Yuur naat a tariibul lover," beautiful Merja Vuusliimkaa from Helsinki informs me, in her awkward third language. "Jaast...miidi ogre."

"Miidi ogre?" I gasp. "You mean...mediocre?"

"Yaa, yaa..." she nods. "Naat guude."

She crosses her white naked legs now, closing the pink portal that I was happily sweating in like a Lapp in a sauna. Merja, with her snowball-breasts, her blue ice-eyes, her pubic hair as yellow as reindeer piss on a glacier.

"Does this mean...we're 'Finnished'?" I ask, weakly.

Merja is an au pair in Palo Alto. After chatting me up on a CalTrain yesterday, she slept over and "fokked mii" last night. I was thrilled, but her face during sex resembled a cat suffering constipation...

"Naat yuur faault," she tsks. "No hood on yuur priicke!"

"No foreskin?" I interpret her, horrified. "I'm circumcised!"

My heart explodes as she explains, "No fuurskiin iis uncumfortiibuul -- Ciirkumsiized lover iis naat guude..."

When Merja leaves, I stare sullenly at my decapitated penis. I've heard this castrating news before -- from my ex-wife, who extolled the silky-stroking she enjoyed in Moscow, with an uncut Communist.

"Boris had a gentle, gliding sheath," she sniffled. "Intact men massage me; severed men -- make me feel raped!"

Forlornly, I gaze at my gashed glans; I wanted a hot summer cooled by Merja's pale epidermis, but now she's probably cozying up to an uncut creep on the Peninsula transit.

Suddenly, I remember the current California fad: "Foreskin Restoration."

"Like snake skin!" I exult, "I'll grow another one!"

My Mac-mouse scampers to several Web "stretch" sites, where scary techniques are displayed. All require pressing the acorn tip down into the foreskin remnant -- cloth tape or a metal ring traps the pudgy bulb inside, like a jack-in-the-box locked in his box. The pressure of the organ straining to escape slowly lengthens the tender tissue. "Full coverage" takes four months to two years...

Oh no! Merja departs in September! I can't frolic in her fjord again, unless...

"Dr. Jim Bigelow?" I dial The Joy of Uncircumcising author -- his number's listed on-line, for "mutilated males" like me.

"What's the fastest way to get a floppy foreskin?" I beg him.

"Many men are inventing home-made devices," he tips me, in a voice ripe with penile pain. "Just lengthen it, any way you can."

"Gotcha!"

Naked, I hurry to my roommate's study, which is littered with dusty books and fish tackle. Nigel is eternally scribbling his English Lit dissertation on Isaak Walton's The Compleat Angler.

"I need a full wrinkled hose," I implore him. "So I can ski on the snowy buns of Merja again -- any suggestions?"

"Ah..." he cogitates. "There's a Rudyard Kipling fable that describes how the elephant got HIS trunk."

"Go on..."

"The pachyderm is short-snouted, until Crocodile clamps down jaws on his nose. Our hero tugs back snottily, until his sinuses are elongated."

"Crocs are a bad option," I scold him. "Gimme some fish gear."

Hurriedly, I snip off some green dropline. Thumbing my pud down, I barricade it inside the thin foreskin, with several tight loops and a square knot.

"Dropline," Nigel frowns, "is used for snagging mackerel off Cornwall." Next, I dangle a 1-pound lead ball from the loop -- my foreskin blushes purple with pain.

"That weight," grumbles Nigel, "is intended for salmon trolling."

"It'll stretch me out," I weep, "like Fakir Musafar's nipples, when they were meat-hooked to that Indian tree."

After ten minutes of anchoring my amputated edge with the fish weight, I move on to a swifter, more masochistic method.

"A short pole, Nigel," I bark. "I'll reel my foreskin in -- I mean, out."

A child's crimson rod with 20-pound line is selected. Carefully, I attach a #2 jig hook to the dropline that circles my violet foreskin.

"Excellent," Nigel nods. "Now crank it, Hank."

The pole bends and flutters as I groan in my chair for the next two hours, reeling in my foreskin, which fights back, in my lap, like a savage shark. I toil in heroic, masculine battle.

"You're a millennium Hemingway," Nigel jests. "I'd say 'you've got a big one!' but it's evident that you don't."

Foreskin-stretching rubbed me raw with internal hemorrhage. But it's worth it if goddess-Merja allows me to bounce on her white clouds again. Tear-streaked, I measure my progress: one-sixteenth of an inch longer! If I reel ferociously 16 hours a day...

"Merja!" I dial her, to schedule an unveiling. "I'll be fully-sheathed by Wednesday! No more 'miidi ogre'!"

"Aaaack!" She grumbles.

"What's wrong?"

"I liied," She explains. "Too be kiinde, I thiinke. I jaast reiily haate fokking wiith yuu -- soo soorii."

Hank Hyena is a columnist for SFGate.com and SF Metropolitan, and a frequent contributor to Salon.