. There is still scarring. But it's better! And that's something.

I want to note also, that another option was carefully watched: foregen.org, promised not merely restoration in rough form but truly recovered at a cellular level. I read the blogs, followed the status, donated, got on the waitlist (a former name might even still be on there...). At time of writing, they completed animal trials and are aiming to publish and then conduct human trials.

Not willing to wait for this "true" correction of form, I used the tugger, on and off and on, over a good 10 years. I have to say, the results I found quite impressive:

[click for dick pic]

Through my use of the tugger, I came to find the Bloodstained Men and Nocirc of MI—two activist groups (with somewhat different approaches) which aim to fight this routine mutilation. I began volunteering twice a year—once at a nonprofit booth at an art fair, and once at a march in front of a hospital.

Over time, my results with the tugger got better and better, but my ability to volunteer wavered. I dreaded these events. I pushed through, because I had to. My involvement soon dropped from the booth between social anxiety and scheduling (and... maybe something more). And after another march or two—itself now just a block of four hours of dissociation, I could no longer convince myself to push through for the cause.

Through this time, I had eventually stopped using the tugger too. I liked the progress! But using the device was stressful and cumbersome. One could wear just the outer cone to "retain"—hold the skin forward to protect the now-sensitive glans (as there is no frenulum to hold the new skin forward). I soon further simplified to "taping my dick shut" for the final few years. Both forms of retaining held imposition on my daily life—keeping track of the cone or tape roll, keeping it on, dealing with falling off (a physically uncomfortable occurrence)—which itself I came to tire of and resent.

I still used my penis. I enjoyed sex. As long as I didn't think too hard about it and end up spiraling into a dissociative or depressive episode.

I had been in psychotherapy for much of my 20s—initially for generalized OCD management, then just to have someone to help digest my month with, but eventually conversation centered around my obsession with my bodily integrity and shattered corporeal self-perception, and inability (and even unwillingness) to come to terms with my status. I saw several therapists, who helped in different capacities—ranging from giving good but repetitive general advice, to completely dismissing my trauma, to working with me for years until he no longer felt he could (more on that later).

So. All the while, my gender identity began to develop and take some shape. As I'm sure I've touched upon in other posts in a greater degree (and where I haven't I expect to), I align (or aligned; it's complicated) with terminology centered around "agender" and "neutrois"—the latter generally characterized with wanting to strip oneself of gendered characteristics. I didn't even really want to have a body, in early adulthood, before I even really recognized gender as distinguished from sex. I fancied myself a "biological machine", and distanced myself from my perception of "human"-ness.

I eventually more or less reconciled the gender stuff with my "machine" tendencies. I came to terms with being human, but still rejected my "sex"ing. In the last few years of my relationship with my external genitalia, I found myself browsing the old Eunuch Archive, and fantasizing about what it would be like to be "de-sexed" entirely. I basically knew at that point I wanted this, and that it was only a matter of time until I wanted it enough to pursue it.

Regrettably unable to safely be completely without sex hormones, I had begun an androgynizing (and later straight up feminizing) hormone regimen. With my infrequent use of my penis, it only became less and less pleasurable and more and more painful to have sex using it. My reasons for keeping it were diminished to near nothing, and my search for surgery began.

I essentially knew I would be going for nullification. I did my due diligence in entertaining other options: my sense of "balance" needed all or none, and while the thought of a vagina sounded pleasant, "all" kept everything I hated about what I was going in with, and I don't think I'd ever be satisfied with the additions. Plus the "null" aligned much more beautifully with my identity... indeed there was never really a question of where I was going.

I talked to another individual who had been nullified, with rather nice looking results, and was put in touch with Dr Peter Davis, whom I indeed would end up going to for operation. Despite not going through insurance, and paying out of pocket (almost entirely with crypto earnings from a decade prior), I still needed two letters. My regular therapist initially expressed willingness to write me one, but in our following session reneged and said he didn't feel comfortable without more time to talk about it. That was the last time I talked to him. My following session was with a new therapist at a different clinic who specialized in queer counseling. We didn't exactly click, but I made clear my intentions for seeing him, and after a few sessions, I had the laziest letter I've ever seen (but a letter nonetheless). That was the last time I talked to him. For my other letter (which needed to be a PsyD), I went through the Evergreen Initiative, where Jack met with me once for 30 minutes for a one-time fee, and days later sent me a (much cleaner) letter—this was quite a pleasant process and I would highly recommend him if you can spare the $200.

In getting these letters, I described my identity. My goals. My soundness of mind. The progressive, affirming professionals furnished their letters without much hesitation—there was no contraindication for affirming surgery.

Or was there? I held back. All information about myself that I gave, everything about my gender and my intentions, was true. But it didn't tell the whole story. Not once in my pursuit of de-sexing did I mention that my ever-persistent disjoint with my body had a background in trauma. Not once did I express that I sought relief in "finishing the job" of tissue removal from almost three decades prior. Not once did I share that one reason I was in the room with them was to take back control of my body through surgical intervention that I elected to have.

I've maybe told one, possibly two persons about this until now. Was I ashamed? Did I feel like this wasn't a valid reason to go through with surgery? I acknowledged it wasn't the only one, but certainly a substantial one. I know why I held it back from the professionals—I was afraid I would be rejected in my request, held up in more counseling, or even permanently found unfit for surgery due to my mental state on the matter. Maybe my long-time therapist was right to want to talk more. Maybe I could have benefitted from it! Maybe full disclosure with the right therapist could have helped me find peace. Why not pursue peace? Frankly, I wanted my parts gone more than I wanted to be okay with them there. I put trust in myself, and angled things the way I needed to to get what I wanted.

And I did.

Now, I did not delude myself into thinking that removing the rest of my penis would liberate me from my traumas surrounding the mutilation. It offered so much relief, and I very much do not regret taking the path I did (which I could gush about for posts on end). But I am still surrounded by triggers. For the many years leading up to surgery, I would specifically avoid any porn with cut penis (never mind that intact penis increasingly turned me on). Porn was a bit of a hassle; a meticulous process which I couldn't really share with partners due to the distraction and attention it required. I don't watch porn to get off anymore, but I still see a lot of it through sex work engagement (more on that in a moment), and it can be just as troubling. Most of my relationships (romantic and sexual) are with trans women, and given my locality, nearly all of them are cut. I still very much enjoy sexual involvement with them, but there's always that nagging pull to spiral and dissociate, like I would when using my own penis.

I was pushed to write this post now, due to the aforementioned sex work. I'm now publishing pornographic material—with partners, and soon other collaborators. Again predominantly transfem, and again largely cut. My solo work I release with unfettered pride and confidence, but these collaborations prompt me to produce material which I would never consume myself, and would specifically avoid. With partners I have sort of framed carefully around it, but the other collab presents an inevitability which I don't think I can pass up—I want to engage in these things, enjoy sex, enjoy putting it out there—I must still find peace, and still accept association by proximity and involvement. Thus, the initial purpose of this post, or at least the timing of it, is to make my stance clear: I hold a firm and profound condemnation of nonconsensual genital mutilation, and appearing in or engaging in media which include parts affected by it is not to be construed as endorsement of the practice or any preference for such affected members. It's probably silly to have this need to say it—indeed I think few would take appearance as support in this manner. Yet, it's sort of like how as as vegan I would avoid publishing media with a steak or burger, even if I'm not eating it. Though here, few opted for it themselves, and the ones who did, I respect their autonomy and decision to do so. Nonetheless, I am sensitive enough about it that it feels important to me to be forward about my disposition. Especially since not engaging in the activism anymore—no events, no bumper stickers, no community engagement—I feel it prudent to put forth a published piece professing my position on the prepuce of the penis.

If there's any positive from this, it's that this offense to my body, my person, has forced on me reflections and questions of self which I may have only much later (or not at all) have come to entertain. Would I be where I am today if not for this? Much of my queerness surfaced through self-reflection brought on by the partial destruction of my sex organs. Yet even now I wonder whether it simply revealed and helped me come to terms with my gender and sexual identities, or whether it actually materially influenced them: Did a fetishizing of intact penis affect my sexuality, or did I always deep down have a taste for cock? Does the emasculation of having 'less penis' distance me from manhood, or was I always going to find a trans identity? How related are the dysmorphia and the dysphoria? Some of these questions I am almost afraid to answer. Similarly, the compromise of my bodily integrity destroyed my flawed yearnings of perfection, and encouraged me to alter my body further—body mods now being a large, critical part of my identity and lifestyle.

Regardless of whether I was led this way by these traumas, I love where I have ended up, and that's the part I try to focus on.