Tag Archives: Sex

Infant Circumcision is Child Abuse

09 Wednesday Sep 2020

Posted by in Circumcision, Health, Intactivism, Men's Health, Poetic Blog

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Mad1

-by Bill Watkins 9/9/2020

***

I was reading Jay J. Jackson’s new book, Circumcision Scar (Hookona Books 2020), and it occurred to me I related to the author in ways I wish I did not.  In Chapter Two, Jay discusses his “Circumcision Awakening” at age twenty, when with his first intimate partner he realized what had happened to him against his will as a baby…

“My boyfriend said that he’d run into this issue before…”

They were talking about Jay’s apparent erectile dysfunction, coming to the fore at the same time he was learning for once the reason his penis was different than his uncircumcised father’s and his uncircumcised boyfriend’s.  That boyfriend attributed Jay’s “inability to perform” to “having no foreskin,”  then went on to explain, according to Jay, that his “glans [penis head] had been desensitized over time through the day to day friction it was exposed to…”

All of which ringing a sad, loud bell within myself as a victim and survivor of unconsenting genital mutilation when I was a baby.  I was reminded of a girlfriend telling me once that I was the first circumcised man she had been with, and also that I was the first man she had made love to who didn’t hold an erection for the entirety of love-making from first arousal to orgasm.

Like Jay I was an athlete growing up and exposed to much movement and friction “down there.”  And unfortunately, like Jay, I had trouble with sex, love, and found my way into a dark, unmanageable depression including prevalent suicidal thoughts—and eventually two drug overdoses.  Throw in drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap young, then with friends by twelve years old, blacking out on the substance by thirteen, and you have a good picture. 

The start of recovery at Betty Ford Center, four years of Al-Anon twelve step work, then admission of my alcoholism and my last conscious drink of that substance on March 6th, 2002—and you have a better picture.  Recovery didn’t give me instant success at love, and I was a virgin until thirty-three years of age, seven shy of that Steve Carell comedy on the subject!  A total mess, for me starting with the first abuse:

The violent removal of a body part obviously and firmly attached to my penis, obviously and firmly for a reason—whether you lean toward Darwin or God’s evolution of our species.  The penis foreskin isn’t falling off, barely there, or needing detachment from Mom like the umbilical chord.  It’s there to protect, lubricate, cover and help the penis do its job over our lifespans, praise God (or Darwin) for the miracle of our natural advantages!

But not for me.  Not for Jay.  Not for about forty percent of the world’s men, according to the National Center for Biotechnology (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4772313/).  Who or what is leading this mass, bloody exodus of protective penis skin?  Jews?  Muslims?  Christian doctors with Jewish/Old Testament bible sympathies?  Confusion itself?  The Devil?  I’m laughing now, which is better than crying in my girlfriend’s lap.  The world’s women might wonder why their man can’t keep it hard for them…

The world’s women and inquiring men too, might wonder:  Why is Viagra so popular?  Why all the surging erectile dysfunction and medication to supposedly handle the issue?  Well, I’m for logic and for simplest solutions…  Perhaps it’s time to point out the very obvious problem rolled up at the end of our noses, in front of all our often shy faces:  God or Evolution put a protective covering over the sensitive tip of male genitalia – with the female stuff our great baby-maker, and even a really fun time if used properly!

Maybe we should leave the foreskin where it is until a boy becomes a man of consenting age.  If that young man wants to join a religion and carving off part of the penis is part of the joining—so be it.  Until then, join me in denouncing unconsenting genital mutilation as a human rights violation.  Join me in questioning an ancient but questionable practice that has circumcised men with the courage to speak speaking.  Regretting.  Hoping for change, if not for us, for the next generation!

(Circumcision and Erectile Dysfunction Survey: https://es.surveymonkey.com/r/353NNX9)

The Crack

18 Saturday Aug 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexy

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The beginning is the end, the
behind in front until all we have
in our mind is a poke in the butt.

It doesn’t matter, the skin and
prose before God, life and heaven
knows the fantasy can be better

than the real thing, g-strings,
blocking out all but a perfectly
composed rear, we all pause to

take in the glory of that which
got us here.  We can rise above
the instinct to love, but would we

ever want to submerge in anything
not on the verge, the creative urge,
the song called death that life needs

to truly purge, the end the beginning
as covered, take it off, show me the
thing I know but forget, the thing that

ties me in knots, dictates movement
and makes you wet, slippery to get,
sunshine in the crack like a jungle

for cat on cat, wild that, this on
and off punch through the page victory
of clouds over rain, smiling again

like a batman punch, “Wow” and
“Zam” in quotes, seventies colors and
sixties ‘do’s, eighties synthesizers and

fu manchu’s, underage drinking
bar-b-ques, nothing new, drinking
a flammable liquid, calling it “what

others do?”  We come back, though,
we come back to the darkest place,
the beginning, the inspiration for songs,

dreams and late night phone calls,
as God the creator created, we come back
to that which keeps us creating, curling

and whirling in a never-ending story of
humans populating a moon of the sun
called earth, we come back to the crack.

I love it.

I’m a Pussy? Thanks!

28 Saturday Jul 2018

Posted by in Earth, Native, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We grow up cursing, when
we don’t know another way,
many of us so far from the land
God gave our people, disenfranchised,

lost, discombobulated by years
of concrete, asphalt, sirens and
the worst invention by man to
date:

Helicopters.

***

The native, the first people, the
“pagan” was one with the land
and sea, never cursed—for why
curse, when all of life is a part
of you and what you do, no
separation, gratitude so natural
because the cycle is endless hope,
story and adventure, a tie between
you and all the generations?

But I walk L.A. today, walk over
and by the trash, the litter, under
the thunder of metal fueled by
the earth we try to master, not
honor.

But I walk L.A. today, the big city,
civilization with indeed some decent
plumbing, I guess; harnessed power
giving us light when we want,
electronics on which I write tonight.

But as I walk, they curse at me—
little boys becoming men by the
train station, calling me a “pussy”
because I called the police.

Me saying “thanks,” because pussy
is good.  Our moms, sisters, and
women good and essential, our
body parts essential—especially glorious
and wonderful the reproductive
organs.

***

There are no curse words in Native
American language.

The Power of Lo—Sex

13 Wednesday Jun 2018

Posted by in Earth, Higher Power, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sex

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Jesus.

That’s the word certain nerds
use to calm down, back up, and
think, they do it with tone, sometimes

represented in writing with italics.

Thank God for spit, it keeps coming,
the male sex instinct is X, the women’s
is Y, why we’re off sometimes because
X is cross and Y is open and vice versa,

then one day the bomb explodes!

You cannot control Sex.

I imagine the eunuch tries, but
sperms game to swim swim a wild
ride!

God, or Life, or Nature—or whatever
power you observe as King—made the
thing go and go and go without relenting!

Sex is like the universe itself, kind of
unknown, stark one moment, pounding
the next, black holes explored the
crevasse of stink, the stank thing you
thought by holding back, comes back like
an avalanche a day later, or in the

middle of the night, holding tight, you

cannot stop the flood, the bursting
of the dyke.

***

Few!  Few are those who can manage
the power, the pulse, the growth,
the manufacturing of eggs and life
forever spinning like the planets
around far off suns, mirroring ours
in a game of loss and won.

Truth is as truth does, and so at
break of day—play!

Then we head with conviction, we
hope to a setting arc, words and
images, sounds and sweat abound

until it stops.

If we were true to our five senses
we get a sixth, peace of mind
finding us at the end of long, well-
lived, singing rhyme.

Doesn’t mean we can make our
bodies stop, they keep going and
going, the energizer god of sex
not a bunny per se, but then again

they boink a lot, or so they always
say.

To Throw a Stone

31 Thursday May 2018

Posted by in Gospel, Jesus, Jesus said, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Religion, Sex

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It’s easy to judge.  It feels
good for a while, to size someone
up and find them wanting—
You see a flaw and flick it at them

To maximize damage, thereby
increasing the rush you feel, a cop
you steal, imbibing holier than
thou spirit, then…

You call a friend.  “Hey, look
at what so and so just did, said—
is or was!  Isn’t he or she a scandal,
where are the rocks?”

The what?

Let’s throw some rocks at him!!
Yeah!  Yeah!!

Throw rocks!

Wait, we don’t have any and I
can’t see you, this is a computer or
phone, everything’s online!!

“It doesn’t matter.  Tweet at him,
retweet ugly things, put downs and
all the ways you are better than him.”

#MeToo is truth and good, but
let’s stop short of throwing stones.

***

Sexual impropriety and crimes are
bad, but let’s stop short of throwing
stones!

Unless…

Unless ye, without sin, should you
want to step up, cast a big rock with
all the sin that you are not—

Go ahead.

Waiting…

***

No human without sin, it’s a long
wait, so let’s save it, breathe deep
and pray good thoughts for the sick
person who had a bad sex day.

Do unto others, as you would have
them do to you.

Do you want your mistakes shoved
in your face?

Or would you prefer everyone to
stay in their own lanes, try to
improve ourselves—

The judgement of others breaking
the eleventh commandment showing
no shame.

Man Hate

30 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Relationships, Resentment, Sex, Sexism, Women

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I didn’t hurt you, it wasn’t me.

Somehow, it’s lost on the resentful
the current circumstance, all a dance
of holding on or letting go.

We cannot let go until we admit
the problem, accept it, and take
an appropriate action based on
whatever code of morality or
ethics that tickles you peaceful.

***

I did not hurt you, specifically, I tell
her online.

I hurt me and about 15 girls growing
up because I failed to tell them
I loved them.

Too scared.  Too proud, I hurt them
and me at the same time—

it was an alcoholic thing.

Freud said drunks can’t express love,
and, well—I’m a drunk.

But it wasn’t me, I wasn’t the one
who made you specifically mad,
and yet I feel like I did—my point of
view, my quoting the bible,
which you call misogynistic.

Yikes, I have a lot to learn, you
know there’s always another side
of something—

But it wasn’t me, I mean—even if
I used the offending bible phrase,
my intention was good, not bad.

My stuff hangs down, makes sperm,
it’s a wild show of swirl and girls
in the head, trying to manage sex
with mutilated genital parts from
an operation I did not consent to
called “circumcision.”

Abused at birth, then growing up
with no talks on love, but plenty
of alcohol drinking and sports.

But I do not blame you for this;
you are a woman online, we hardly
know each other, but I’m sure if
patient, we would find we were
both fallible human beings, trying
to get along on this side of the dirt
before the stars and God conspire
with age to take us away, bodies
useless as our spirit soars forever.

Celibacy

21 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sexuality

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Some of them like to say “it
can’t be done!”  The body produces
something, there’s an instinct—
it’s gonna find a way to come out!

Men are in the spotlight of late—
“abusing women with our abuse,”
Power trips, there’s no excuse!
I wonder if we went a little deep—

We could bridge the gap between
what we know and what we Tweet.
Where is the factory putting out
healthy little boys?  Let’s please Teach!

Some feel the penis is not born right;
snip off foreskin, snipping off protection.
God and nature flawed?  We’re going
to “fix” the gun, taking off its safety?

The hood gone, the helmet exposed,
now let’s wish instead of will the boy
through sex education, neglect the
Bible talking Wife of Youth—

Follow Mom and Dad’s example of
what’s easy, convenient, and if it
comes to the surface—let it go.  Wide
is destruction’s path, many don’t know…

God is waiting for our prayer, but
often in vain as we pull this adjusted
tool out, after years of repression and
alcohol consumed, whip it out inappropriate

in the face of workmates and clients,
we cannot have a female friendship without
instincts to mate—ones we do not stop
nor know it’s possible to stop!

Stop!

I gave up sex three months ago.  Then
failed to follow through, relapsed a couple
times but am back on the horse of zipping
it up in honor of the Wife of My Youth and God.

I pray in the morning.  Say No all day.  Pray
at night, saying thanks, and saving the sex
release for One Person and One Person
only!  In my case, she is far away, a woman

who was a beautiful girl in my past…
My first crush, the wife of my youth!  We
teach our boys to laugh these off, then they
go on to another flower, another girl.

Then another.  Then another.  Then another…

The bad habits add up.  With unprotected
private parts, the boy becomes someday a
man without instruction.  He abuses women;
he pays society back for being abused.

Love in a Greyhound Bus

06 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Explicit, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

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I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.

Whew!

Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!

Her Lips are Sealed

21 Saturday Oct 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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What causes the false start,
the gunk to get caught in a pipe
before the truth sledges out—

is the same force, call it “fear,”
afflicting the alcoholic, sipping
sadly alone on his beer.

The hefty bear, wandering around
pure as snow, collecting food for
the winter before time to go…

Hibernation is not just the dream of
the hairy beast; we hide behind the
rocks of safety when called to

tell our controversial truth.  Because
we were judged or abused once, we
are twice shy, and over time we inch

back, back, then far enough back to
turn a fuzzy science project out of
your favorite pie, a prayer to the sky—

Freud in fact said that we drink flammable
liquid for our failure to honestly express
love.  Sex can be scary; intimacy so tender

and again, bring in a past abuse or rejection
and complicated is the issue to the level
of dysfunction.  We lie to protect ourselves;

We shy and seal lips to protect, and that
process has a course.  It ends when we
can with God, Good Orderly Direction, or

Some sort of Power greater than us Forgive
a hurt and learn to trust again.  We must
at some point “out” ourselves, “so why not

now” I may ask a shy one I love. But she
needs time; the flower is not physically
closed—but emotionally and/or mentally

there may be a block.  Sometimes formidable,
but with faith whole mountains can be
moved from there to here, this belief is real—

Recovery comes to those willing to be honest
and heal, “what’s the deal,” well the thing
hinges on Open minds and willingness after

you are willing to trust, let someone in,
and peel back your dress.  God is with
the first feeling, wants us to be honest about

it, but I’ll wait for you to find courage in
the walk toward Truth.  A walk that cannot
be made without the Wife of my Youth.

First wife is last, there is no other; when you
find her, it’s like the day you found God…

There is no other.

She Wiped a Pleasure Tear

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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She had lost her husband.

Shot and killed, the streets of
L.A. between the trash and spray.

She had gained a friend, I checked on
her every day, whenever I shopped,
and my legs brought me by her place.

I gave her flowers.  A card.  Brought a
plant for her mother-in-law, the victim’s
mother, who lived above her.

She was in her thirties, me in my
forties, me not looking for love—I had
just given up extra-marital sex of any
kind!

But heat started to play.  Her vulnerability,
my eagerness to comfort her, her fake
blonde mane—soft to my hard in L.A.
between the trash and the spray.

I told her she was attractive many times,
kissed her hair.

I hugged and she hugged back.  We held
a moment, parted but marks were left
behind like what waves do to shores,
there was a mounting vibe.

Physicality supplied.  I’d cover up if I
was modest.  I have in an honest, funny
mood brought attention to arousal, but
this time prayed about it, decided to
ignore.

She smiled at me, took off the towel
guarding her wet hair, recently showered.

She faced me, and I her.  And there was
no pretense minus need.  We were in love
without the words, but to be sure I told
her “I love you”—

as I kissed her hair again in dusty L.A.
between the trash and the spray!

It all left a tear drop she could not ignore
like my enlargement, so to be sure
not to burst and show, she took her shirt,

tucked it down to wipe the tear.

Sexuality and mourning do not fully
belong together, and so we are patient
for the year to help us transition, get jobs
and financial security, an engagement ring

and a place to propose.

But the feelings are there to start, me almost
regretting I didn’t ask her for her shirt, but
smiling ideas days later are the futile fuel
of lacking frowns, I am glad for what we had

and have, am sorry for her loss.

Excited for our potential gain, with who
knows, perhaps another year of honest
rain, rainbows, truth and innocent touches
leading to spiritual growth and pleasure
tears.

Children, all of us, reeling in the years…