I recently learned that dating a friend of a friend can be what I like to call a “double-edged dildo.” While getting insider information on a potential hookup reduces investigative work (i.e. Facebook stalking), I understand why some things are better left unsaid. Everything about my latest romantic endeavor was seemingly perfect until I got hit with an unhealthy serving of TMI. Needless to say, we both got fucked in the end.
It began like your typical boy-meets-girl story, college edition: boy meets girl through mutual friends, boy plans to hook up with girl at party. All was going well, drinks were flowin’, music was bumpin’, fists were pumpin’; a happy ending was basically guaranteed for both of us that night. But the climax of this punch-drunk love story is not the kind that consummates with an unearthly scream.
Enter cock-block.
You should be familiar with this person if you have been in college for at least a semester — and if not, it’s probably you. His intentions are relatively pure, his actions are often alcohol-induced and there is usually at least one of his kind in every group of friends. Unfortunately, my posse’s cock-block was also in attendance that night.
As soon as I started getting comfy on the couch with my new beau, CB decided to sandwich himself between us. As per usual, his timing was swimmingly perfect.
Throwing an arm around each of our shoulders, he turned to me and asked, “So how’s my uncut warrior treating you?”
Awkward silence ensued.
“Thanks, man,” the red-faced warrior finally managed to say while I desperately tried to conceal the terror that came over me.
Not realizing the weight of the TMI he just disclosed, CB suggested we join him in the kitchen for a round of Irish Car Bombs. To avoid any further allusions to the hooded soldier in the room, we followed our friend into the kitchen. Thankfully, Car Bombs were the only other bombs dropped that night.
When venturing into unfamiliar situations, it is important to keep an open mind, unfettered by predispositions. In retrospect, I should have acted accordingly. But being the routine-driven person that I am, I prefer some things in life to remain static, like my morning workouts, line of hair products and cereal brands. The only brand of penis I have come in contact with during my short-lived sex life is penis à la circumcised. Since I was not mentally prepared to change something that has worked moderately well for me in the past, I whipped out the sick card and made my escape soon thereafter.
I was eager to talk about my TMS (too much skin) conundrum with my male confidantes the following day. As evidenced by CB at the party, college guys have an uncanny way of talking about each other’s schlongs. Without avail, our discussion became a full-blown debate: to cut or not to cut?
Out of my five guy friends, only one admitted to being uncircumcised. As expected, the other four shared similar views as me. Aside from the obvious aesthetic preference of being cut, they also brought up the logistics of hygiene and that six-letter word — smegma.
The lone wolf of the group was determined to put these foreskin fallacies to rest. He told us that hygiene is never an issue for those who wash daily.
As he delicately put it, “if you have a cheesy dick, you have bigger fish to fry.”
With an air of reverence, he also informed us that foreskin heightens sensitivity. Clearly, no one had any qualms with that fun fact.
Enlightened by our conversation, I turned to Google to better understand why such a popular surgical procedure is widely misconstrued in our society. It turns out that like apple pie, circumcision is an American ideal. While approximately 80 percent of the world’s population is uncut, a whopping 80 percent of American males have gone under the knife. Because the practice is deeply rooted in tradition, ignoramuses like me tend to falsely assume there are medical implications in the removal of foreskin.
Feeling pangs of regret for passing up on a good opportunity, I decided to knock on Mr. Opportunity’s door one more time to see if reparations could be made. Luckily, he was happy to hear from me and we made plans to get together later that night.
Although my blunder turned into a lesson well-learned, I realized it was a lesson that was first learned as a child and continues to revisit my life in wholly different ways.
Remember to never judge a book by its cover. Also, never judge a penis by its foreskin.
Whenever I would refuse to try a new food as a child, my mother would always heed the same advice, “you never know unless you try.” I decided to approach my date with the same mantra.
While I won’t dish out the dirty deets, I will say that I was definitely inclined to come back for seconds. Like always, thanks for the sound advice, Mom.