Early one morning last month, my husband Bob and I were sitting on our back porch having tea and cranberry muffins with two other couples.

Somehow the conversation turned to circumcision. How it got there, I don’t know. Usually in times of crisis, the events leading up to it are a blur.

My friend Melissa who, unlike me, can talk about s-e-x without spelling it, raised the question, “I wonder how being circumcised as a baby affects an adult male.”

Everybody turned to me for a response.

I found a tea bag of calming chamomile and swallowed it whole.

“Not everybody’s having it done anymore,” my friend said.

I took in a long deep relaxing breath, but forgot to let it out. I got dizzy.

“What are you doing?” Bob asked when I stuck my head between my knees.

Melissa’s husband gave him a “do you know a good psychiatrist?” look.

It was then that I made the self-affirming decision to participate in this grown-up talk.

I sat up and said, “Sometimes, cranberries muffins are a little too tart, don’t you think?”

Bob had a semi-smile on his face that he often has when I’m in public. It’s a smile which says, “Just pretend nothing’s wrong. The behavior will stop sooner.”

“Among other concerns,” I heard Melissa say next, “possibly men who are circumcised have less sexual pleasure than men who aren’t.” Or maybe she said the opposite. I have no idea. Again, everyone looked my way.

“I’ll go make pretzels.”

Bob followed me into the kitchen.

“Nobody makes pretzels.” He put a cooling wet paper towel over the red splotches on my neck that bloom when I’m having a panic attack.

“You’re right.” I started tearing through the cabinets. “Do we have any Jack Daniels?”

He took my arms. “No, we don’t, and it’s nine in the morning and we have company!”

“You’re right.”

“Have you ever questioned why you get like this every time somebody talks about something even remotely sexual? We can’t even go to the movies without you laughing so loud you get asked to leave every time an actor takes his shirt off.”

“You’re right, Bob.” I went back in the living room. Then I blanked out.

Later that morning, after everyone had left, Bob heated more water for tea.

“You can’t tell me you were perfectly comfortable talking about circumcision,” I said.

“Of course I was. Most people over ten years old are.”

“What if they had asked you if you were circumcised? You would have answered?”

“Yes, I would have answered. But most men my age are circumcised. That’s why nobody asked. You don’t know any man who isn’t, do you?”

“Well, actually I do,” I said like an idiot, realizing instantly, but way too late, my mistake. I pranced into the bathroom and quickly as I could, turned on the shower full blast, trying desperately (but unable) to avoid the following.

“Who?” I heard his little voice through the steam.

“Can’t hear you,” I called out.

Believe me. This is not a conversation I ever pictured would take place. After my shower I ran from the bathroom to my computer and yelled, “Can’t talk! Got a column deadline.”

Now, there are a few problems here. First of all, there’s talking about (which invariably means envisioning) pre-marital sex with someone other than Bob. Secondly, he knows the person who wasn’t circumcised. Thirdly, he doesn’t know I had hanky-panky with him. And fourth, I’m not supposed to lie.

“Who was it?” he stood next to my computer and asked.

“Hey, you’re not into some stupid macho ‘was he better than me?’ shtick, are you?”

“No. I’m just curious, but if you’re too immature to tell me, then forget it.”

“Ok, ok. But you have to guess.”

“I’m not doing that.” He walked out of the room. That afternoon, we had hard boiled eggs, tomatoes and bagels for lunch. He spent two full minutes chewing one slice of egg while staring at something non-existent on the kitchen table. “Does he have a beard?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do I see him more than once a month?”

“No.”

“Has he been to our house?”

“Yes.”

The dog began barking, announcing the arrival of the (bearded) UPS man. Bob raised his eyebrows. I shook my head. Two nights later, we had Chinese food delivered. Bob raised. I shook.

“Well, tell me one thing,” he said, while ladling pounds of moo shi on a pancake. “Is it different with an uncircumcised man?”

“Oh God.”

“Just tell me.”

“I have no idea if it’s different. I think condoms kind of keep parts from moving independently. Everything travels around as one unit, wouldn’t you say?”

“How am I supposed to know? You think I took a survey?”

“Hey, don’t get snappy with me.” I dunked a crab rangoon in as much duck sauce as possible. “What exactly do they take off when they circumcise anyway?”

“The circle of foreskin that surrounds the head of a penis.”

“Like a calamari?”

“That’s one way of putting it; not a normal way, but one way just the same.”

“This would not be a good time to eat an egg roll,” I said. “I’ll throw up.”

Later, we sat together on our back yard glider swing. “You’ve known I had boyfriends before we got married. What’s the difference who was circumcised and who wasn’t?”

“It’s not about that,” he said. “It’s about honesty. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“That’s really an impossible standard for any couple,” I said. We went back and forth on the swing.

“I didn’t think it was for us.”

I looked up at the heavens wishing I could go back in time and tap Abraham on the shoulder right before he was about to make this cockamamie circumcision covenant with God. I’d say, “Hey, what did you think was going to happen? Now, not only is this being debated by doctors, but parents are worried about it being the right thing to do, and worst of all, Bob wants to know who’s still got their calamari!”

And even though it sounds like this was a question of a very, very intimate matter, it wasn’t. But I decided Bob should have his answer.

I told him that our relationship was based on simply just being friends and  that was all I cared about. “I’ll tell you, though, what you want to know. It was . . . ”

And as I was hoping, he put one arm around my shoulder, put his other hand to my face, his fingers to my lips, and stopped me from answering.