When I was a babe, mommy & daddy agreed to have the good doc cut skin off of my weewee.
They put me under a bright white light, brighter than the sun. Bright as the light of God, even. The doctor took a gleaming knife and went out about cutting off the foreskin with the same care a sushi chef uses when cutting a sliver of flesh off of an expensive raw fish. Under the lights, the good doc's face looked yellow, and the bags under his eyes were blue and puffy.
It was a routine procedure in the maternity ward. Dozens of babies, every day, had skin cut off their weewees. It was normal. We would all have a reduced chance of contracting HIV as adults, and our weewees would be more hygienic than those barbaric uncircumcised ones. It was a tradition that spanned untold centuries.
The good doc murmured something to the bosomy nurse next to him as he separated my foreskin from my glans. Fresh red blood dripped onto the white cotton sheets. I wriggled in the small cot. I even cried. They hadn't used anesthetic. The good doc made a second cut and removed the foreskin entirely from my weewee. I cried again for a second. Then, the pain was over.
It was one of my first memories. Luckily, I forgot it. I fell asleep, later, safe and sound, sucking warm milk in from mommy's teat.