male circumcision stories

The doctor finished explaining the procedure and leaned back in his chair.

I couldn’t help myself. “Doctor, if you don’t mind me asking… what are the most common reasons adults get circumcised these days?”

The surgeon gave a thoughtful nod. “Well, it’s shifted quite a lot in the last twenty years,” he said. “When I started, most were medical. These days, only about 25-30% are purely medical. The majority are cosmetic or partner-driven.”

He continued, “Close to 40% are done because the wife or girlfriend specifically requested it.”

I felt my face getting warm. “Really? That many?”

“Oh yes,” the doctor replied. “Many of these women are quite open about their reasons. They often report noticeably greater sexual satisfaction with a circumcised partner—better friction, more direct stimulation, and stronger orgasms. Many also mention needing more foreplay or occasional lube afterwards, but say the overall enjoyment is higher.”

I squeezed James’s hand. “I’m really hoping it feels even better during sex… for both of us.”

The doctor smiled. “Many couples report exactly that.”

I hesitated, then added, “Some of my friends back home told me that having sex with a guy who has a foreskin feels like he’s mostly just stimulating his own foreskin, and there’s not as much direct transfer of sensation to the woman. Is that actually true?”

The doctor nodded. “That’s a very common description. The gliding motion of the foreskin can create a different sensation—more sliding than direct friction. Many women report that after circumcision, they feel more consistent contact and pressure.”

I asked nervously, “Do you think James will lose too much sensitivity? I don’t want him to regret this.”

“That’s a very fair question,” the doctor said gently. “There is usually some reduction in sensitivity on the glans over time. For most men, it’s mild. For some, it’s more noticeable. However, most men say they gain better control and lasting power; it doesn’t stop the sensitivity; it just changes it.”

He turned directly to James. “James, how do you feel about doing this for Jess? This is a permanent change. I want to make sure you’re comfortable with it.”

James looked at me for a moment, then back at the doctor.

“Honestly, I’ve actually always felt it looked better circumcised,” James said. “It was something I wanted a long time ago, even before I met Jess. She’s just been my most recent inspiration to finally go through with it.”

I felt a warm flutter in my chest hearing him say that.

The next ten days after James’s circumcision were a strange mix of tender, horny, and hilarious.

James was surprisingly okay for the first 48 hours. The doctor had warned him the real discomfort would hit around day three, and he was right. He walked around the house like a cowboy who’d been in the saddle too long. Brittany found it endlessly entertaining. Every time he winced getting up from the couch, she’d call out, “How’s the upgrade going, champ?” with a big grin. James took it like a champ, mostly because he was secretly proud of his decision.

By day five, the bandages came off. I was nervous as hell when he showed me. The swelling was still there, but even through the healing skin, I could already tell the difference. It looked… cleaner. Sharper. It looked more masculine. The head was permanently exposed now, smooth and defined. When I touched it gently with my fingertips, James sucked in a sharp breath.

“Too sensitive?” I whispered.

“Extremely,” he said, voice rough. “But in a good way.”

We didn’t have sex for nearly four weeks. But the tension between us was insane. We kissed like teenagers, touched constantly, and teased each other mercilessly. I loved running my fingers over the fresh circumcision scar—still pink and tender—knowing it was something he’d done for us.

The first time we had sex after the all-clear was… life-changing.

We were both so worked up that we barely made it to the bedroom. The moment he pushed inside me, my eyes rolled back. The new shape, the extra sensitivity, the way his completely exposed head rubbed against my walls—it was overwhelming. I came so hard I saw stars, gripping his shoulders and shaking. James lasted longer than usual, too, like the extra sensitivity made him more aware of his control. It was as though he could guide his head to exactly the right spot, something that he could do today, but it was like the volume had been turned up.

Afterwards, I lay on his chest, both of us sweaty and breathing hard.

“So?” he asked quietly.

I looked up at him with a lazy, satisfied smile. “I think you just ruined me for anything else. That felt illegal.”

He laughed, but I could see the relief in his eyes.

I asked him how it felt for him. He responded, “It felt better, closer, more intimate than before, like we are connected”.

Brittany, bless her heart, was staying with us the entire time. She was equal parts supportive and nosy as hell.

One afternoon, while James was napping, we sat out on the balcony with coffee. She looked at me sideways.

“Okay, real talk,” she said. “How different does it actually feel now?”

I bit my lip, trying not to grin too wide. “It’s like… he went from great to dangerous. The head is so much more defined now. Every ridge, every movement, I feel everything. I’ve had more intense orgasms in the last week than I had in the entire first year we were together, and i thought the sex was incredible before, but its like a power-up to a level I didn’t know existed”

Brittany whistled. “Damn. So your mama was low-key, right?”

I laughed. “Don’t ever tell her that. She’ll never let me live it down.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice even though we were alone. “Be honest. Do you miss the old version at all?”

I thought about it for a second.

“No,” I said honestly. “I loved him exactly as he was. But this version? It feels like it was always meant to be this way for us. And watching him do something so permanent just because he knew it would make me happier… it did something to me.”

Brittany nodded slowly, then smirked. “You two are disgustingly in love, you know that? And when do I get to see the results, like a before and after?”..

I looked at her and said, “I wish". Immediately, my mind rushes back to hearing James telling me about his older woman experience, but I wasn’t even sure how something like that would come around. Brittany looked surprised by the comment. She probed for what I meant, but I said I was thinking one word, and something else came out of my mouth. I was dying on the inside.

By the time Brittany flew back to Texas, she had extended her holiday by a further three weeks.  James had completely healed. The scar had faded to a neat, thin line that I loved tracing with my tongue. Our sex life had gone from amazing to almost addictive. We kept running the gauntlet not using protection so we could feel just that much closer.

One night, months later, I was riding him slowly using my arm bars above the bed, when I leaned down and whispered in his ear:

“You know… now that it’s all healed and perfect… I think you should keep that cock ring on tonight. Pull that skin nice and tight for me.”, he responded “There isn’t anything left to pull tight”, I gave him an evil smile before saying, “Exactly, and how good is that?”..

James groaned, his hands gripping my hips harder.

“Fuck, Jess…”

I smiled against his neck.

Another seminal moment in my adult life was about to happen.

That night in bed, I turned to James and asked, “Have you ever thought about getting circumcised?”

He was quiet for a long time before answering. “Yeah… a lot when I was younger. In primary school the boys would tease me in the change rooms because mine looked different. I used to pray at night that it would just fix itself.

My first girlfriend was obsessed with it. She loved pulling the shaft skin really tight down to my balls so the whole head was completely exposed. She would measure it with her fingers and say I needed to have 2cm removed for true perfection.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And the others?”

James hesitated. “My second was an older woman. She wanted to pay to get me circumcised so she could have ‘her perfect rod of enjoyment.’”

I sat up straight. “Wait… why am I only hearing about this mysterious older woman now?”

He chuckled. “Because it wasn’t really a relationship. It was more like… sex and share.”

“What the hell is ‘sex and share’?” I asked, completely baffled.

“She basically wanted to fuck like rabbits all the time. Sometimes in front of her husband. She’d also bring her female friends into bed for playtime. It was very open.”

I was stunned. My mouth literally fell open. “She brought other women? While her husband watched? James… that is wild. I had no idea that kind of thing even existed outside of pornos.”

It felt like a door had opened into a whole new world I knew nothing about. I spent the next hour asking him dozens of questions about how it started, how he felt, and what it was actually like. My mind was completely blown. I’d recently had a conversation with Britanny on Skype. We both drank a bottle of wine while we chatted. She said something about how I’d won the jackpot, but how would I know if there was more with only a single guy’s experience?.

The conversation lasted until the early hours of the morning, and we only managed to get a few hours' sleep before we had to take my parents to the airport. We both felt horrible. My mother's parting words to James were ‘it's never too late to get it fixed’…

On the drive home, I asked him when he’s going to get it fixed, half jokingly as a tease. He looked at me dead in the eyes and asked me if I really wanted it done, because he would do it. It was one of those moments when little was said, but it was very emotional and felt like our relationship deepened. As we drove north through the tunnel under the harbour, I reached across and started to play with his cock. This revealed his inner exhibitionist, knowing that there are so many traffic cameras, and yet he was happily receiving my hand stroking his hard cock. We had to pull off at an exit so he didn’t crash the car as his cum shot up over the steering wheel. Something we still laugh about today.

I had to return to Texas for my Meemaw’s funeral. She passed away unexpectedly. We had been close until my accident, but afterwards, she was never supportive, and I felt she was embarrassed by me. Dad called it her “wheelchair complex”, Pa was always very supportive, and I being there was really important to show him. I felt excited to chat with him face-to-face for the first time in almost two years. He was never one for video chat. I had to get my sister to go there so she could set it up. Brittany came to the funeral to support me; she was amazing. On the drive back to the wake, she told me she was going to come to Australia for a holiday when I returned in a few weeks. It was so exciting. None of my friends had really met James yet, it was such a whirlwind that we didn’t have more than an hour during his 5 weeks in Dallas. I was excited and apprehensive about having a friend stay with us for a few weeks, what if she didn’t like him!…

I stayed in Texas for three weeks. The first week flew by, but then it seemed to drag, Brittany was working up until the day before we left together. Being in the Dallas suburbs, a car is essential. I had a hire car, but nowhere to go and no one to see. Everyone was busy working, and it felt very isolating. In Sydney, we lived near cafes and activities, and we could always meet new people. There was a vibrant disabled sporting community locally, and it was just so easy. The second week, I went down to see some other friends for lunch; sometimes, there are signs telling you the universe's plans. One of the friends at lunch was working at a pediatric clinic, and in the waiting room, there were pamphlets for male circumcision. Then, on the drive back from lunch, there was a radio show about the health benefits. Then my mother told me that the neighbour we had growing up had their son’s bris the next day. Then she gave me some pamphlets for adult circumcision clinics and the recovery process. There was nothing subtle about that either; she even offered to pay and was shocked when I told her that James’ medical coverage is free in Australia.

To my surprise, that night, when I was chatting with James, he told me he had a surprise for me when I got back. He wouldn’t tell me what it was. Then I told him about all the strange occurrences throughout the day. In his very Australian accent, he “You’re fucking shitting me”… which means.. you must be joking or …. He had booked to see the circumcision clinic that morning. WHATTTTT.

He had forgotten that Brittany would be returning with me in just over a week and wanted to spend a month with us. That night, I couldn’t sleep; I just kept thinking about being back in Sydney. I was worrying that the surgery would be botched and my short sex life would be cut short and ruined. With sleep impossible, I heard Brittany was up in the morning, so I made my way out to see her. It must have been obvious because she asked me what the hell happened to me. I told her I couldn’t sleep and was stressed. When I told her what I was stressing about, she told me that millions of men get circumcised every year, and it’s usually a quick recovery, with very low risk. She then added that it’s pretty fucking hot, and what the hell with all those signs yesterday and then that.. are we in a simulation?

She told me that I’m going to be over the moon with the improvements, even though she’s never seen it, she “just knows”…

We arrived in Sydney early on a Sunday morning after what felt like the world's longest flight, direct from Dallas, having always flown via LAX. James was waiting for us at the exit, my heart raced, I cried, I was so happy to see him. It was such a long embrace, I am pretty sure Brittany caught up on a few hours of sleep in the process. The drive home was scenic for Brittany, through the city and over the bridge. She was so surprised at how clean it was. People out walking everywhere, public transport with what looked like normal people on it, not the usual homeless-looking passengers that we would see in Dallas. James drove us via Manly, North Head and then back up to our home. Brittany couldn’t believe how scenic the city was, how different it was from anything she had seen in the States.

The jet lag was horrific. I pushed through the first day, but Brittany couldn’t make it past lunch. Being in a wheelchair, I was upgraded; she was flying in economy. One of the few perks. We went out for dinner, walking from our home, although I didn’t walk, of course. Something that we would never do in Texas. The dinner was awesome, a few drinks and a slow trip back home. I couldn’t wait to fuck when we got back home. The whole way, it was all that I could think about. In less than 24 hours, it would be time for recovery. As we made out in the bedroom, it was frantic. I told him to take me, fill me up, I wasn’t on any contraceptives; they made me mentally loopy,  but I couldn’t deal with the condom feeling, I needed the natural feeling. He turned me onto my front, put some pillows under my hip, spread my legs and started to slowly fuck me, it was as though he had connected an on switch to the end of his cock, because it was the most intense sensation ever. It was like an uncomfortable feeling, but one that felt incredible and got better and better. Then I felt myself climaxing, my mouth shoved into the bed so I didn’t make too much noise, and he kept on grinding from behind, and my climax felt like it was rolling through me in waves. I’d cum vaginally before, but this was a completely new experience. MUCH more intense, almost unbearable. Then I felt him pull out and his load streaming down my back, so warm in the cold room air. He then ran his tongue up my back, licking it up, then whispered in my ear, asking how it was. I twisted around to look at him, and was unable to speak actual words.

It took me a few minutes to regain some sense of normal and turn over, the first thing i saw was his cock was still rock hard, and he had a band around his balls and fuck, his cock looked hot. He’d bought a cock ring that pulled his shaft skin tight around his balls, and oh fuck it felt better than anything I had ever felt before. I reached down and ran my nails down his tight shaft skin, causing his cock to bob with the sensation, his body to jerk. I told him he had to fuck me again. He didn’t need to be asked twice. This time he lifted me against the wall, and the orgasm was completely different again, all I could do was kiss him, hold him and tell him that I loved him.

The next day, we woke late, still naked. We didn’t really think too much, apart from my parents staying, we never had guests, so we carried me out to the bathroom to shower completely naked, only to get the shock of our lives as Brittany was just leaving the bathroom. She commented that it looked like we had been having fun and stepped aside so we could pass. We showered, then went to the kitchen for breakfast. Brittany had made a coffee for each of us, but she didn’t realise we didn’t drink tall black filtered coffee, so she had made a tall cup of espresso, saying that our machine was broken, only doing a small dribble for each grind of beans. It was a very funny moment. We would have each had about 20 cups of coffee had we actually drank it.

We were at a lovely waterfront restaurant in Sydney. Mama had been drinking quite a bit of wine.

Toward the end of the meal, she looked at James and started in.

“You know, James,” she said, her voice loud with that familiar Texas drawl, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Back home, the boys are just… cleaner. Especially the Jewish boys. They take care of things down there, if you know what I mean. No extra skin causing problems.”

“Mama,” I said sharply, “it’s not like that.”

She turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Well, what do you mean, sweetheart? What’s it like then?”

I sighed, feeling my face heat up. “If you lined up ten guys that were circumcised, you would swear James is one of them. He’s naturally got almost no foreskin.”

Mama blinked several times. “Almost none isn’t none. I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life. How is that even possible?”

I suddenly realized why she was bringing this up so aggressively. “Wait… did Sarah say something to you about this?”

Mama looked caught but doubled down. “Your sister might have mentioned you were seein’ a boy who wasn’t… you know… fixed. I was worried, that’s all! A mother worries!”

Daddy groaned. “Margaret, for the love of God, we are in public.”

Mama ignored him and kept going. “I just don’t understand it, baby. All that extra skin… it’s unsanitary. I’ve heard the stories about smell and infections. I don’t want my daughter dealing with any of that mess.”

“It’s not like that at all,” I said firmly. “There’s no mess. It’s clean. He’s clean. You don’t need to worry.”

Daddy stood up. “Alright, that is more than enough. We are leaving. Come on, Margaret.”

As he helped her up, Mama was still muttering, “I’m just lookin’ out for her…”

A few days later, I met Lauren, Brittany, and Kayla for margaritas at our favorite Mexican place.

“So tell us everything,” Brittany demanded. “You finally did it?”

I nodded, blushing. “It was intense. Way better than I expected, he was gentle, he didn’t know it was my first time, I was too embarrassed to tell him, and it was so intimate and intense, as much as I had hoped something would happen for years, I also didn’t plan for it, and… we didn’t have protection.”

All three of them gasped.

“You let him fuck you raw on your first time?!” Kayla said, eyes wide. “Girl, what were you thinking?”

“I did the math out loud right there in bed,” I admitted. “My period had finished eight days before, so I thought I was safe. I even joked that it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a baby with the hottest guy I’d just met in person. I was so horny I didn’t care.”

Lauren shook her head, laughing. “That is risky as hell. Okay… tell us about the rest. Was he big? Did it hurt?”

“It hurt at first because I was so tight, but then it felt really good. But the part that shocked me most was when he pulled out…” I paused, lowering my voice. “I had no idea how much cum there was. Like, a lot. It went all over my tits, my neck, even up to my jaw and cheek. I was covered. I never realized guys could cum that much.”

The table went quiet for a second before all three of them reacted.“Damn, that is a lot,” Brittany said, eyes wide. “Most guys I’ve been with give like two or three decent spurts and that’s it. You got absolutely painted?”

Kayla laughed in disbelief. “I’ve never had a guy cum that much either. Maybe a little on my stomach, but nothing like what you’re describing. You’re telling me he really shot all the way up to your jaw?”“Multiple thick ropes,” I confirmed, grinning. “I was shocked. It was everywhere.”“Lord have mercy,” Lauren said, fanning herself. “Sounds like you hit the jackpot in more ways than one.”

I grinned. “His dick is uncircumcised, but it doesn’t look like it. When he’s soft, the skin stays bunched right behind the head. Even when he’s hard, it only pulls forward enough to just barely cover the ridge. It’s like a loose circumcision. Super smooth and clean.”

Brittany made a disgusted face. “My sister told me this traumatic story. She was with this Latino guy, and when he pulled the skin back, cottage cheese stuff just clumped out. The smell was so bad she grabbed her clothes and ran out the door. She swore off Latinos after that and now makes every guy shower right before anything happens.”

“Ugh, same,” Kayla said. “The only uncircumcised ones I’ve seen were nasty. I stopped things immediately.”

Lauren nodded. “I dated one for a few months. He came in thirty seconds the first time. No enjoyment for me at all. My circumcised partners last way longer, and there’s so much more internal stimulation. It just feels better. All that about them losing their nerves and it being useless, totally contrary to my experiences, they have all loved to fuck, receive head, and any attention they will take it”

I laughed. “With him, there was zero smell, zero mess. It was actually really pretty. When he went down on me, I wasn’t even awkward about it. It felt completely natural. The orgasm was so much deeper and stronger than when I masturbated. My whole body was shaking.”

“Damn, Jess,” Brittany said, grinning. “You sound like you hit the jackpot on your very first try.”

“I kinda did,” I admitted, blushing. “Ten years of talking to him online, and it turns out we have insane chemistry in real life too.” It felt good to be the center of attention with my friends, talking about intimate things for the first time in my life.

When he had to fly back to Australia after five weeks, my heart felt like it was breaking. I called my sister the next day and told her everything.

She was quiet for a long moment after I described his dick.

“So… it’s uncircumcised but doesn’t look like it?” she asked, sounding genuinely shocked. “That’s actually a thing? I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Apparently it is,” I laughed. “It’s this perfect middle ground. Super clean, no weird smell, nothing like the horror stories we’ve all heard.”

My sister let out a big sigh. “Well… I’m shocked as hell, but I’m also really happy for you, Jess. After everything you’ve been through with the accident and the boys around here treating you like you were broken… you deserve this. Even if he’s halfway across the world.”

These two conversations, or points in my life, were the first in what was to become a normal conversation theme, every time something about cocks came up, the conversation would always follow similar lines.

The next year was a whirlwind. We met up in Fiji, Hawaii, and New Zealand. Every time we saw each other, the buildup was insane. weeks of dirty messages and phone calls followed by desperate, hungry sex the second we were alone. I felt like a completely different woman. Then I flew to Australia for the holidays. I was so excited to experience a big American-style Thanksgiving with his family… only to find out they don’t even celebrate it there. I was so disappointed I almost cried. With no more vacation time left at work, I quit my job, had to get my sister to pack up my apartment, and stayed through Christmas and New Year. I got to experience a real Australian summer Christmas; backyard barbecues, beach days, and sweating in 95-degree heat on December 25th. It was wild. I also learnt that wheelchairs and beaches are not made for each other. His friends were super accommodating, so much more than the boys in Dallas. Aussies have a really good spirit, have a go as they would say. It really made me feel like I’d made a new home, and it had only been a few months.

We decided it was time. He started looking for a wheelchair-accessible place while I applied for a visa. The house hunting was stressful — so many places had steps or narrow doors. We had our first real argument during that time. The “learning to live together” phase definitely had its ups and downs, but we worked through it. The visa process felt like it took forever, but it finally came through. We took a holiday overseas so that, when I returned, I would be officially an Australian resident, and I could finally work.

The year was 2005. Dallas in late spring still carried that thick, humid promise of summer—the kind that made dress shirts stick to your back after a short walk across a parking lot.

I’d been chatting with Jess on Efnet IRC since I was sixteen—mostly platonic, just the occasional light flirt. Ten years of genuine friendship. Until now.

I was on assignment with IBM in Dallas when we finally met. When she rolled out in her sleek black wheelchair, I was surprised, but the instant chemistry between us was undeniable.

We spent the day talking and laughing, but by the time we got back to her apartment, the air between us felt electric.

The door had barely clicked shut before Jess pulled me down into a hungry kiss. Her lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss and Dr Pepper. We stumbled to the sofa, making out deeply as clothes were shed. The room was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and soft moans.

When the last pieces of fabric hit the floor, she whispered against my mouth, “Carry me to the bedroom.”

I lifted her naked body—warm, smooth skin against mine—and carried her down the hall. I laid her on the bed, the sheets cool beneath her. We made out longer, bodies pressing together, her hard nipples brushing my chest. Then she nipped my earlobe and breathed, “I want to cum.”

I kissed my way down her body, tasting the light salt of her skin. When I settled between her thighs, the scent of her arousal was heady and sweet. I had to gently position her legs wider. The first slow lick up her slick folds drew a sharp gasp from her. She was incredibly wet, hot, and tasted musky-sweet. I licked slow circles around her swollen clit, then slid two fingers into her tight heat. Her inner walls clenched around my fingers as her breathing turned into desperate little whimpers. She came hard, thighs trembling in my hands, back arching off the bed as she cried out, her voice raw and throaty.

After she caught her breath, she looked at me with dark, needy eyes and said with a shy smile, “That was so much better than masturbating… Now come up here. I want you to fuck me.”

She had me lie on my back. Jess struggled adorably to pull my boxer briefs down, refusing help. When my cock sprang free, she stared with open hunger. “It’s really nice,” she whispered, voice husky. “I love how the head is exposed like that… so smooth.”

She leaned down and took me into her warm, wet mouth. The sensation was incredible; soft tongue swirling, gentle suction, her eyes locked on mine the whole time.

After a few minutes, she pulled off, lips shiny. “Do you have a rubber?”

I shook my head. “No… I wasn’t expecting any of this today.”

Jess bit her lip, still stroking my slick cock with her hand. She did the math out loud, counting on her fingers with a worried but aroused expression. “My period finished like… eight days ago? Ovulation is around day fourteen… I think I’m still safe.”

Then she laughed nervously. “God, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have a baby with the hottest guy I’ve ever known… and I literally just met him today. Could you imagine? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Her voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “I just want to be fucked. Protection or not. I need you inside me right now. Please.”

She pulled me on top of her. I rubbed my throbbing cock up and down her soaked slit, coating myself in her slickness, then pushed forward. Jess gasped sharply—a mix of pain and pleasure—as her incredibly tight pussy stretched around me. She was scorching hot and silky inside, gripping every inch as I slowly sank deeper.

“It hurts… but don’t stop,” she panted, nails digging into my shoulders. “I want all of you. Fuck me deeper.”

The wet, obscene sounds of our bodies meeting filled the room along with her moans. I could feel her heartbeat around my cock. I thrust harder, her breasts bouncing with every stroke, sweat starting to slick our skin.

The intensity became overwhelming. I pulled out at the last second and erupted, thick ropes of cum splashing across her heaving tits, neck, jaw, and cheek. The sight of her marked with my seed was incredibly erotic.

I immediately slid back down and buried my face between her legs again. Her pussy was puffy, red, and glistening with a faint trace of blood and her creamy juices. I licked and sucked her clit while pumping two fingers deep inside her. Jess came even harder than before—screaming, body shaking violently, fresh wetness flooding my tongue and chin as powerful spasms rippled through her.

We lay panting for several minutes before she shyly confessed it was her first time.

After catching our breath, she murmured, “I’m all sticky.”

I carried her to the accessible shower. Warm water cascaded over us as steam filled the air. Jess sat on the plastic chair, glowing and affectionate, constantly pulling me down for wet, deep kisses.

She wrapped her hand around my cock again. “I love how beautiful it is… especially the exposed head. It looks so smooth and sexy.”

I smiled down at her. “I’ve never had my head covered, actually.”

Jess tilted her head. “Isn’t that normal for circumcised guys?”

“I’m not circumcised,” I told her.

She blinked in surprise. “What?”

“Yeah, I’m uncircumcised,” I said with a small laugh. “But I’ve never had a big foreskin. Even when I’m soft, it stays bunched up behind the head. It doesn’t cover it. Here, watch.”I guided her hand and pulled the skin forward. Stretched out as far as it would go, the foreskin only just reached and barely covered the ridge before slipping back. It looked almost like a loose circumcision.

Jess watched with wide-eyed fascination. “Whoa… I had no idea that was possible. I’ve only seen European porn where the guys can pull the whole skin over the head even when they’re hard. I always thought that looked kind of disgusting, honestly.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I don’t like that full coverage look either. Mine’s always been this way; basically, it stays retracted behind the head. It’s not tight or anything, not phimosis… just naturally short. It’s confused a lot of partners before.”

The combination of her eager sucking, eye contact, and the warm water sent me over the edge fast.

“Jess; fuck, I’m cumming,” I groaned, grabbing the handrail as my knees weakened. She moaned loudly and kept sucking, milking every pulse as I emptied into her mouth. She swallowed greedily, then licked her lips.

“The texture is a little weird… thick and slippery… but I actually liked it.”

We dried off and climbed back into bed just as the first rays of sunrise beamed through her window, painting the room in soft gold. The night had passed in a blur, and it felt unreal how quickly time had slipped away. Jess curled against my chest, her hair still damp, and quietly told me about her long-standing crush, her accident, and how our IRC friendship had helped her through her darkest days.

She smiled up at me, glowing with quiet happiness. “I’m really glad the stars finally aligned.”

Neither of us was in any hurry for the day to end.

As we lay tangled in the sheets, sunlight spilling across the bed, Jess rolled onto her side and grinned at me. "So, seriously, have a lot of your partners been confused by your whole circumcision-not-circumcision situation?"

I laughed. "Honestly? Pretty much all of them."

She raised an eyebrow, playful. "Like, how many are we talking here?"

I hesitated, counting on my fingers, trying to remember the exact number. "Uh… definitely over ten. It always takes a little explanation. Some people have asked if I was circumcised and then changed their minds halfway through, or just stared for a while looking puzzled."

Jess snorted, shaking her head. "You must have the most mysterious cock in Texas."

I grinned back. "Maybe I should start charging admission."

She nudged me with her foot, laughter filling the room. "Well, I’m glad I got the tour."

We lay there, swapping stories and jokes, the morning stretching ahead of us; no rush, no awkwardness. Just easy warmth and the feeling that the night, and now this sunrise, had shifted something between us for good.

After a moment, Jess propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze a little more curious. “So, did any of them ever get, like… offended? Or did it change anything when they found out you weren’t circumcised?”

I nodded, a wry smile on my lips. “Yeah, actually. A few of them were really set on the idea of me being ‘properly circumcised’.

She smirked at that. “‘Properly’? What does that even mean?”

I grinned. “They loved the tight shaft skin look with the extreme mushroom head. I think they just assumed I was cut because of how exposed everything looks.”

Jess laughed, shaking her head. Then, with a sly grin, she reached under the sheets and wrapped her hand around my shaft, gently pulling the skin all the way down to the base. She studied the ridge closely, her thumb grazing over the exposed rim.

She looked up at me, eyes sparkling. “Okay, I can actually see where they’re coming from. There’s something ridiculously erotic about how exposed that ridge is; it’s like, all head, all the time.”

I grinned, heat coiling in my stomach at her open fascination. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what they all said. Never fails to get a reaction.”

This is translated from a Ukrainian/Russian "confessions" topic/thread on Telegram.

...

I never thought I'd be the kind of woman to confess like this, but here I am, heart racing just thinking about it again. It's been months since that Christmas party, and the fire Mark lit inside me still burns hotter every day. Bozhe, if my babusia could hear the thoughts in my head now, she'd cross herself three times and pray for my soul.

That night, after the bubbly and the dancing, when we stumbled into his flat, I was already dizzy with want. Five years without a man, Sergey was the only one I'd ever had, and even then, it was mostly me closing my eyes and pretending while he grunted and finished too fast. He used to say oral was a one-way street—only for him to receive, never to give. "Pizda doesn't need licking," he'd slur, laughing like it was a joke, leaving me feeling dirty and unworthy every time. I carried that shame like a stone in my chest: too old, too used, not sweet enough down there for any man to want to taste. So when Mark kissed me against the wall, slow and deep, like he had all night, my body responded, but my mind whispered doubts.

He took the lead completely, thank God, because I was too nervous, too out of practice to know where to put my hands or what to say. He carried me to the bedroom, actually carried me, like I weighed nothing and laid me down on crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of his cologne. Clothes came off slowly. He peeled my dress away, kissed every new inch of skin he uncovered, whispered things like "Jesus, look at you" when my bra fell, and my heavy breasts spilled free. I felt exposed, old stretch marks and all, but the way he looked at me… like I was something precious and filthy at the same time. No one had ever looked at me like that.

He kissed down my belly, parted my thighs with gentle but firm hands. I tensed instinctively, old words echoing in my head Sergey's cruel dismissal. But Mark paused, looked up at me with those steady eyes. "Relax, Olena," he said softly. "I want this. I want to taste you." Then his mouth was on me oy, chort voz'my, and I nearly levitated off the bed. Sergey never did that. Never. I thought that kind of thing only happened in those American pornos I'd watched on my phone late at night when the kids were asleep, the ones where the women screamed like they were dying of pleasure. Mark's tongue was slow circles, then flicking, then sucking gently on my clit until my hips bucked and I was moaning loud enough the neighbours probably heard.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against my wet folds, voice thick with want: "God, you taste so fucking great. Sweet… perfect." Those words hit me like a wave. Sweet. Perfect. Not dirty, not something to endure. Tears stung my eyes not from pain, but from the sudden rush of relief, the shame melting away under his tongue. He went back to it, humming approval against me like he couldn't get enough, and I came on his face—hard, shaking, first time anyone ever made me come with their mouth. My legs trembled, sobs mixing with gasps. "Mark… Bozhe…" I whispered over and over like a prayer, the self-confidence Sergey had chipped away at starting to knit back together.

Then he rose up over me, kissing me so I could taste myself on his lips, salty-sweet, nothing gross, just us. He positioned himself between my legs, rubbed himself along my slick folds, teasing. I didn't look down yet; I was too lost in the aftershocks, eyes half-closed, breathing ragged, heart still pounding from the way he'd just worshipped me. "You ready?" he asked, voice rough. I nodded, biting my lip. When he pushed in slow, inch by inch, I felt something… different. It felt direct, intimate, like a connection to my soul, smooth, flared pressure stretching me open, rubbing every sensitive ridge inside me with nothing in between. It was intensely overwhelming at first, almost too much, like my nerves were suddenly bare. I gasped, tensed. He froze. "Too much?" "N-nі… just… different," I panted. "Keep going. Please."

And thank God he did.

He moved carefully at first, letting me adjust, but every thrust dragged that smooth head along my front wall in long, deliberate strokes. It was like he was touching places that had been sleeping for decades. No clumsy fumbling like with Sergey. Mark was a magician—angling his hips just right, grinding deep, then pulling almost all the way out so only the head teased my entrance before sliding back in. Each time that bare ridge caught my spot, fireworks exploded behind my eyes. I couldn't fake anything; my body was honest for once, clenching around him, hips rising to meet every thrust. "Tak… tak… hlybше," I gasped deeper, please deeper without even realising I'd switched to Ukrainian.

The pleasure was built differently this time. Not the quick buzz I could chase with my vibrator on my clit. This was deeper, fuller, spreading out from my core like warm honey turning to molten fire. When he hooked my legs over his shoulders and drove in harder, that sensitive head pounding right against the perfect place, I shattered. My first real orgasm with a man inside me. Not faked, not forced, not just clitoral. It ripped through me long, rolling waves that made me sob his name, nails digging into his back, thighs trembling so hard I thought I'd break. I felt him pulse and spill inside me right after, groaning low in his throat, but I was too lost in my own pleasure to care about anything else.

We collapsed together, sweaty and panting, bodies still joined. After a long minute, when my breathing finally slowed and the tremors eased, I felt him slip out of me. I looked down between us for the first time, really looked. His softening cock rested against my thigh, smooth, bare, the head still flushed and glistening. Nothing like Sergey's. My breath caught. I reached down slowly, almost afraid to touch it, fingertips brushing the exposed ridge. A strange, overwhelming feeling rose in my chest: wonder, confusion, something like awe mixed with a sudden flood of emotion I couldn't name.

"Mark…" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, tears pricking my eyes again. "What… what is this? It's… different. Like in the American movies, but… real." I traced the smooth crown gently, feeling how sensitive it still was, how he hissed softly at the lightest touch.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching my face with quiet tenderness. "I'm circumcised," he said simply, voice soft. "Got it done when I was a baby. Most Aussie guys are. You okay?"

I stared at him for a long moment. Then the tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable. Not sad tears. Grateful ones. Relieved ones. Like something locked inside me for twenty-five years had finally cracked open. "Okay?" I whispered, voice trembling. "Bozhe miliy… I didn't know. All these years I thought… I thought that's just how it was. Clumsy, quick, never quite right. But this" My fingers curled around him lightly, reverent. "this felt like… like my body was finally being seen. Like I was finally being loved properly." I looked up at him, cheeks wet. "You made me come like that. Inside me. For the first time ever. And now I see why. It's… beautiful. You're beautiful."

He pulled me close then, arms wrapping around me tight, kissing the top of my head while I cried quietly against his chest, happy, healing tears. "You deserve that," he murmured. "Every damn time."

Now? I'm ruined in the best way. Every day at the reception desk, I catch myself clenching my thighs under the counter, remembering how that smooth, bare head felt gliding in and out, how it unlocked something feral and perfect inside me. The hunger is constant—insatiable. I dream about him bending me over the printer after hours, or sneaking into the disabled toilet during lunch, his tongue making me feel wanted again, his circumcised cock making me come undone like nothing else can. My vibrator sits forgotten in the drawer. Toys can't give me that anymore. Only he can.

I woke up wet.

Not just the ordinary, sleepy dampness of morning. I was soaked, thighs slick, the sheet beneath my hips cold where my own arousal had pooled and cooled while I slept. The moment I registered it, my clit gave one hard, involuntary throb, as though my body remembered his cock before my mind did.I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Every breath dragged the scent of last night deeper into my lungs: his skin, sweat, the faint bleach-clean note of his come still inside me, the ghost of yuzu soap now overpowered by something darker, animal, unmistakably sexual.

My nipples tightened instantly against the cotton sheet, aching like they’d been sucked for hours (because they had). When I finally shifted, the slide of swollen folds against each other was so obscene I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.

The bruises sang.

I could feel each fingerprint separately now: four perfect ovals on the soft flesh of my inner thighs, blooming violet, and the deeper crescent marks where his thumbs had dug in to keep me folded in half. When I clenched, experimentally, the soreness deep inside flared bright and sweet, a hot pulse that made my back arch off the futon without permission. I was so tender that even the air moving across my exposed sex felt like a tongue.

I could still taste him on the back of my throat: salt, skin, the faint, addictive cleanliness of a circumcised head that had pushed past my lips again and again until tears ran down my temples. My mouth watered at the memory, jaw still loose and aching from stretching around that smooth, rigid ridge. I swallowed and felt the phantom drag of it along my tongue.

He was dripping again.

I slid one shaking hand down my stomach, over the faint stickiness he’d left striped across my skin the first time he came, and cupped myself. Just the heat of my own palm made me whimper. Two fingers slipped inside without resistance; I was open, used, swollen, and the slick sound of it was filthy in the quiet room. I pressed deeper and felt the place he had battered last night, the spot that still fluttered helplessly when I remembered how he’d growled “mine” against my ear and thrust so hard my vision whited out.My hips lifted off the bed on their own.

I was so close already, shamefully close, just from memory and soreness and the lingering taste of him. I dragged my wet fingers up to circle my clit once, twice, and the orgasm hit like a slap: sudden, sharp, almost angry. I stuffed my fist against my mouth to muffle the broken sound that tore out of me, thighs shaking, walls clenching around nothing, milking the emptiness he’d left behind.When it passed I lay trembling, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the intensity of it.

And still I wanted more.

I wanted his hand fisted in my hair again, forcing my face into the pillow while he took me from behind. I wanted that merciless, polished head breaching me over and over, no foreskin to dull the stroke, nothing to hide behind, just raw, deliberate friction until I sobbed. I wanted to feel him come inside me again and again until I leaked for days, until every step I took in the office reminded me I had been claimed.I wanted to be ruined so thoroughly that the mask I wear every day would crack the moment someone said my name.The rice cooker clicked off in the kitchen, sharp and ordinary.I stayed on my back, legs shamelessly open, breathing through the aftershocks, and let the truth settle over me like a second skin:

I am no longer the woman who walked into that yakitori shop last night.

It seems hospital availability and costs are the primary factors prohibiting a large number of parents. It's interesting that partners with uncircumcised partners tend not to want to declare their preferences....

I've received over 200 direct messages and chats from various people stating that they loved my first version. Still, I needed to make some of the instructions more straightforward, because many men are unintelligent or incapable; I had to simplify them. The descriptions were all different, but the theme was always the same.

Here is the updated..

I've been pondering this for several years, and I wanted to catalogue what I've learned since being sexually liberated/discovered. This guide is a distillation of five years of learning from an incredible lover—lessons that transformed my sex life from occasional enjoyment to profound, consistent ecstasy. I wrote this so you can share it with your partner, understand more about your own body, and start to LOVE sex the way I now do.

As a woman, my pleasure is a tapestry woven from physical sensation, emotional connection, and the thrill of intimacy. When I’m with a circumcised man, I notice the unique qualities of his anatomy—the exposed glans, its smooth, firm texture, the way it feels against my skin. This direct, pronounced sensation is different and exciting. With the right techniques, and a focus on lubrication and intention, it can send me soaring. Here’s what I crave, what makes my body hum, and how my circumcised partner can elevate our shared ecstasy.

1. Build a Bridge of Communication and Trust

For me, pleasure starts long before our bodies meet—it begins with feeling seen, desired, and safe. I want you to understand my needs, to make me feel like I’m the center of your world.

Talk to Me: Ask me what I love, what makes my pulse race. Don't be afraid to try open-ended prompts like: “What is one thing I could do tonight that would make you moan?” or “Show me where you want me to linger.” I’ll open up if you create space for honesty, and knowing you’re listening makes me feel cherished.

Read My Body: Watch for my cues—my breath quickening, my hips shifting, the soft moans that escape when you’ve found the right spot. If I arch toward you, linger there; if I tense, ease back. Your attentiveness makes me feel adored.

Make Me Feel Desired: Whisper how much you want me, how my reactions drive you wild. Hearing, “You’re so beautiful like this,” while you hold my gaze, melts my defenses and deepens my arousal. Tell me you love how your circumcised cock feels against me—it makes the moment more intimate. Feeling desired isn't just about sex; it’s about you taking a moment during the day to tell me, "I was thinking about you this morning and how amazing you look." This pre-loads my desire.

Check In After: Post-intimacy, ask how I felt, what I loved most. It shows you’re invested in my pleasure, and I’ll trust you more each time, letting go fully in our next encounter.

🔑 Partner’s Action Summary

Ask low-pressure, open-ended questions like, "What do you want me to try?"

Watch her physical cues (breathing, hips, sounds) and respond immediately.

Whisper specific words of desire during intimacy.

Confirm her pleasure by checking in afterward.

2. Seduce Me with Foreplay

Foreplay is my gateway to ecstasy—it wakes my body, stirs my desire, and makes every touch electric. Your circumcised cock, with its exposed glans, can be a delicious tool in this dance, but I want you to take your time, to tease me until I’m aching for more.

Start Slow and Sensual: Commit to 15–20 minutes of pure foreplay before attempting penetration. Kiss my neck, trace your fingers along my inner thighs, graze my lower back with your lips. Don’t rush to my core; make me crave it.

Tease with Your Glans: The firm, smooth head of your circumcised cock feels incredible when you use it to tease. Slide it gently against my inner thighs, over my labia, or just above my clitoris, avoiding direct contact at first. The texture is distinct, almost polished, and it sends shivers through me when you take your time.

Use Your Hands: Your fingers are magic—explore my vulva with light, varied touches. Circle my clitoris softly, then press a little firmer, or trace my labia. Combine this with your glans’ gentle pressure for a dual sensation that drives me wild.

Worship Me with Your Mouth: Cunnilingus is a gift, and I crave it. Use your tongue to explore my labia, flick lightly over my clitoris, or dip inside me. Vary the pressure—soft and teasing, then firmer—and listen to my moans to guide you.

Play with Temperature: Your exposed glans is sensitive to temperature, and I love when you use that. Try sipping warm tea or holding a cool sip of water before pressing your cock against my skin. The subtle warmth or chill against my thighs or labia is a thrilling surprise that heightens my arousal.

🔑 Partner’s Action Summary

Commit to 15-20 minutes of non-penetrative foreplay.

Tease her inner thighs/labia with the firm glans, avoiding the clitoris initially.

Worship her with your mouth, varying the pace and pressure of your tongue.

Introduce surprising temperature play (warm/cool) for sensory arousal.

3. Make Intercourse a Symphony

When we move to intercourse, I want it to feel like a dance, with your circumcised cock as the lead. Its firm glans and defined ridge can create unique sensations, but I need you to be thoughtful and attentive.

Lubricate Generously: Without a foreskin, the glans can be firmer and the vaginal opening can experience more friction, which is why your intentionality matters. I will feel the difference instantly. Use a silky water-based or silicone-based lube, applying it to both of us. Make re-lubing a sensual part of the act—pause, apply a little to your glans and to my entrance, and make eye contact.

Angle for My Sweet Spots: Your glans’ firmness is perfect for targeting my G-spot or deeper zones. Try these:

Missionary with a Pillow: Slip a pillow under my hips and angle your thrusts upward to rub the defined ridge (corona) of your glans against my G-spot (a few inches inside, on the front wall). Slow, shallow thrusts make me gasp.

Cowgirl Control: Let me ride you, adjusting the angle to press your glans where I need it. Your hands on my hips, guiding but not controlling, make me feel powerful.

Vary the Rhythm: Start slow, letting me feel every inch of your glans as it enters and withdraws. Then mix it up: a few deep thrusts, then shallow ones, or a slow grind that presses your cock against my clitoris.

Grind, Don’t Just Thrust: Sometimes, I want you to grind your pelvis against mine, especially in missionary or cowgirl. The pressure of your pubic bone and the glans’ firmness against my clitoris can push me over the edge. It’s less about in-and-out and more about staying connected, deep and steady.

Use Your Hands During Penetration: While you’re inside me, let your fingers roam—stroke my clitoris, tease my nipples, or grip my hips. The combination of your cock’s firmness and your hands’ softness creates a layered pleasure that makes me lose myself.

🔑 Partner’s Action Summary

Prioritise generous lubrication before and during the act.

Use shallow, upward thrusts (with a pillow) to target her G-spot.

Vary the rhythm between slow, deep, and steady grinding.

Add external stimulation (clitoris/breasts) with your hands while penetrating.

4. Focus on My Clitoris: The Heart of My Pleasure

My clitoris is my pleasure epicenter. The internal pressure from your glans must be balanced by external stimulation to keep me in that sweet spot.

Techniques to Make My Clitoris Sing

Timing and Sensitivity: Reading My Clitoris

Early Arousal: Start with indirect, teasing touches—circling the hood, light licks, or gentle glans rubbing.

Mid-Arousal: As my breathing quickens, increase pressure or speed slightly. Try firmer finger strokes or faster tongue flicks.

Near Climax: When I’m close, maintain a consistent rhythm—don’t change pace suddenly. If I say “Keep going,” do exactly that.

Post-Climax: My clitoris will be hypersensitive. Switch to very light, indirect touches or pause entirely, kissing my thighs or holding me close.

5. Essential Additions for a Complete Guide

These points address common female experience or partner behavior that often gets overlooked.

A. Embracing Sensory Play & Light Pain

Try Light Impact Play: A gentle, open-handed smack on my butt or hip can send a jolt of pleasure and focus through me. It's a quick burst of sensation that heightens my awareness and desire. Start soft and gauge my reaction—the key is passion, not force.

Use Blindfolds and Restraints: The vulnerability of being blindfolded or having my hands gently restrained amplifies every touch. The surprise of your glans tracing my skin, or the warmth of your mouth on an unexpected spot, is incredibly arousing.

B. The Power of Intentional Breathing

Match My Breath: As arousal builds, our breathing often quickens. Breathe deeply with me, or let out a few soft growls or sighs. When you sound fully present and invested, it deepens my emotional connection, making my physical pleasure more intense.

Use Your Breath to Tease: Blowing a warm breath on my inner thighs or vulva during foreplay is an intense, subtle tease that heightens sensitivity right before you touch me.

C. Integrating Mutual Masturbation

Include "His Hand, Her Focus": Before or after penetration, have us lie side-by-side and guide your hand to masturbate me while you pleasure yourself. This allows me to completely focus on my pleasure, while you get to watch and enjoy the culmination of your efforts. It’s an intimate moment where both of us are actively receiving pleasure.

6. Stay Attuned to My Body’s Responses

Your circumcised cock gives you a distinct tool, but it’s your intention and attentiveness that makes it magical.

Adapt to My Arousal: If I’m highly aroused, I might crave faster, deeper thrusts; if I’m building up, slow and teasing is better. Ask, “Harder or softer?” or watch my reactions to guide you.

Balance Sensitivity: The exposed glans might make you more sensitive, so pace yourself to avoid finishing too quickly. If you need to slow down, pull back and focus on kissing or manual stimulation—I’ll love the pause if it means more connection.

Post-Climax Care: After I orgasm, I might be sensitive. Switch to gentle kisses or light caresses. If you were penetrating deeply, check in on my comfort, asking, “Are you feeling tender?” or “Can I grab you a warm cloth?” This dedication to my physical well-being makes me more trusting of you for our subsequent encounter.

I recently found a hard disk with some backups that I saved from a girl's internet diary that was popular in the early 00s. This is part 4. Go find #1,2 and 3 for chronological order. ---

Dear Diary,

As I sit here, the late afternoon sun spilling through my window, painting golden streaks across the page, I’m struck by how profoundly my life has transformed in just one year. It’s been twelve months since that night with Jake, the night that shattered my intactivist world and set me on a path I never could’ve imagined. The woman I was—a fierce, dogmatic advocate, clutching studies about foreskin nerve endings and bodily autonomy—feels like a shadow of who I am now. That shadow lingers, but it’s faint, overshadowed by a vibrant, confident version of myself I’m still getting to know. My body, mind, spirit, and soul have shifted, as have my friendships, my love, my very sense of place in the world. I’m not just surviving this upheaval; I’m thriving in it, and it’s exhilarating.

A year ago, I was drowning in anxiety, my mind a storm of guilt and doubt as Jake’s circumcision forced me to confront the beliefs I’d built my identity around. I’d spent years preaching about the 20,000 nerve endings, the tragedy of circumcision, my heart breaking for men robbed of choice. But that first night with him, when his newly circumcised cock ignited a full-body orgasm, scratching a primal itch I didn’t know I had, everything changed. Each time we came together after—countless nights of sweat and ecstasy, multiple orgasms crashing through me like ocean waves—my body spoke a truth my mind resisted: circumcision wasn’t the loss I’d been taught to mourn. It was a revelation, and it’s reshaped not just my sex life but my entire being.

The health benefits I’ve lived this past year are undeniable, though they’re less about physical ailments and more about the radiant shift in my mental health. Where I once carried a constant knot of stress, worrying about betraying my activist ideals or losing my community, I now feel a lightness, a confidence that pulses through me like a heartbeat. I’m stronger, more capable, as if I’ve shed a heavy cloak of dogma that was weighing me down. I walk taller, my shoulders back, my smile unforced. My body image has transformed, too—I’m comfortable in my skin in ways I never was before. I used to shy away from locker rooms, my cheeks burning at the thought of being seen. Now, I stride into the gym or the swimming pool, naked and unashamed, my body a source of pride rather than insecurity. I’ve even gone to the nudist beach with Jake, sunbaking nude under the Australian sun, the warm sand cradling my skin as I laughed, feeling like a real woman, fully alive, fully myself. It’s as if I’ve found my place in the world, standing beside Jake, who’s also blossomed—more confident, more sensitive, his own transformation mirroring mine.

My sex life has exploded into something I never thought possible. I used to be content with occasional intimacy, but now I crave it daily, a deep, pulsing desire that hums through my veins. Life’s demands—work, errands, reality—mean we manage three to five times a week, but each time is a masterpiece. Jake’s circumcised cock, so sleek and precise, feels like it was made for me, his glans hitting every nerve with a clarity that sends me spiraling into ecstasy, my body trembling from scalp to toes. I find myself staring at him sometimes, whether we’re tangled on his futon or just sitting across from each other at breakfast, my eyes drawn to his cock—its clean lines, the smooth, tight shaft, the bold glans like a polished gem. It’s not just aesthetics; it’s how it feels inside me, like a key unlocking a door I didn’t know existed, each thrust igniting a fire that consumes me. Jake himself is… more since the circumcision—more attentive, more connected, as if the procedure stripped away barriers, leaving him raw and real. I catch myself thinking how stupid I was, how blindly I lapped up the intactivist narrative without testing it, without questioning the cherry-picked studies that fueled my fire. I feel a pang of regret for that naivety, but it’s overshadowed by gratitude for the truth my body’s shown me.

My mental health has been the biggest revelation. The anxiety that once gnawed at me—fear of losing my activist friends, of betraying my cause—has melted into a quiet strength. I’m not just surviving; I’m flourishing, my mind clearer, my heart open. I feel like I’ve stepped into my power, like I’m finally the woman I was meant to be. My friendships have shifted, too. I’ve drifted from my intactivist circle, their rigid dogma a wall I couldn’t breach. When I probed them about the data, their accusations—calling Jake a liar, me a traitor—cut deep, but they also set me free. The men in the group, all uncircumcised, dismissed their foreskin issues as ignorance; the women, unable to climax without toys, clung to “natural” as a shield, ignoring their own pleasure. I couldn’t stay in that echo chamber.

But my non-activist friends—Lila, Sarah, Mia—have become my anchors. Lila’s transformation has been especially striking. She convinced her partner to get circumcised, and now she’s a vocal evangelist, raving about the sleek aesthetics, the intense pleasure, a far cry from the quiet, almost embarrassed way she spoke about it a year ago. “It’s like night and day,” she told me over coffee, her eyes sparkling. “He’s more confident, and the sex? It’s electric.” Her enthusiasm mirrors mine, and it’s a relief to share this without shame. My talk with Mom, too, was a turning point. Her candid story—her struggles with an uncircumcised partner, the thrush and UTIs that vanished when they parted, the circumcised lover who gave her multiple orgasms, and Dad, who sealed the deal with love and passion—opened a new layer of our bond. It was liberating, like shedding a skin I’d outgrown.

Jake has been my rock, my partner in this transformation. Our friends-with-benefits dynamic has deepened into love, a connection woven through late-night talks, shared laughter, and a physical intimacy that still takes my breath away. He’s described sex post-circumcision as “a hand in a perfectly fitting glove,” intimate and precise, and I feel it too—his glans igniting a fire that consumes me, body and soul. That morning a year ago, when the sunlight bathed his cock like a sign from the universe, feels like a prophecy fulfilled. I’m no longer an intactivist, but I’m still passionate about choice, about listening to lived experiences over rigid narratives. My new friends, my strengthened bonds with Mom and the girls, and my love for Jake have grounded me in a way I never knew I needed.

I recently found a hard disk with some backups that I saved from a girl's internet diary that was popular in the early 00s. This is part 3. You can go find #1 and #2 for chronological order.

Dear Diary,

The past few days have been a maelstrom, my mind a turbulent sea where anxiety and stress collide, leaving me gasping for air. It’s as if my heart is caught in a vise, squeezed by the unbearable tension between the intactivist I’ve been and the woman I’m becoming, my body alive with a truth my mind can’t reconcile. My pulse races, my thoughts spiral into knots, and sleep is a fleeting ghost, chased away by the fear that I’m betraying the cause I’ve poured my soul into. For years, I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with my activist friends, our bond forged in high school and university, our voices a unified cry against circumcision—against the loss of 20,000 nerve endings, the theft of choice, the dulling of sensation. It’s been my identity, my fire, my anchor. But now, that anchor is slipping, and the weight of doubt is crushing me. I needed to understand, to probe the foundation of our beliefs, so I gathered my courage, my stomach twisting like a wrung cloth, and started asking questions.

I approached my intactivist group with care, my voice a delicate thread as we sat in our usual coffee shop, the air thick with the sharp bite of espresso. I didn’t want to confront them; I just wanted clarity. I asked about the studies—how solid is the data? Have we ever considered counterevidence? At first, it was warm, collaborative, their voices bright with the familiarity of our shared fight. They cited the familiar papers, their confidence echoing my own from years past. But then I mentioned a “friend”—Jake, though I didn’t name him—who said circumcision was a huge improvement, not just medically but in every way. The air turned brittle, their faces hardening like stone. “He’s lying,” one snapped, her voice cutting like glass. “He’s deluded, bought into the medical industry’s lies.” Another turned on me, their eyes blazing with betrayal. “You’re one of us,” they said, accusing me of spreading falsehoods, and I felt my chest tighten, my breath shallow, as if I’d been exiled on the spot.

Later, I pulled the guys in the group aside, my heart hammering like a drum as I asked if any were circumcised. None were. I pressed further, my voice trembling: Have you had issues with your foreskins? Many admitted they had—infections that burned, discomfort that lingered, hygiene struggles that left them frustrated. But they dismissed it, their tones rigid, almost rehearsed. “It’s just about knowing how to care for it,” one said, his jaw clenched. “Society doesn’t teach us properly.” Another insisted the foreskin itself isn’t the problem, only the lack of education. I stood there, stunned, as they refused to entertain the idea that their struggles might stem from the very thing we’ve championed.

Separately, I spoke with my activist girlfriends—Lila, Sarah, and Mia—over wine in Lila’s apartment, the dim light casting long shadows across their faces. My voice was barely a whisper as I asked: Do you climax with your partners? Their cheeks flushed, and one by one, they admitted they don’t—not without clitoral stimulation or toys afterward. Just like me, before Jake. I pushed gently: Shouldn’t we be able to orgasm during sex? Their responses were a fortress of deflection. “The foreskin’s so sensitive,” one said, her eyes fervent with conviction. “It’s got so many nerves, the guys feel too much—they finish too fast.” Another nodded, almost proud. “It’s a good thing. It shows how much they’re enjoying it.” When I countered, my voice soft but firm, that sex should be amazing for both partners, they shut down. “It’s natural,” they said, their tones final. “It’s how it’s supposed to be.” They wouldn’t reflect on their own pleasure, as if it was a footnote to the foreskin’s sanctity.

Diary, it was a sledgehammer to my heart. These people—my people, my family since we were teens—are no longer on my wavelength. Their minds are locked, their logic unyielding, clinging to a narrative that dismisses their own experiences. I’ve never felt so alone, so isolated, like I’m standing in a vast, empty void with no one to hear my cries. Walking to the train station tonight, the city’s neon glow blurred through my tears, my heart heavy with a loneliness so deep it felt like a physical wound. The cold air bit at my cheeks, and I hugged myself, trying to hold together the fragments of who I thought I was.

Then my phone buzzed—a simple SMS from Jake. “Hey, you okay?” Three words, and I shattered, tears spilling hot and fast, my sobs echoing on the empty platform. I tried to reply, my fingers shaking, but the words wouldn’t come. Before I could try again, my phone rang, Jake’s name a beacon in the dark. His voice was warm, steady, like a lifeline pulling me from the deep. “Where are you? You sound rough.” I choked out that I was at the station, lost in every sense, and he didn’t hesitate. “Stay there. I’m coming.” It was a ray of sunshine piercing the storm of my night, a flicker of warmth in a world gone cold.

In his car, the heater’s hum wrapping around me, the faint spice of his cologne grounding me, I felt a pull I couldn’t resist. I needed him, needed to feel him in a way I never had. I leaned over, my heart pounding, and gave him head—something I’d only done as foreplay before, never like this, never with this desperate, aching need. I hadn’t done it since his circumcision, and the difference was electric. His glans, so bold and prominent, popped out from the shaft, smooth and firm in my mouth, like polished marble warm with life. The skin of his shaft was tight, silky, a velvet sheath over steel, the bulging veins pulsing under my touch. It was clean, exquisite, every sensation heightened. Jake groaned, his hands gripping the wheel, and before he could pull over, before the handbrake clicked, he was spilling into my mouth—sweet, clean, like everything about him had been distilled into something perfect. I pulled back, my lips tingling, my heart racing, marveling at how intimate, how right it felt.

At his place, all I wanted was to be naked, skin on skin, his warmth a shield against the world. We lay on his futon, the soft fabric cool against my back, watching a new episode of Friends, the laugh track a distant hum as I stole glances at his cock, sleek and resting against his thigh. My mind churned—only a month ago, I was begging him not to get circumcised, my voice breaking, my heart fracturing. Now, I look at him and think, This is how all men should be. The thought is a knife, but it’s there, sharp and undeniable, glowing like the city lights outside his window.

After the show, we stayed tangled, naked, our voices soft in the quiet. Jake’s fingers traced lazy circles on my skin as he said, his voice low, “I’m feeling for you more than ever, you know.” My heart swelled, and I let out a shaky laugh. “You’ve turned my world inside out and upside down, Jake. My whole life’s in turmoil, but all I can think about is you, 24/7.” We fell asleep like that, his heartbeat steady against my cheek, a rhythm that felt like home.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through his window, a golden beam slicing across the room, landing like a spotlight on his circumcised cock. I laughed, a bright, unexpected sound, and Jake stirred, blinking at me. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. I pointed at the light, grinning. “It’s like the universe is saying it was meant to be.” He laughed, pulling me close, and said, “Told you it was.”

As we lay there, the summer heat already seeping in, I asked him to tell me about the circumcision—what it was like, how it feels different. My voice was soft, curious, not accusing. He propped himself up, his eyes thoughtful. “It was quick, a bit of pain after, but manageable. The difference now? It’s like night and day. The glans is so exposed, every touch is sharper, more direct. Before, the foreskin muffled things, spread the sensation out. Now, it’s like a laser—intense, precise. And sex… it’s more intimate, closer, like a hand sliding into a perfectly fitting glove. Every movement feels like it’s meant to be, like we’re connected in a way I didn’t know was possible.” I asked if he ever missed it, my heart pounding. He shook his head. “Not for a second. I last longer, I feel more, and it’s just… cleaner. Easier. I didn’t realize how much the foreskin was holding me back until it was gone.”

His words stirred something deep, and I thought about my own experience—how his glans, so prominent now, feels like it’s scratching an itch I didn’t know I had, a deep, primal need that builds like a wildfire, consuming me until my body erupts into a full-body orgasm, every nerve alight, my skin tingling from my scalp to my toes. It’s not just pleasure; it’s a release, a completion that leaves me trembling, my breath ragged, my heart racing like it’s trying to break free. I spoke, my voice trembling with the weight of it. “Jake, I’m 27, and I’ve never had a conversation like this with a guy—not this raw, this real. It feels… right, like a weight’s lifting off my shoulders. I’ve been so scared, so alone, but talking to you, being here—it’s like I can breathe again.” He squeezed my hand, his eyes warm. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

As we lay there, a sudden realization hit me like a bolt: my brother and father are circumcised. How had I never thought to ask my mom about this? She and I have always been close, sharing secrets over tea, laughing over silly things, but it never occurred to me to ask why she chose to circumcise my brother. I felt a flush of embarrassment, almost stupidity, for overlooking something so obvious. She’s been my rock, yet I’ve never probed this part of her story, never considered what it might reveal about the beliefs I’ve held so tightly. I resolved to talk to her, to understand her perspective, to see if it could shed light on the chaos in my heart.

The next day, I went to Mom’s house, my nerves buzzing as I sat across from her at the kitchen table, the familiar scent of her chamomile tea calming my racing pulse. I hesitated, then dove in, my voice soft. “Mom, why did you decide to circumcise [Brother’s Name]?” She blushed, her eyes darting to her teacup, but then she smiled, a mix of embarrassment and warmth. “Oh, honey, that’s a conversation I didn’t expect.” We laughed, the tension easing, and she opened up in a way I hadn’t anticipated—a raw, girl-to-girl talk that felt like peeling back a layer of our relationship.

She admitted, her cheeks still pink, that she’d had several sexual partners before Dad. “I wasn’t always the settled mom you know,” she said, her voice light but honest. “I had my wild days.” She explained that early on, she didn’t think much about circumcision—it was just a cultural norm for some, religious for others, not a big deal. But then she dated a guy who wasn’t circumcised, and it was a nightmare. “I kept getting thrush, UTIs, constant discomfort,” she said, her brow furrowing. “I thought it was me at first, but after we broke up, all those issues vanished. I connected the dots—it was him, his hygiene, the foreskin. It wasn’t his fault, exactly, but it was a problem.” She paused, sipping her tea, then continued. “The guy before your dad, though? He was circumcised, and it was… well, let’s just say it was incredible. Hot, passionate sex, multiple orgasms, the kind that make your toes curl and your head spin. We didn’t date long—it was just physical, not meant to last—but it showed me what was possible.”

Then she met Dad, and everything clicked. “He was circumcised, too, and it was all of that—amazing lover, attentive, passionate—plus love, trust, the whole package. The rest is history.” She leaned forward, her eyes earnest. “I knew before I even met your dad that if I had a son, I’d circumcise him. Not just for health, but for their future partners’ enjoyment. I’d been through enough to know it made a difference—cleaner, easier, better for both people in bed. It felt like the right choice.”

I left that conversation stunned, my heart swelling with a new connectedness to her. Her openness, her honesty—it was like seeing her as a woman, not just my mom, for the first time since our birds-and-bees talk when I was a kid. It felt liberating, like a door had opened between us, letting in light I didn’t know we needed. I was surprised by how candid she was, how she didn’t shy away from the messy, human details of her past. I felt a deep appreciation for her, for sharing a part of herself she could’ve kept hidden.

I recently found a hard disk with some backups that I saved from a girl's internet diary that was popular in the early 00s. This is part 2. Go find #1 for chronological order. ---

Dear Diary,

I’m sitting here in the dim glow of my bedside lamp, the air heavy with the scent of lavender candles I lit to calm my racing heart. My pen scratches against the paper, each stroke feeling like a confession I’m terrified to make. My body is still tingling, a traitor to the convictions I’ve held for years, and my mind is a roiling sea, churning with guilt, desire, and a bone-deep confusion that threatens to tear me apart. I’ve been an intactivist for so long, my voice a blazing torch against circumcision, my heart bleeding for the men robbed of choice, their foreskins stripped away with 20,000 nerve endings—gone, like a piece of their soul. I’ve stood on street corners, my throat raw from chanting, my eyes stinging with tears for boys who’ll never know what they lost. Those facts—those studies—have been my gospel, my anchor in a world I thought I could shape. But now, Diary, I’m unmoored, caught in a riptide of ecstasy and doubt, and I don’t know how to find my way back to shore.

Jake and I have been friends with benefits for months, our connection a deliciously uncomplicated dance of bodies, no strings, just sweat and laughter. His uncircumcised form was a quiet hymn to my beliefs, his skin soft and natural, a living testament to everything I’ve fought for. When he told me he was getting circumcised—some vague medical necessity about infections—my stomach plummeted, a cold dread curling in my gut. I bombarded him with articles, my voice cracking as I begged him to reconsider, my fingers trembling as I sent links to studies about loss of sensation, about violation. It wasn’t just about him; it was about me, about the identity I’ve wrapped myself in like armor. But he went through with it, and I braced for a fracture, for the intimacy we had to crumble, for my beliefs to be proven right in the hollow ache of disappointment.

But last night, Diary, and the nights before it—four times now since that first earth-shattering encounter—have shattered everything I thought I knew. Each time with Jake has been a crescendo, a symphony of sensation that leaves me breathless, my body a canvas painted with pleasure I didn’t know was possible. Last weekend, I crossed a threshold I thought was myth: multiple orgasms, one after another, like waves crashing over a rocky shore, each one fiercer, deeper, pulling me under until I was gasping, my skin flushed, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. It was him—circumcised Jake—his movements precise, his touch electric, the sleek, exposed tip of him gliding with a clarity that felt like it was rewriting my very nerves. My body sang, Diary, a primal, joyous song that drowned out every protest in my mind. It’s screaming that this—this change—is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and for the first time in my life, I’m horny, consumed by a raw, pulsing need that keeps me awake at night, my thoughts drifting to the way he feels, the way my body responds. It’s like those glossy magazines I devoured as a teenager, their stories of wild, transformative sex, are no longer fantasies—they’re my reality, vivid and undeniable, etched into my skin.

But my mind is a warzone, each moment of bliss a dagger to the heart of my past. I’ve built my life on the narrative that circumcision is a theft, a wound that dulls pleasure and betrays autonomy. I’ve marched with signs, my boots pounding pavement, my voice hoarse from shouting. I’ve cried in the dark for men I’ll never meet, their stories fueling my fire. Now, every pulse of pleasure from Jake feels like a betrayal of that woman, that warrior. My body is a traitor, whispering that circumcision might not be the enemy, while my mind screams that I’m abandoning everything I’ve stood for. The guilt is a vise around my chest, squeezing until I can barely breathe. My social circle—my activist friends, my community—knows me as the unyielding voice against circumcision. It’s my badge, my identity. If they knew what I’m feeling, what I’m chasing with Jake, would they turn their backs? Would I lose them? The thought sends my anxiety spiraling, my pulse racing like a trapped bird, my palms clammy as I imagine their judgment, their whispers of betrayal.

Desperate for clarity, I’ve pulled a few trusted girlfriends aside—Lila, Sarah, and Mia—my voice low, my heart hammering as I confessed my confusion and asked about their experiences. I expected hesitation, maybe defensiveness, but instead, their faces softened, their shoulders dropping as if they’d been holding their breath around me for years. Lila spoke first, her eyes bright with relief. “I’ve always preferred circumcised guys,” she said, her voice warm, unguarded. “It’s not just the look—though, God, it’s so sleek, so… sexy, like a sculpture. It feels cleaner, more direct. The good lovers who are circumcised? They’re just better for me, more intense, like there’s nothing in the way.” Sarah nodded, her cheeks flushing. “I never told you because you’re so passionate, but I love how a circumcised penis looks—polished, confident. And the sex? It’s like every touch is amplified, no extra skin dulling it.” Mia, blunt as ever, leaned in. “I’ve had amazing sex with both, but the circumcised guys who know what they’re doing? It’s like they’re playing a different game. It’s precise, raw, like every movement is meant to hit you exactly where you need it.”

Their words were a shockwave, each one cracking the foundation of my beliefs. They weren’t attacking me—they were grateful, their voices light with the freedom to finally speak without fear of my judgment. And that’s when the shame hit, a hot, suffocating wave that burned my throat. I’ve been a terrible friend, Diary. I’ve been so consumed by my cause, so convinced of my truth, that I never truly listened. I’ve preached instead of understood, built walls where I should’ve built bridges. I’ve silenced their experiences because they didn’t fit my narrative, and the regret is a knife twisting in my gut. I should’ve been there, a safe space for their truths, not a judge wielding studies like a gavel.

Their words linger, vivid and haunting. They love the aesthetic of a circumcised penis—its clean lines, its bold simplicity, like a work of art unencumbered by excess. Lila compared it to a sports car, all sleek power and precision, no wasted motion. Sarah talked about hygiene, how she’s never had to worry about discomfort or irritation with circumcised partners, unlike her experiences with uncircumcised men. Mia described the sensation as “unfiltered,” like the difference between a clear signal and static, every touch landing with a clarity that makes her body sing. They all agreed: when a circumcised man is a skilled lover, there’s an edge, a directness that outshines even the best uncircumcised partners they’ve had.

I’m reeling, Diary, caught between the fire in my body and the storm in my mind. My desire for Jake is a living thing, a pulse that keeps me up at night, my skin prickling with the memory of his touch. Those teenage dreams, those magazine stories of earth-shaking sex, are real now, woven into my flesh. But my past—my intactivist heart—is a weight I can’t shake. What if Jake was right, and those studies I clung to were cherry-picked, crafted to fit a narrative? What if circumcision isn’t the universal loss I’ve preached it to be? The thought is a betrayal, not just of my cause but of the woman I’ve been, the one who fought with every breath. And my friends—my activist circle—loom like a shadow. If they knew, would they cast me out? My anxiety is a wildfire, scorching my nerves, leaving me raw and exposed.

I recently found a hard disk with some backups that I saved from a girl's internet diary that was popular in the early 00s. ----

Dear Diary,

My heart is a tangled mess tonight, and my pen feels like it’s carving into my soul as I try to make sense of it all. I’ve built so much of myself around being an intactivist, a voice against circumcision, a defender of bodily autonomy. I’ve clung to the studies, the ones that talk about the 20,000 nerve endings in the foreskin, the gliding mechanism, the way it’s supposed to deepen intimacy for both partners. I’ve carried those facts like a shield, letting them fuel my passion—my marches, my late-night debates, my quiet tears for the men who never got a choice. It’s been my truth, my compass, guiding me through a world I thought I understood. But last night, that compass shattered, and I’m left wandering in a fog of doubt, questioning not just my beliefs but who I am.

Jake and I have been friends with benefits for months, a connection that’s been light, effortless, free of complications. His uncircumcised body was a quiet validation of everything I stood for—not just a preference but a confirmation of the natural design I’ve fought to protect. When he told me he was getting circumcised—something about recurrent infections, a doctor’s recommendation—my heart sank into my stomach. I tried to stop him, sent him every study I could find, my voice trembling as I pleaded for him to try anything else. It wasn’t just about him; it was about the principles I’ve woven into my identity. But he went through with it, and I braced myself for loss, for a fracture in what we had, for proof that my activism was right all along.

Last night, though, Diary, everything I thought I knew unraveled. We came together for the first time since his procedure, and my body… it was like it had been waiting for this moment my entire life. I had my first vaginal-only orgasm, a surge of pleasure so raw, so overwhelming, it felt like my soul was breaking open. No external stimulation, no effort—just him, just us, and a climax that left me shaking, breathless, on the verge of tears. It was the best sex I’ve ever had, and as I lay there, my body still alive with aftershocks, my mind was screaming. How could this be? How could this—the absence of what I’ve spent years defending—feel so complete, so right?

This morning, over coffee, I couldn’t keep it inside. My heart was a storm of guilt and confusion, my hands trembling around my mug as I looked at Jake, searching his face for answers I was terrified to hear. “Last night,” I said, my voice barely holding together, “it was… beyond anything for me. But for you… it can’t have been as good, right? You’ve lost so much. The foreskin—it’s supposed to be the key to pleasure. All those nerves…” My words trailed off, a desperate plea for him to affirm what I’ve always believed.

He looked at me, his eyes soft but steady, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You want the truth?” he said. “It’s better now. Way better. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like everything’s sharper, more intense. I feel more, not less. And I’m lasting longer, which, you know…” He smirked, and my world tilted. I pressed him, my voice breaking. “But the science, Jake—the foreskin is supposed to make it better. You’re supposed to feel less.” He shrugged, his gaze unwavering. “Maybe those studies aren’t the whole story. Maybe they cherry-picked the data to push a narrative. All I know is what I feel. And I feel incredible.”

Diary, his words hit me like a wave, pulling me under. I’ve built my life on those studies, those carefully curated facts that told me circumcision was a wound, a theft of sensation. I’ve held them up as truth, let them shape my voice, my purpose. But Jake’s certainty—his calm, unshakable claim that he feels more—has cracked something deep inside me. And my own body… it’s complicit in this betrayal. That orgasm wasn’t just a moment of pleasure; it was a mirror, forcing me to confront a reality I’ve spent years denying. How could this—circumcised Jake—be better than before? How could he feel more when everything I’ve read, everything I’ve believed, says he should feel less?

I’m lost in a labyrinth of my own convictions, each turn leading me deeper into doubt. Have I been clinging to a narrative that’s only half-true? Have I let my passion blind me to the complexity of human experience? The thought feels like a betrayal—not just of my cause but of the woman I’ve been, the one who’s marched with signs, argued until her voice gave out, cried for strangers who never knew they’d lost something. If Jake’s experience is real, if those studies I’ve leaned on were skewed to fit an agenda, what does that mean for everything I’ve stood for? And yet, there’s a part of me—quiet, tentative, but undeniable—that wants to feel it again, to see if last night was a fluke or a truth I have to face.

I’m standing at the edge of myself, staring into a void of uncertainty. I’m angry—at the studies that might have misled me, at Jake for being so damn content, at my own body for reveling in something I’ve fought against. I’m scared, too, that I’ve been wrong, or at least not entirely right. I need to sit with this, to dig deeper, to talk to others who’ve been through it. I need to find a way to reconcile the woman who believed so fiercely with the woman who melted under Jake’s touch last night. They feel like strangers, and yet they’re both me.

This is an extract from a book in which the author writes about an experience as a journal entry, which forms a chapter. I wrote this out from the book about 10 years ago, thought I had lost it and found it on an old hard drive backup. The book was a coming-of-age novel from an Irish author. I can't remember the name or the author, but I will update when I find it.

Dear Journal,

I’m sprawled on my bed, the faint rustle of my cotton sheets against my skin a quiet echo of the raw, intimate wildfire that consumed me last night. My body still hums, every nerve etched with the tender, electric memory of him. My hand trembles as I write, desperate to hold onto the fragile, heart-pounding beauty of it all—a night that peeled back my layers, left me vulnerable, and made me feel more cherished, more home, than I ever thought possible. Last night wasn’t just passion; it was a surrender to connection, to being seen in all my messy, human truth, and this morning brought a new layer of trust that has my heart racing.

Sarah’s party was a sensory storm: the air thick with the sharp sting of spilled beer, the cloying sweetness of fruity cocktails, and the warm, primal musk of bodies packed into her cramped apartment. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling cast a soft, amber glow, glinting off sticky bottles and scattered cups. The bass of the music pulsed through the floor, sinking into my bones, and I was swaying to it, a plastic cup of syrupy rosé in my hand, when I saw him. He leaned against the chipped kitchen counter, dark curls falling into his eyes, his hazel gaze catching the light with a warmth that stole my breath. His smile was slow, intimate, like a secret woven just for me. When he caught me staring and grinned, my chest tightened, a quiet spark of longing igniting deep in my core.

We started talking, his voice a low, velvety hum that felt like it belonged only to me, cutting through the party’s chaos. He smelled of cedarwood cologne, crisp and grounding, with a faint, earthy undertone like rain-soaked earth. Our laughter mingled with the clink of glasses, our stories spilling out as if we’d always known each other. When he asked me to dance, his hand outstretched, his fingers warm and slightly calloused, I felt a pull I couldn’t resist. The dance floor was a humid crush, the air heavy with sweat and perfume, but his touch was my anchor. His hands rested on my hips, gentle yet sure through the thin silk of my dress, guiding me to the sultry rhythm of a song that faded into the background. My skin tingled under his fingers, my pulse a frantic flutter as our bodies pressed closer, his breath a warm caress against my temple. We drank more—wine that tasted of ripe blackberries and reckless courage—until the room softened, my senses sharpened to every glance, every brush of his skin.

When he leaned in, his lips grazing my ear, and whispered, “Wanna get out of here?” it wasn’t just desire that answered—it was a need to be closer, to unravel him as he was unraveling me. The walk to his place was a blur of cool night air biting my cheeks, the distant drone of the city, and his hand in mine, his thumb tracing soft circles over my knuckles. His apartment smelled of fresh laundry and sandalwood, the dim glow of a single lamp casting warm, intimate shadows across the walls. The door clicked shut, and his lips found mine—plush, warm, tasting of wine and a faint trace of spearmint. His kisses were slow, reverent, each one a quiet invitation to trust. We stumbled to his couch, my dress riding up, his hands gliding along my thighs, their warmth a promise that made my breath catch.

My usual walls—those sharp, familiar voices that pick apart my soft curves, the stretch marks on my hips, the way my body doesn’t match some airbrushed ideal—melted under his touch. He peeled my dress off, his fingers grazing my skin with a tenderness that felt like worship, and I let myself be seen, truly seen. His lips traced my neck, warm and deliberate, lingering at the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered. His breath was a soft gust against my collarbone, then lower, kissing the swell of my breasts, his tongue flicking lightly until I shivered, my heart laid bare. His hands explored me—caressing, teasing, slipping between my thighs with a care that made my core throb with more than lust. It was trust, raw and unspoken. The air was thick with the musky scent of my arousal, the faint creak of the couch beneath us, and the sound of my own breath, ragged and open. He edged me along, his fingers circling, pressing, until my hips arched, every nerve alight with a need that threatened to undo me.

He led me to his bed, the sheets cool and crisp against my flushed skin, smelling faintly of lavender and clean cotton. He lay back, his chest rising and falling, and with a soft, unguarded smile, he asked me to ride him. Cowgirl. My heart stuttered, vulnerability crashing over me—me, on top? My body exposed, my imperfections in full view? The stretch marks, the jiggle of my thighs, the way my breasts would sway? But his hands steadied my hips, his voice a low, reverent whisper, “You’re so beautiful, I need to see you.” His eyes held mine, dark with desire but soft with something deeper, and I let myself trust him. I climbed over him, my breath shaky, my heart open, and as I sank down, the sensation was overwhelming. He filled me completely, his cock thick, warm, stretching me in a way that made my entire body sing. The slick heat of our bodies, the faint wet sounds as I moved—it was a shared intimacy, a moment of surrender.

I started slow, my hips rocking, the friction sending waves of pleasure through me. His hands gripped my thighs, fingers pressing just enough to anchor me, his groans a low, vulnerable hum that echoed my own. The room smelled of sweat and sex, the mattress creaking softly beneath us. I found a rhythm, my body moving with a courage born of his gaze, his touch. Every thrust hit a spot that made my breath catch, his cock feeling like it was crafted for me, every angle a revelation. My moans were raw, unguarded, mingling with his ragged breaths. The pleasure built, a tight, white-hot coil in my core, and when it snapped, my orgasm was cataclysmic. It roared through me, a tidal wave of ecstasy that tore a cry from my throat. My body shuddered, my nails digging into his chest, my heart bared in the intensity of it.

He kept moving, his hands guiding my hips, the overstimulation a tender torment. My skin was hypersensitive, every touch a spark, but I didn’t want to stop—our connection felt too precious. The wet rhythm of our bodies, the heat of his skin, the way his eyes never left mine—it pushed me over again. A second climax surged through me, fiercer, my body trembling as I cried out, collapsing beside him, my limbs heavy, my lungs burning. Sweat plastered my hair to my neck, my chest heaving, the air thick with our mingled scents—salt, musk, and the raw intimacy of us.

I reached for him, my fingers wrapping around his cock, still hard and slick with me. It pulsed in my hand, warm and velvet-smooth, the head glistening with our combined arousal. I stroked him, slow at first, then faster, the slick sounds blending with his low moans. His face tightened, his breath hitching, and then he came, his release spurting across his chest in hot, creamy arcs, glinting in the low light. The sight, the sound of his ragged groan, was a shared vulnerability, a moment as raw as my own.

We lay there, panting, the air heavy with the musky aftermath, our bodies slick with sweat. Then he took my hand, his fingers lacing through mine, and led me to the shower. The water was a warm, steaming cascade, hissing as it hit the tiles, the air filling with the clean, cedarwood scent of his soap. We stood under the spray, his arms wrapping around me, my cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat a steady thump against my ear. His skin was slick, the water weaving between us, pooling at our feet in a soft gurgle. His hands slid over my back, tracing gentle circles, the warmth of the water cocooning us in a fragile, intimate quiet. It was as if we’d bared our souls, not just our bodies, and the tenderness of it made my chest ache.

Lost in the haze, my eyes drifted downward, and I noticed the head of his penis, fully exposed, glistening under the shower’s flow. The water beaded on its smooth, flushed tip, catching the dim light, the delicate ridge still swollen from our passion, a faint pulse visible beneath the taut, sleek skin. It was striking—sleek, defined, the head so prominent, almost sculpted in its clarity. My mind replayed the way it had felt inside me, the perfect curve, the warmth, the way it had coaxed my body to heights I’d never known. I must have been staring too long, lost in the erotic pull of it, because his voice broke through, soft and concerned, “Hey, you okay?” My heart lurched, heat flooding my face as I realized I’d been caught. My cheeks burned, a scarlet flush creeping down my neck, vulnerability crashing over me like a wave. Mortified, I stammered, the words spilling out before I could stop them, “I—I was just… looking at your dick, thinking about it.” The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, and I wanted to vanish. My throat tightened, my breath coming in shallow gasps as embarrassment choked me, a panic attack clawing at my chest. My vision tunneled, my wet feet slipping slightly on the tiles as I turned to flee.

But his hands were on my shoulders, gentle but firm, turning me back to face him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice a low, soothing balm, his eyes soft with understanding. His thumbs brushed my arms, grounding me, his touch a quiet reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m flattered, really.” He smiled, that same warm, disarming grin from the party, and pulled me closer, the water streaming over us. My heart was still racing, my vulnerability laid bare, and in a shaky whisper, I asked, “I just… why’s it so… exposed? What’s that like?” My voice trembled, half-curious, half-mortified, as I gestured faintly toward his cock, the head so prominent, glistening under the water, the skin tight and smooth, leaving nothing hidden.

He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Wait, you don’t know?” His tone wasn’t mocking, just genuinely curious, and I felt a pang of naivety, my cheeks burning hotter. Before I could spiral, he squeezed my shoulders, his voice softening. “It’s okay, really. I’m tightly circumcised, that’s all. The foreskin’s completely removed, so the head’s always out, like this.” He gestured briefly, his ease making the moment feel less clinical, more intimate. “I got it done as a teenager—my foreskin was too tight, caused a lot of pain, made things… difficult.” He paused, his eyes searching mine, letting me see his own vulnerability. “Getting circumcised changed everything. No more pain, no more discomfort. I love how it feels now—more sensitive, more… free. And honestly? I love how it looks. It’s made me so much more confident.” His openness, the way he shared something so personal without hesitation, dissolved my embarrassment. I felt seen, not judged, my naivety a bridge rather than a barrier. “You don’t need to know everything,” he added, his thumb brushing my lower lip, the gesture so tender it made my heart ache. “I’m just glad you’re curious.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling with affection, and pulled me closer. “Breathe with me, alright?” He took slow, deep breaths, his chest rising and falling against mine, guiding me until my racing pulse slowed, the tightness in my chest easing. His arms held me, steady and safe, as the steam curled around us like a protective veil.

We stepped out of the shower, the air cool against our damp skin, and he handed me a soft, oversized towel, his fingers brushing mine in a way that felt like a promise. He slipped into a pair of loose bed shorts, and I pulled on one of his t-shirts, the fabric soft and smelling faintly of him—cedarwood and warmth. We moved to the living room, sinking onto his plush, worn-in sofa, the cushions molding to our bodies. He flicked on the TV, some late-night sitcom humming in the background, the soft glow of the screen casting flickering shadows across the room. I curled up beside him, my head resting in his lap, his thighs warm and solid beneath me. His fingers found my hair, stroking gently, each pass of his hand slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the texture of every strand. The sensation was hypnotic, grounding, a quiet intimacy that felt so natural, so meant to be. My body relaxed, sinking into him, my heart swelling with a contentment I hadn’t known I could feel.

Every so often, as I shifted slightly, my eyes caught a glimpse of his bed shorts, the loose fabric shifting to reveal the exposed head of his penis, still prominent, still striking. The smooth, flushed tip peeked out, catching the dim light, its sleek clarity a quiet reminder of our passion. My heart raced each time, a flutter of heat pooling in my core as my mind spiraled back to how it had felt—the perfect curve, the warmth, the way it had filled me so completely. It was beautiful, confident, unapologetic, and my thoughts couldn’t help but linger, whispering how good it looked, how it seemed to beckon me even now. Each glance sent a shiver through me, my pulse quickening, my cheeks warming with a mix of desire and shy awe. The words danced in my mind, bold and unfiltered, as if my heart was shouting what my lips wouldn’t.

As the sitcom’s credits rolled, my mind still tethered to the image of his cock, I couldn’t resist. My fingers, trembling with a mix of boldness and reverence, gently moved his bed shorts aside. I leaned down, my lips brushing the smooth, flushed tip of his beautiful cock, a soft kiss that felt like a confession of my obsession. Within seconds, it was bulging, swelling against the fabric, the head even more defined, throbbing with life. I caressed it with my tongue, slow and deliberate, tasting the clean, warm saltiness of him, my mouth enveloping the sensitive ridge, my hands stroking the shaft with a gentle rhythm. He gasped, his body tensing, and then his hand touched my shoulder, his voice soft but urgent. “Wait… I don’t have the skin movement of a foreskin,” he said, his tone guiding rather than correcting. “Focus here, on the head—it’s more sensitive.” He guided my hand, showing me how to circle the tip, to glide over the taut skin, and I followed, eager to please him, to feel him respond.

His cock swelled further, throbbing under my touch, the head glistening, his balls tightening as his breath grew ragged. His body shuddered, a low, primal moan escaping as his warm cum spewed into my mouth, each squirt a pulse of heat, his hips jerking with the intensity. The taste was fresh, clean, almost sweet—not the bitter, acrid tang I’d known from others, but something pure, vital. I swallowed it whole, something I’d never done, never even wanted to, but it felt natural, instinctive, like it was supposed to be that way. My heart raced, my body humming with the intimacy of it, the raw connection of tasting him so completely.

When I lifted my head, he was reaching for a tissue box on the side table, his movements automatic, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and surprise. Then he froze, realizing I’d swallowed, his expression almost comical, like his eyes might pop out of his head. I laughed, a nervous, giddy sound, and before I could overthink it, I blurted, “You’re the first guy whose cum didn’t taste like mouldy cheese.” My cheeks burned, but I wanted to comfort him, to ease his shock with honesty. He burst out laughing, the sound warm and unguarded. “No cheese when there’s no foreskin,” he said, his eyes crinkling with mischief, and we both dissolved into laughter, the moment lightening the intensity, binding us closer. In my head, I was reeling—why isn’t everyone circumcised? This was a revelation, a night that rewrote everything I thought I knew about desire, about connection.

We moved to his bed, undressing slowly, our hands lingering on each other’s warm skin, tracing curves and contours like we were memorizing every inch. We slid under the sheets, our bodies entwining in a naked embrace, his chest pressed to my back, his breath soft against my neck. The lavender scent of the sheets mingled with the faint musk of our bodies, and as we drifted off, I felt safe, cherished, like our bodies were made to fit this way.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through the window, golden beams spilling across the bed, warming my skin. The intensity of last night flooded back—every touch, every taste, every vulnerable moment. I was still in his bed, still wrapped in his naked embrace, his arm draped over my waist, his breath slow and steady against my shoulder. My mind churned, replaying the night, the way he’d seen me, held me, made me feel like I was enough. But a quiet question lingered—would he want to see me again? Was this a fling, a perfect, fleeting moment, or could it be more?

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and flashed that warm, sleepy smile that made my heart flutter. He kissed my forehead, a soft, lingering press of his lips, and murmured, “Morning, beautiful.” Then he was up, pulling on a pair of boxers, and headed to the kitchen. The air soon filled with the rich aroma of sizzling bacon, the buttery scent of pancakes, and the sharp, comforting smell of fresh coffee. He moved with ease, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand, the clatter of pans and the hiss of the stove a cozy backdrop. He served me a plate piled high—golden pancakes drizzled with syrup, crispy bacon, and a mug of coffee that warmed my hands. It was amazing, each bite a burst of flavor, the kind of breakfast that felt like love in tangible form. We ate at his small kitchen table, our knees brushing under it, our laughter soft and easy as we swapped silly stories.

Before he left, he grabbed his phone, and we exchanged numbers, his fingers brushing mine as he typed my name with a smile. “I’ve got class,” he said, slinging a backpack over his shoulder. “Stay as long as you like, okay? Just lock up when you leave.” He kissed me, quick but warm, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I stood there, stunned, my mind racing. He’d left me alone in his apartment? The trust, the casual confidence in me—it was shocking, exhilarating, and a little overwhelming. I wandered his living room, touching the worn sofa, the stack of books on his coffee table, feeling like I’d been handed a piece of his world.

I grabbed my phone and called Jodie, my best friend, my voice already bubbling with the need to spill everything. “Jodie, you won’t believe last night,” I started, and then it all poured out—a monologue of every vivid detail. The party, his smile, the dance, the way his hands felt, the way he made me feel safe, desired, alive. I told her about the bed, the cowgirl position, the two orgasms that shattered me, the shower, my awkward staring, his gentle explanation about being tightly circumcised. I described the sofa, the sitcom, the way I couldn’t stop thinking about his cock, the way I kissed it, tasted him, swallowed him whole. Jodie listened patiently, her occasional gasps and giggles egging me on, letting me relive every moment through the telling.

As I wound down, I paused, my voice dropping. “Jodie… do you know what circumcision is?” She burst out laughing, her voice crackling through the phone, excited and incredulous. “Girl, have you been living under a rock? It’s what porn stars do to their dicks to make them better performers—cleaner, more sensitive, looks hot as hell.” I blushed, my naivety laid bare again, and asked, “Have you ever been with a guy who’s circumcised?” She snorted, her Cork accent thick with emphasis. “Nobody in County Cork is circumcised, love. It’s like finding a unicorn around here.” We laughed, and the conversation stretched for an hour, me pacing his apartment, her voice a comforting tether as I processed the whirlwind of the night. I felt giddy, enlightened, like I’d stumbled into a secret world.