My Best Friend in High School had a Microdick
By StudlyDinklittle.
We’d been buddies for a few months before the sleepover happened. We were both freshmen, both quiet, both nerds in that way that made other kids leave us alone. We played video games after school, traded Pokémon cards, and laughed at the same dumb jokes. But there was this tension I couldn’t name, this unspoken thing between us that only made sense later.
It was a Friday night. His parents were out for the weekend, and his older brother was upstairs with his girlfriend. We were in the basement, sprawled on the old plaid couch, watching some shitty action movie when the subject came up. I don’t even remember how. Maybe someone made a dick joke, maybe we were just being stupid teenage boys. But Tommy got this weird look on his face, and he said, “Man, I’m so small, it’s embarrassing.”
And I froze.
Because I knew exactly what he meant, I’d measured myself a hundred times, hoping the ruler would somehow give me a different number, hoping I’d wake up one morning and be normal. But 4.5 inches hard was all I got. I’d looked at porn, looked at the guys on screen, and felt that hollow pit in my stomach. I wasn’t enough.
But sitting there, with Tommy looking at me like he expected me to laugh, I swallowed and said, “Me too.”
He stared at me for a long second. Then he asked, “How big?”
I told him—four and a half.
He let out a breath I didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Guess that makes me the smallest by a lot then.”
“How small?”
He turned red, but he was grinning. “Three inches. Hard.”
Something shifted in the air between us—a heavy, electric moment. I wasn’t the smallest. I wasn’t the most pathetic. There was someone even worse off than me, and he was sitting right here, my best friend, looking at me like I was some kind of savior.
That night, we ended up jerking off together for the first time. It started as a dare, a joke, but neither of us stopped. We pulled our dicks out, side by side on that couch, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel shame. I felt big. My four and a half inches looked like a monster next to his little three-inch nub. He was uncut, his head barely peeking out, and when he got hard, it was just this tiny, thick little button of a cock. I couldn’t stop staring.
I came so hard that night, thinking about how I was better than him, how I had more, how he had to live with three inches while I had four and a half. It was a cruel, selfish thought, but it made me feel powerful. Made me feel like a man.
After that, it became our thing. Every weekend, Friday night through Sunday afternoon, I was at his house. We’d strip down the second I walked in the door, like it was a ritual. No hesitation, no awkwardness. Just two best friends, naked from the waist down, ready to beat our small dicks until we came.
We’d browse his laptop for porn, arguing over which video to pick. I liked missionary stuff, guys with normal dicks fucking normal girls. Tommy liked the weird stuff, the humiliation shit, guys getting laughed at for their size. I never asked why, but I had my guesses. He was into being the smallest, into being the joke. And I was happy to be the one who wasn’t.
We’d try every lotion and lube we could get our hands on. His mom’s expensive body butter, coconut oil from the kitchen, and even shaving cream once, because we were curious and horny. We’d sit on opposite ends of the couch, dicks in hand, slick and glistening under the dim light of the TV, jacking off to whatever girl was moaning on screen.
The races were my favorite.
“First one to cum loses,” Tommy said one night, grinning at me across the couch. His hand was already moving over his tiny shaft, slow and deliberate.
“You’re on,” I replied, gripping my own cock, spreading the lube over my head and down my shaft.
We’d go for thirty minutes sometimes, edging ourselves until we were shaking, our balls tight and blue. I’d watch him from the corner of my eye, watch the way his little dick barely filled his hand, watch how his precum pooled around his fingers while he struggled to hold back. And every time, I’d think, thank god I’m not him. I could last longer, I could stroke harder, I could make myself feel good in a way he could never. He was always the first to break, always the first to cry out and shoot his little load onto his stomach.
Other nights, we’d race to cum. Who could make themselves blow first? And I almost always won. I’d grip my shaft tight, pump as fast as I could, and shoot my first rope before he’d even gotten close. He’d stare at my cum, puddled on my belly, and mutter something about how lucky I was, how he wished he could cum like that, how he was stuck with a helpless little dick.
I never said anything. But I loved it.
When we edged, we’d try to outlast each other, stop right before the brink. We’d freeze, hands hovering over our cocks, breathing ragged. “Still good?” he’d ask. “Still good,” I’d answer. And we’d start again. Five minutes, ten minutes, forty-five minutes. I always came first in those races, too. I’d lose control, let go, and blast my load onto my chest. He’d watch me, still edging, and laugh. “You lost again, man.”
But I didn’t care about winning the game. I’d already won the real contest—the contest of who had the better dick. My four and a half inches sat between my legs like a trophy every time we got naked together. He had nothing. Just a little nubbin, a clit, a joke of a cock. And he knew it. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me, that mix of admiration and envy. He respected me because I had more than him. I was his superior.
I never told him that I used him. That was the only reason I kept coming over, the only reason I was his best friend, was because his tiny dick made me feel like a king. I never told him that every time we jerked off, I was getting off on him. On his shame, on his inadequacy, on the undeniable fact that I was bigger, better, more of a man.
I’d look down at my own hand wrapped around my shaft and think about how I could probably fit two of his penises inside mine and still have room to spare. I’d think about how his entire sex life, for the rest of his life, would be defined by his three inches. He’d never make a woman cum with that. He’d never feel confident in the bedroom. He’d always be the guy with the micropenis.
And I, with my four and a half inches, would be the one who got to feel good. The one who got to feel normal. The one who got to be the bigger man.
That was years ago. We went to different colleges and stopped hanging out. But I still think about those weekends sometimes. The lotion, the porn, the races. The way his tiny dick looked next to mine. The way my ego swelled with every comparison.
I’m not proud of it. But I’m not ashamed either.
He had a micropenis, and I was his best friend because of it. And in some weird, twisted way, I think he needed that just as much as I did. He needed someone to measure himself against, someone he could look up to, even if it were just by an inch and a half. He needed to be the smaller one so he could accept his fate.
And I needed to be the bigger one, so I could accept mine.
The End.
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