First time
The first time I saw myself completely shaved was when I was about to undergo surgery. Once in the hospital, a nurse—around thirty years old and surely accustomed to the sight—approached with a tray and a razor. Friendly yet slightly embarrassed, she moved my gown aside and saw my 1.5-inch member in its flaccid state. Making casual conversation, she quickly set to work with practiced ease. She started by moving it aside, then held the small member by its tiny head. Next came the balls—all done without a single scratch. She handled it with the care one would use for something extremely delicate. I imagined her comparing it to others. It remained motionless—even shrinking back a little, as always happens to me in situations like that.
I still remember it to this day, and I often wonder if any nurse or doctor who saw me back then has ever seen me again and remembered it. During the surgery, it disappeared completely.