Break the Illusion Blog by Davey Wavey

As a monthly contributor to Australia’s AXN Magazine, I wanted to share this month’s Davey Wavey column with all of you non-Aussies – as it’s a subject that I’ve touched on frequently in this blog, and it’s near and dear to my heart:

You’re from Australia. I’m from the United States. We’re different in many ways—most notably, I don’t have foreskin.

When I was a few hours old, my parents agreed (without seeking my counsel or consent) to have my manhood’s crown and glory snipped away. Yes, I was circumcised.

Being a bit of a traveler, I have developed a debilitating disease known in medical circles as foreskin-envy. The disease is not treatable, and only worsens over time and with experience. Wherever I go around the globe, I see foreskin. It’s everywhere. And I want it—my jealous runs deep. Like a good case of gonorrhea, it even burns.

Sydney, I’m convinced, is a city built on foreskins. The streets are practically paved in it. When I went to my Australian gym for the very first time, I couldn’t believe what I saw in the locker room. There was enough foreskin to feed a starving nation for a year.

America might have freedom and fat people, but Australia has foreskin. Kilometers and kilometers of foreskin—as far as the eye can see.

Some people mutilate their genitals by choice. I say, good for them. Prince Albert piercings immediately come to mind. But for some of us, choices about our most holy of holies are made without our consent. It doesn’t seem fair—and it certainly doesn’t seem right.

I’m not sure what persuaded my parents to put my penis under the knife, but I’ve been told that circumcision became popular in the 1800s as a way to prevent boys from masturbating. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

Nonetheless, the tradition continued. And sometime during the summer of 1983, my foreskin met its fate at the local landfill. I didn’t miss my foreskin at first. But as the years turned into decades, I finally experienced what all the fuss was about. Once I knew what I didn’t know, there was no turning back.

Or was there?

If you cut the arm off of a starfish, it re-grows. My penis doesn’t seem to operate with the same mechanics, but if there is a will, there is a way. As it turns out, you can grow back what the good Lord gave you. In fact, my friend is doing just that. I’m not shitting you; he’s growing a new foreskin.

No surgery is required. All that’s needed is a kinky-looking apparatus that would be at home in some of Oxford Street’s more scandalous shops—next to the paddles and butt plugs. Though I’m unclear of the physics, it seems that the device does a lot of stretching, tugging and pulling over the course of several months.

I’m not sure that it’s worth it. I’d prefer an easier, faster and less painful route.

So, that is why I’m writing to you today. Men of Australia, you have a lot of foreskin. You have more than you could use in ten thousand lifetimes. Don’t be greedy—I just want one. Just one foreskin for your deprived American friend.

That’s all I ask.

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