I refuse to be circumcised as an adult but my penis condition makes sex painful

Welcome to How I Do It, the series in which we give you a seven-day sneak peek into the sex life of a stranger.

This week we hear from Dylan* a queer 27-year-old working in the charity sector, who has a complicated relationship with sex.

He has a condition called phimosis, which is where the foreskin of the penis is too tight.

‘This means things can get painful if the skin gets stretched – like when I get an erection, for instance,’ Dylan explains.

In spite of this, he still has sex about three times a week on average with his girlfriend Pippa*.

‘My condition caused a lot of psychological distress in my teens,’ he explains.

‘The culture of silence around men’s bodies and vulnerabilities meant that I thought I was the only man in the world with this condition.’

When Dylan and Pippa first got together, it took them around three months to have penetrative sex because he found it so painful.

‘It had also been too long since I’d last f**ked and I was too terrified,’ he says.

‘I have much better sex now I now know what works and what doesn’t, and I have a loving, trusting, understanding partner. It makes a huge difference, but the memories of past events still haunt me from time to time.’

Without further ado, here’s how Dylan got on this week…

The following sex diary is, as you might imagine, not safe for work.

Monday

There are some weeks when Pippa and I don’t have any sex, and there are some weeks when we can’t keep our hands off each other. This week, thankfully, is the latter.

We’re feeling very loving and very horny – and thankfully we get to act on it with relative ease. But for most of my life I didn’t think this would be possible.

I’ve discovered that lots of guys I know have phimosis: a very close friend of mine, my girlfriend’s ex, someone I used to work with. Far from being a one-in-a-million abnormality, it seems to be startlingly common.

But, I remember as an anxious fourteen year old, slowly realising that something was wrong with me and searching the internet in the middle of the night for answers.

On the Wikipedia page for phimosis, the only people I could see who had it were Louis XVI of France (though this has been discredited) and Charles Guiteau, the man who in 1881 assassinated US President James Garfield in what at the time was speculated as ‘phimosis-induced insanity’. Reading this at 2am on a school night, I counted myself as another historical anomaly.

Now, thankfully, sex feels like a normal part of my life together with Pippa. There are inevitable downsides to sexual desire when you’re in a long-term relationship, but one of the undisputed benefits is that sex doesn’t have to be complicated.

We know the mating dance and we do it well, but it’s taken us a long time to get here.

We’ve learnt the positions that work best for my condition and, above all, I have to have sex with a condom. Whilst many men complain about needing to wear a condom, I’m desperate to put one on. Sex without a condom, even with lots of lubricant, can cause a lot of friction and discomfort. 

After we have sex tonight and Pippa is cuddling herself into the nook of my arm, I think back to all the horrible memories.

I remember all the painful sex, all the times I had to stop in the middle, all the times I wanted to stop because it felt like the skin of my penis was about to tear but I was too afraid to say anything, all the times I didn’t pursue love because I was ashamed of my body, all the hours spent looking in the mirror and feeling alone – and I consider myself lucky to be lying in bed with her.

Tuesday

Pippa starts giving me a blowjob and I think how weird it is to be looking at my penis. Weird because, for several years, I didn’t or rather couldn’t, look at myself down there.

As a student, I saw several doctors about my phimosis, none of them making me feel tremendously better. Almost all suggested that circumcision was the best option. The idea of undergoing such a procedure as an adult terrified me then – still does now. The chances of something going wrong completely put me off the idea.

Other than circumcision, doctors prescribed steroid cream. I remember feeling so excited when I picked it up from the pharmacy. I knew it wouldn’t cure the condition completely, but if it would loosen my skin even a little bit and relieve some of the symptoms, I’d count myself the happiest man in the world. Sadly, not only didn’t the cream work, it made things worse.

After applying the cream in my bathroom, the skin of my penis tightened even more, disfiguring it, so much so that I couldn’t even wee. I was terrified it would stay like that, but thankfully the skin returned to its normal state after a day or so. Needless to say, I didn’t reapply. That was a particularly low period – having to walk around like a normal person – while your genitals are defaced in your trousers below.

I didn’t consciously realise, until after a year or so into my relationship with Pippa, that I hadn’t properly looked at my own genitals – the result of what a therapist called body dysmorphia.

Lots of people have phimosis, but not everyone has the same psychological reaction to it. I feel much better about myself these days, the result of several years of therapy and a daily dose of antidepressants which, thankfully, haven’t diminished my capacity for orgasm as they have for so many.

I try not to beat myself up for my past emotions, but that’s not always easy.

The blowjob feels good but not amazing, the result of a lack of sensitivity down there which is one of my condition’s most cruel symptoms. I’m never totally out of my head, which is a clear sign things aren’t going as well as they could be.

I go down on Pippa for a while before we have sex. The pleasure that was missing from the blowjob thankfully comes back.

Wednesday

Pippa and I are both working from the flat today. Usually we’re diligent workers, confining all amorous activity to after-work hours or, if we’re feeling ambitious, a quickie during our lunch break.

But today I feel so in love and grateful to be sharing a home with such a wonderful person that I end up kissing her and, before we know it, we abandon our laptops and are rolling on top of the bed not twenty minutes after our morning meetings.

Having to rely on certain positions and avoiding others means not being able to just ‘go with the flow.’ It’s something I feel guilty about, as if I’m restricting my partner’s enjoyment. But we manage to make it work.

When I return to my desk 48 minutes later, there’s a message from my boss asking where I am. Urgent meeting, I tell him. Couldn’t be put off.

Thursday

Anyone who lives with a cat will be used to having it watch you do everything, including having sex. When we first got our kitten, she would follow us everywhere as she was anxious when left alone.

When we first tried to have sex a few days after bringing her home, I had to stop within a couple of minutes: I found her beautiful, innocent eyes watching our attempts at carnivorous boot-knocking just too distracting.

The next few times I tried to distract her – the cat, that is – by throwing her favourite toys from the bed onto the carpet. She would chase them, but then dutifully return to the bed, her wide eyes beaming into our naked bodies like a searchlight once more.

But, just as I no longer feel embarrassed sitting on the toilet or singing Louis Armstrong in the shower in front of my cat, I can now engage in lovemaking without feeling the need to banish her from the room.

Anyway, she seems far less interested in sex now (again, the cat, not Pippa). So when she jumps up on the bed tonight, instead of staring at us as we attempt to f**k, she simply rests herself on the duvet in a croissant shape and falls asleep as we go at it, trying not to shake the bed too much.

Friday

Pippa is working a night-shift this evening so it’s just me and the cat in the flat, which I think is the name of a Dr Seuss story.

In the evening, I watch several episodes of Euphoria, the HBO drama about beautiful teenagers who seem to have more sex in one year of high school than I’ve had in my entire life.

Growing up, I loved watching films and TV shows about high school kids and college students – almost always American – living out what seemed to be the promise of adulthood: going to parties every night, drinking beer out of red plastic cups, sex sex sex.

As I got to be the age of those characters, now fully aware of my genital deficiency, those films and TV shows that made me so happy started to fill me with anxiety. Were they accurate depictions of other people’s lives? Or were they just fantasies written by people who wished they’d had more sex in high school?

These questions no longer trouble me, and I can now have sex without any pain or discomfort, but I can’t help thinking, as I lay on my sofa watching my third episode of Euphoria in a row that, if I’d watched this programme in 2019 when it premiered (and when I wasn’t having any sex and genuinely thought I might never again), I doubt I’d get past the first ad break without feeling depressed.

Saturday

We had to stop sex today because I couldn’t stop farting.

Sunday

Pippa and I wake up around noon.

I turnover and kiss Pippa gently on her sleeping cheek. Her breath is stinky and she’s sweaty from a long night’s sleep. I nuzzle myself into her warmth.

She twists her body in its half-sleep state into mine so that we’re entwined like a bodily handshake. Our limbs overlap and she strokes the back of my head.

‘What do you want to do today?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ she says.

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