Some timely thoughts on the Eve of the Circumcision

A real brawl is brewing over at MadPriest's lair over neonatal male circumcision. I was born at a time (1988) and in a place (North America) where routine circumcision of baby boys was still relatively common. I was a bit startled to learn, when I made the acquaintance of my English friends, that this is not the case there (in fairness, they were correspondingly startled). My grade 11 parenting teacher was vehemently opposed to the practice, and urged us not to subject our sons to it in the absence of a religious injunction to do so. (Since I'll become a parent, if at all, by acquisition rather than procreation, I'm unlikely to have to make such a decision).

From a religious viewpoint, the lady who runs Fisheaters has a rather angry and didactically graphic discussion on why Traditional Catholics should resist the procedure.

I do remember that in high school my girlfriends and I turned up our noses at the idea of becoming intimate with any boy in possession of a foreskin, which I now think was immature of us. (Plumbing is generally not something I now get excited about - earlier in the month I asked out an FTM friend, and was gently rebuffed). But there's no doubt, to anyone who reads the personals in Xtra!, that many gay men have strong - even fetishistic - preferences, whether for or against.

In my first year of university, several of my gay male cohorts joined a Facebook support group for men grieving the loss of their foreskins. I was sceptical, not really having strong feelings either way. (I admit, though, that the natural lubrication provided by the foreskin must save the men who have them considerable amounts otherwise spent on artificial subsitutes therefor. But there's no use crying over, erm, spilt milk).

This is rather nitty-gritty. I wonder if The Rose Maniple will be flagged for this post. Indeed, I wonder if I'll even want to leave it up tomorrow. But I couldn't resist bouncing around my ideas about a subject that seems to get so many in a tizzy, as we used to say in my group home.