The Question
An SPH Experience by Liddlepiddle79.
Our group had been tight for a while—school, parties, late-night drives, inside jokes that nobody else would get. But two of the guys had recently gotten into some trouble—probation stuff—and they’d gone completely straight. No bars, no clubs, no risk. I respected it, but it meant the dynamic shifted.
Then there was Marcus from Cali and his girl. They’d opened a restaurant—Cali-style fusion, really good—and weekends were their busiest. They kept saying they’d make it out, but they always backed out. This night was no different. The fight was on. They wanted to stay home, get drunk, and watch it.
So it was just her and me.
I’d met her at school. We’d hit it off as best buddies almost immediately. Nothing romantic ever crossed my mind—she was just cool, easy to talk to, the kind of person you could sit in silence with and not feel awkward. Her name is Margot, and she’s got this laugh that makes you want to keep telling jokes.
We’d gone out alone before, so this wasn’t weird. We grabbed a couple of drinks at a bar downtown, then hit a club where the bass rattled your chest. We danced, we laughed, we people-watched. She pointed out guys in bad fits. I pointed out girls who were clearly wasted. It was a good night.
At 1:27 AM—I remember checking my phone because I wanted to note the time for some reason—we stumbled out of the club and I called an Uber. We were both tipsy, warm from dancing, her hair slightly damp at the temples.
I dropped her off at her apartment. She lives on the second floor of a complex near campus, the kind with cheap carpet and buzzing fluorescent lights in the hallway. I walked her up because that’s what you do.
“Thanks for coming out with me,” she said, fumbling for her keys. “I would’ve been bored as hell alone.”
“Same,” I said. “Glad the others bailed, honestly.”
She unlocked the door and kicked off her heels. “You wanna come in for a bit? I’m not tired yet.”
I checked my phone. No messages. Nothing is waiting for me at home. “Yeah, sure.”
Her apartment was a mess in the best way—throw blankets everywhere, empty takeout containers on the coffee table, a half-finished puzzle spread across the floor. She cleared a spot on the couch, and we sat down.
We talked for another hour. About nothing, then everything. Her family drama. My job search. The time we got locked out of the library. It was easy, comfortable.
Then the questions started drifting and getting personal.
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t think so. You?”
“Once. It didn’t end well.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “He was an asshole. But the sex was good.”
I laughed. “At least you got something out of it.”
She looked at me, her eyes glinting in the dim lamp light. “What about you? Ever had good sex?”
I shrugged. “I mean… I’ve had sex. It was fine.”
“Fine? That’s boring.”
“I’m a boring guy.”
“You’re not.” She leaned forward. “Can I ask you something weird?”
“Sure.”
She paused, then: “Are you circumcised or not?”
The question hit me out of nowhere. I blinked. “Uh. Yeah. I am. Why?”
She shrugged. “Just curious. I’ve been thinking about it lately. Like, does it make a difference? For the guy, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve only ever been this way.”
She smiled. “Fair enough.”
And then, before I could stop myself, I joked: “You wanna see?”
I said it as a joke. A dumb, drunk joke to break the tension. I immediately followed it up with, “No, I’m just playing.”
But she didn’t laugh. She looked at me, her head tilted. “Why not?”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Why not show me? We’re friends. It’s not a big deal.”
I felt my face get hot. “Margot, I… I’m not really comfortable with that.”
“Why?”
I took a breath. The words came out before I could filter them. “I’m not happy with my size, okay? It’s small. Embarrassingly small.”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh. She just looked at me, her expression neutral. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t even know what small means.”
“Then show me.”
Her voice was calm. Not pushy, not teasing. Just matter-of-fact. Like she was asking me to show her a scar or a tattoo.
I sat there for a long moment. The clock on her microwave blinked 2:43 AM. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge.
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t laugh.”
“I won’t.”
I stood up. Unbuttoned my jeans. Pulled down my boxers.
There it was. Soft. Shriveled. Maybe two inches at most. A tiny nub of flesh that looked like it belonged on a child, not a grown man. The circumcision scar was visible, a neat line around the shaft that only made it look smaller, more pathetic.
Margot looked at it. Her eyes traveled down, then back up to my face.
And then she smiled.
Not a mocking smile. Not a pity smile. Something softer. Almost fond.
“That’s cute,” she said.
I felt my face burn. “Cute?”
“Yeah. Like… It’s not what I expected. But it’s fine. Really.”
She didn’t reach out. Didn’t touch. She just looked, then leaned back on the couch.
I pulled my pants up, my hands shaking slightly. “Well. There you go.”
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I sat back down. “I guess not.”
She grinned. “At least you got something that night.”
I laughed. It came out nervous, but genuine. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
—
We stayed up for another hour after that. Talked about nothing important. She didn’t bring it up again, and neither did I. When I finally left at 4 AM, she hugged me goodbye and said, “Same time next week?”
“Maybe.”
“Bring your confidence this time.”
I didn’t know if she was joking. I still don’t.
But from that night on, something shifted between us. We still hang out, just the two of us. We’re not dating. We’ve never hooked up. But she knows. And sometimes, when we’re sitting on her couch watching a movie, I catch her looking at me with that same small smile.
I don’t know what it means. But at least I got something that night.
The End.
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