It was a foggy Sunday evening in San Francisco, the kind where the mist hung low over the streets, curling around the streetlights like ghosts of the day that had slipped away. The year was 1982, and Greg was running late, breathless, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked pavement as he hurried toward an unmarked building in the Tenderloin district. The air smelled of damp concrete and something faintly metallic, a scent that clung to the back of his throat as he pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The room buzzed with a low hum of voices, laughter, and the occasional clink of glass. Dim lights cast long shadows over a mismatched crowd men sprawled across threadbare couches, leaning against walls papered with peeling floral patterns, or clustered in tight knots near a table laden with bottles of cheap whiskey and scattered tools that glinted ominously in the half light. Greg had been to these gatherings before, drawn in by a mix of curiosity and a restless itch he couldn’t quite name.

This was the circus, as they called it a fetish group that thrived in the underbelly of the city, a secret society of circumcised men obsessed with the act, the idea, the sensation of it all. Some, like Greg, were intact, teetering on the edge of fascination and uncertainty, while others had crossed that line long ago and wore their scars like badges of honor.

Greg slipped in unnoticed at first, his eyes adjusting to the haze of cigarette smoke that swirled lazily overhead. The energy was electric, sharper than usual, and it didn’t take long for him to figure out why. A man let’s call him Chris stood at the center of it all, shirtless, his jeans slung low, a grin splitting his face as he flexed his fingers around a beer bottle. His foreskin, the star of the weekend, was still intact, but not for long. Greg knew very little of what was about to happen but Chris was the mastermind of the group created it around himself and had been planning this weekend for months, orchestrating every detail, turning his circumcision into a three day ritual of indulgence.

Friday had kicked off with playful exploration, hands roaming, voices teasing, the group savoring what Chris was about to lose. Saturday had been a marathon of hedonism, the room thick with sweat and anticipation. And now, Sunday evening, the grand finale loomed. Greg caught the tail end of it.

The building sprawled into a labyrinth of rooms, each alive with its own pulse. Greg peered through cracked doorways as he moved groups of cut guys sprawled out, cocks bared and gleaming, their circumcision scars catching the flickering light. Tools glinted in their hands or littered tables: crude blades, clamps, homemade rigs that screamed more basement than clinic. He bypassed those, his eyes hunting for something sharper, hotter. Then he found it a room that buzzed with electric life. The men inside were a cut above lean, chiseled, their bodies rippling as they lounged on threadbare couches or leaned against peeling walls. Their cut dicks hung heavy, thick, swaying with every shift, some already half-hard and glistening at the tips. A table in the corner shone with real medical gear polished, precise, the kind of tools that promised mastery, not mess. That’s where Greg needed to be.

He stepped inside, and the air snapped taut as every eye locked onto him. “Hey,” Greg said, his voice steady despite the heat licking up his spine. “I’m Greg. New here.” That was enough they knew the second he shrugged off his shirt, then kicked off his jeans, letting them puddle on the floor. His cock swung free uncut, foreskin thick and plush, a rare gem in this sea of tight scars and bare glans. A hungry murmur rolled through them, low and primal, and Greg stood there, letting them drink him in as they closed the distance, hands outstretched.

The first guy broad-shouldered, buzz cut, with a cock so thick it bobbed like a weapon dropped to his knees before Greg, his fingers cool as they grazed Greg’s shaft. He tugged Greg’s foreskin forward, then slid it back, stretching it slow and deliberate, his breath catching as a fat drop of pre-cum welled at Greg’s tip, shimmering in the dim glow. “Fuck, look at this beauty,” he growled, glancing up with a grin that promised trouble. Another joined him taller, leaner, his own cut dick rigid and leaking, a slick trail dripping down his thigh as he traced the veins under Greg’s skin, muttering how he’d slice Greg high and tight if he had his way. They took their time, each one stepping up to claim a piece of Greg rubbing, pulling, rolling his silky foreskin between their fingers like it was a forbidden treat. Greg’s pulse hammered, arousal pooling hot and heavy in his gut as their hands roamed his chest, his thighs, pinning him with a mix of worship and raw greed.

The talk turned filthy, their voices husky as they debated circumcision styles high and loose, low and tight while their tools hit the table. One by one, sometimes in pairs, they took Greg, pinning him to a cracked leather chair, their hands stroking and teasing as they clamped him up. The Alisklamp bit first, cold plastic snapping tight, squeezing Greg’s foreskin into a ring that made him hiss, pre-cum leaking in a steady drip as they smirked. The Tara clamp followed, sleek and merciless, its grip subtler but unyielding, Greg’s cock throbbing as they caressed the trapped skin. The Plastibell slid under next, the cord cinching until Greg gasped, their fingers smearing his slick pre-cum through the sting. The Shang ring gleamed as they locked it on, a futuristic cage that left Greg pulsing, and the Mogen clamp brutal, ancient clamped down hard, making Greg buck, his pre-cum splattering their hands as they held him firm.

But the Gomco was their holy grail, and they saved it for last, drawing out the ritual with a slow, torturous tease that had Greg trembling, his cock already a leaking mess in their grip. Sweat slicked Greg’s skin as they crowded in, eyes blazing with lust, hands hovering over the steel parts laid out like an altar. The bell came first icy, smooth, unyielding as a rugged guy with a thick, scarred cock, tip weeping a fat bead of pre-cum, slid it over Greg’s glans. Greg’s foreskin, soft and full, stretched forward to drape the bell, the silky skin brushing metal in a way that ripped a groan from his throat, a thick drop of his pre-cum oozing out, glistening like a pearl.

They savored every fucking second. The retaining rings came next, and their fingers rough, eager, slick with their own dripping arousal fumbled as they yanked a generous swath of Greg’s foreskin through, tugging and tweaking until it bunched over the edge, ripe and quivering. Greg could feel their stares burning into him, their cut cocks pulsing, pre-cum streaming down their shafts as they watched his uncut treasure stretch and drip. A lean, tatted guy with a dick so hard it curved up licked his lips, his own sticky fluid smearing his thigh as he rasped, “Fuck, Greg, that’s a playground right there.”

Then the clamp dropped into place, the final piece of their dirty game. They fitted it with a reverence that made Greg’s balls ache, lowering the jaws until they kissed the T-bar poking through the folds of Greg’s excess skin folds now slick and shining with his leaking pre-cum, pooling at the tip and dripping onto the chair in wet, obscene splashes. It snapped tight, locking into the groove at the base, and Greg grunted as the first pinch hit a sharp, electric jolt that made his cock lurch, spitting another thick bead of pre-cum. He’d braced for it, but it still slammed through him, his sack tightening as the sensation burned.

The turning knob sealed Greg’s fate, handed off to a wiry guy with a buzz cut and a dick so rigid it wept a steady river, his fingers slippery with his own pre-cum as he gripped it. His trembling hands twisted slow, each crank tightening the bell, crushing Greg’s foreskin in its steel grip. The pressure swelled relentless, mind blowing until Greg’s skin bulged out the top, red and swollen, a pulsing crown leaking pre-cum in fat, glossy streams that slid down the metal and coated their hands. Their eyes locked on Greg’s, feral and ravenous, devouring every twitch, every shudder as he fought to hold still, his breath tearing out in jagged gasps.

“Fuck, Greg, you’re dripping like a faucet,” one snarled, voice thick with lust as he smeared Greg’s pre-cum across the jutting foreskin, tugging it hard enough to make Greg moan, his hips jerking. Another dove in a taller guy, his cut cock throbbing and slick as he jacked himself with one hand and teased Greg’s trapped skin with the other, stretching it, his own pre-cum splashing Greg’s thigh in hot, messy spurts. Their cocks twitched in sync, rigid and drooling rivers, the air choking with the musky reek of arousal as they took turns tormenting Greg.

“This is the fun part, Greg,” the wiry one hissed, his breath a furnace against Greg’s ear as he cranked the knob one last time, the clamp biting down until Greg was panting, vision swimming. The pain wove into a pleasure so fierce it consumed him, Greg’s cock a leaking wreck, pre-cum pulsing out in steady, sticky waves that drenched their fingers and puddled on the floor. They pinned Greg down, their slick hands roaming his chest, his thighs, holding him as he bucked against the Gomco’s crushing grip, lost in the filthy, electric blaze of their control.

A shout sliced through the haze “Live circumcision starting!” and the room exploded. Most bolted, cocks in hand, charging toward the promise of blood and flesh. Greg stayed, trapped by the few who lingered, their fingers still teasing his clamped, dripping skin until they’d wrung him dry. When they finally let go, Greg stumbled to his feet clothes a crumpled heap, body buzzing and followed the tide of bodies toward the main event, his pulse still pounding with the heat of what he’d chosen.

The circumcision room was a cathedral of shadows, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. A folding table stood at the center, draped in a white cloth streaked with faint stains, a tray of instruments glinting beside it scalpel, hemostats, sutures, all laid out like an offering. The guy on the table shirtless, jeans shoved down, a grin splitting his face lay propped on his elbows, his uncut cock resting heavy against his thigh. The doctor loomed over him, white coat crisp, silver hair catching the dim light, his gloved hands poised with a scalpel that flashed as he adjusted his grip.


The air hung thick with cigarette smoke and a palpable anticipation, a charged haze that enveloped the room as Greg stood among the crowd, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him. He stood at the edge, breath ragged, his own skin tingling where the clamps had been. The crowd pressed in, a sea of circumcised men, their hands already working their cocks, stroking themselves as they watched, eyes locked on the blade.

Chris, the focal point of the night, lay on a folding table draped in a sterile white cloth, his body taut with a mix of resolve and exhilaration. The atmosphere pulsed with the weight of what was about to happen a freehand low cut circumcision, as Chris had demanded with a firm “low and tight, all of it gone.” This was no routine procedure; it was a meticulous, deliberate act, starkly different from the clamp based methods like the Gomco or Plastibell that dominated hospitals in 1982. Freehand meant no shortcuts, no mechanical crutches just the doctor’s steady hands, a scalpel, and a clear vision of what Chris wanted to become. “Low” marked the scar line’s placement, set close to the base of his shaft rather than higher toward the glans, stripping away the maximum amount of inner foreskin for a taut, minimal finish. “Tight” promised a result with no give, no trace of what once was.

The doctor sharp jawed, silver streaked hair framing a face exuding quiet arrogance began by marking Chris’s skin. In the flickering light, Greg caught the faint scratch of a surgical pen as the doctor traced a precise line around Chris’s foreskin, delineating the boundary between what would remain and what would be taken. This was no haphazard cut; it was artistry. He’d likely instructed Chris to lie still as he tugged the foreskin forward, then back, assessing its elasticity, its thickness, how it clung to the glans when retracted. The aim was symmetry a clean, even excision that would heal into a seamless ring. Greg noticed Chris’s chest hitch slightly as the doctor pinched the skin, testing its resilience one final time before the blade would fall.

The tools on the sterile table were sparse, their simplicity deliberate. A scalpel with a fresh No. 15 blade, its curved edge wickedly sharp, gleamed as the doctor lifted it. Nearby sat a pair of fine tipped hemostats, a needle driver, and a spool of dissolvable suture likely 4-0 chromic gut, a staple of the ‘80s for its dependability in delicate tissue. Greg saw no sign of anesthesia, though perhaps a quick swipe of lidocaine had been offered if Chris had asked. The room’s raw energy suggested otherwise Chris had chosen the unfiltered experience, his thrill a bulwark against the pain to come.

The first cut sliced through the silence a swift, unbroken line along the marked path, the scalpel gliding through Chris’s outer foreskin with a whisper so soft it nearly vanished beneath the crowd’s collective gasp. The thin, pliable outer layer parted effortlessly, revealing the pinker, more sensitive inner mucosa beneath. Blood welled instantly, bright and arterial, streaking down Chris’s shaft and pooling on the white cloth, but the doctor’s hands remained unshaken. He guided the blade in a smooth arc, peeling the foreskin from the glans in one continuous strip, like skinning a ripe fruit. The thicker, more vascular inner foreskin resisted faintly, and Greg caught the subtle flex of the doctor’s wrist as he adjusted, keeping the cut pristine.

Next came the frenulum that fragile tether linking the foreskin to the glans’s underside. In a low cut style, it had no place; every remnant had to go. The doctor clamped it briefly with a hemostat, the metal jaws snapping shut to choke the blood flow, then snipped it free with a deft flick of the scalpel. A small burst of blood followed, swiftly dabbed away with a gauze square. The crowd pressed closer, their shadows dancing on the peeling floral wallpaper, as the doctor lifted the severed foreskin intact, a single glistening piece, its inner and outer layers still joined at the tip where it had once crowned Chris’s body.

The excision spanned perhaps five minutes, though the charged stillness stretched it longer in Greg’s perception. The doctor’s precision was surgical, yet performative he knew eyes were on him. When he held the foreskin aloft, still warm and slick with blood, it transcended mere tissue; it was the night’s centerpiece, a tangible testament to Chris’s surrender.

Greg stood rooted near the edge of the circle, his pulse hammering in his ears as he watched the fleshy prize make its rounds. It was barbaric, sure, but there was something mesmerizing about it too the rawness, the ritual, the way it stripped everything down to flesh and desire. The first guy to take it was a broad shouldered man with a shaved head and a circumcision scar so tight it gleamed under the dim bulbs. He handled it like a relic at first, turning it over in his thick fingers, stretching it gently to test its give. Then, with a low chuckle, he did something that made Greg’s stomach lurch and his breath catch all at once he slid it over his own erect cock, fitting it like a glove, and started stroking himself. The room whooped, a mix of cheers and gasps, as he worked it with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his eyes half closed in some private ecstasy. The foreskin, still warm and pliable, bunched and slid against him, a ghostly echo of what Chris had just surrendered. It didn’t take long for him to shoot his load.

It passed from hand to hand after that, each man taking his turn to inspect it, to feel it, to claim a piece of the moment before shooting their loads. One guy a skinny kid with a mop of curly hair and a nervous laugh held it up to the light, marveling at the veins that traced faint maps across its surface. Another, older and grizzled, pressed it to his cheek, inhaling deeply as if he could draw its essence into himself. By the time it reached Greg, it had been handled, stretched, and stained a little abused, but still impossibly soft, like silk with a heartbeat. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over it, before finally taking it into his palm. It was heavier than he’d expected, warm from the clutch of so many hands, and when he squeezed it lightly, it bunched up just like his own did when he tugged it forward. That silky smoothness, that stretch it was alien and familiar all at once, a disembodied version of something Greg carried every day. He passed it on quickly, his skin prickling with a mix of fascination and unease.

The doctor was suturing Chris now, his needle flashing in and out with mechanical precision, sealing the fresh cut into a low, tight ring that left nothing behind. Chris watched it all, his grin fading into something softer, almost serene, as the reality of his choice settled in. The crowd began to fracture some drifted back to the whiskey, others paired off into shadowy corners, the tension of the night spilling over into quieter, private releases. Greg stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

Why did they do it? That question gnawed at Greg then, just as it did years later. The cut guys, the ones who’d already been through it why this fetish? Some, like Chris, had known their foreskin, had played with it, stretched it, loved it before letting it go. Maybe it was nostalgia twisted into something darker a longing to relive that loss through someone else’s skin. Others, the ones cut at birth, seemed driven by something fiercer. Anger, maybe, or envy. Greg had seen it in their eyes when they talked to him, their voices low and urgent as they described the freedom of the cut, the cleanliness, the way it made them feel whole. Were they trying to convince Greg or themselves? Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was just the thrill of the edge, the power of watching someone teeter there and then fall.

Greg left that night with more questions than answers, the fog swallowing him whole as he stumbled back to his car. The group broke up shortly after and it all faded into memory over the years, but the echoes lingered. Decades later, they still did.