Seven Strokes
An SPH Experience by OLTFRTT2.
We met through mutual friends. I was twenty-seven at the time. She was a year younger. We bonded over the same video games, the same obscure sci-fi novels, the same dumb memes. She was smart—genuinely smart, not performatively smart—and she had a laugh that made me feel like I was funny even when I wasn’t. She wore glasses that she’d push up her nose with one finger when she was thinking, and she had dark brown hair that she’d dyed a deep auburn once. Her skin was that warm, golden-brown that made her look like she was always slightly tanned, and her tits were big—really big, the kind that stretched her t-shirts and made her complain about back pain—and her ass was fat. There’s no other word for it. Not “curvy.” Not “voluptuous.” Fat. Round. Heavy. The kind of ass that moved when she walked, that jiggled when she laughed, that made men stare at her in grocery stores and pretend they were looking at the cereal behind her.
I wanted her. Of course I wanted her. I wanted her from the first week I knew her. But I was me—soft-faced, little jaw, 3.5 inches hard, maybe 4 on a good day if I was really worked up—and I’d learned by then that wanting and having were different things, and that the distance between them was measured in inches I didn’t have.
But she seemed to like me. She laughed at my jokes. She texted me late at night. She found reasons to be near me—sitting next to me on the couch, leaning her shoulder into mine when we watched movies, touching my arm when she made a point. She did what women do when they’re interested. I did the things that men do when they’re interested but terrified, which is to say I missed every signal for months until one night she looked at me across a bar table and said, “Are you ever going to make a move, or do I have to do everything?”
I made a move. It was clumsy. It involved me leaning in too fast and bumping her glasses with my nose and her laughing and grabbing my face and kissing me, and for two weeks after that, we were almost a thing. Almost. The word “almost” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, because “almost” implies that we got close to something real. Then it fell apart, when the truth is that we got close to something real and then I took my pants off, and the something real looked at my penis, and the something real became something else entirely.
—
The hotel room was her idea. She’d planned it—a weekend, a city three hours away, a room with a king bed and blackout curtains and the understanding that we were going to have sex. She said it casually, the way she said everything—like it was obvious, like it was inevitable, like of course we were going to have sex, why wouldn’t we, we liked each other, we were attracted to each other, we were two adults who’d been circling each other for weeks, and it was time.
I drove. She sat in the passenger seat, put her feet on the dashboard, talked about the book she was reading, ate gas station snacks, and occasionally reached over and put her hand on my thigh. Every time she did, I felt my dick—my small, soft, barely-there dick—twitch, and I thought about what was going to happen, and I was terrified.
Because I knew, I’ve always known. I knew that my dick was small. I knew it the way you know your own height or your own shoe size—an immutable fact, a number that doesn’t change, a measurement that defines you whether you want it to or not. I’d measured it a hundred times, hoping for a different result, and the result was always the same: 3.5 inches, sometimes 3.75, sometimes 4 if I was so hard it hurt and I pressed the ruler in slightly. Four inches on a good day. Four inches when the stars aligned and the arousal was maximum, and I was measuring with the kind of optimistic pressure that a man applies when he desperately needs the number to be higher.
But I’d never been in this situation before—not with her, not with someone I actually cared about, not with someone whose opinion mattered to me. The other times—the few times—I’d been with women, it had been casual, anonymous, the kind of sex where you don’t make eye contact, and you don’t talk about it afterward. The smallness of your dick is a private shame that the other person may or may not have noticed but certainly didn’t comment on. This was different. This was her. This was someone I talked to every day. This was someone I’d see again.
I thought about saying something. In the car, with her hand on my thigh, I thought about turning to her and saying, “Hey, before we do this, I need to tell you something.” I thought about preparing her. I thought about giving her the warning that my dick was small—really small, smaller than she was expecting, small enough that it might matter to her—and letting her decide what to do with that information before we were in a hotel room with our clothes off and the reality of it staring her in the face.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. Because saying it out loud—saying “my dick is small” to a woman I wanted—was a humiliation I couldn’t voluntarily inflict on myself. I needed her to see it first. I needed the revelation to happen in the moment, in the heat of things, when maybe—maybe—the arousal would override the disappointment, when maybe the fact that she liked me would compensate for the fact that my penis was four inches long and thin and the kind of penis that women tolerate rather than desire.
That’s what I told myself. That’s the lie I told myself in the car while she ate gas station Doritos and put her hand on my thigh and I drove toward the hotel room where my small dick was going to change everything.
—
The room was nice. She’d picked it—king bed, white sheets, a window that looked out over the city. She stood by the bed, looked at me, smiled, took off her glasses, set them on the nightstand, and said, “Come here.”
I went to her. We kissed. She tasted like Doritos and cherry lip balm, and I didn’t care. Her mouth was warm, and her tongue was in my mouth, and her hands were on my back, and my hands were on her—on her waist, on her hips, on the shelf of her ass, that fat, round, heavy ass that I’d been staring at for months, and it was everything I’d imagined. Soft. Full. The kind of ass you grab with both hands and still can’t hold all of it. I squeezed, and she moaned against my mouth, and I felt my dick getting hard in my pants—my four-inch dick, straining, pushing against my underwear, as hard as it was going to get, which was not very hard and not very big and not very impressive.
She pulled my shirt off. I pulled hers off. Her bra was black, and her tits were spilling out of it—big, heavy, brown, with dark nipples that I could see through the lace. I unhooked her bra—I fumbled with it, because I always fumble with bras, because my fingers are clumsy and I’m nervous and the clasp is small, and my hands are shaking—and her tits fell free, and they were beautiful. Large. Heavy. The kind of tits that sag slightly under their own weight, which is not a flaw but a feature, because the weight is the point, the fullness is the point, the fact that they’re real and heavy and more than a handful is the point. I leaned down and took a nipple in my mouth, and she put her hand on the back of my head, and I sucked, and she made a sound—a soft, breathy sound—and I was so hard it hurt, all four inches of me, throbbing in my pants.
She pushed me onto the bed. I sat on the edge, and she stood in front of me and unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down—slowly, teasingly, the way women do when they know you’re watching—and her ass was in a black thong that disappeared between her cheeks. I could see the full, round shape of it and the thickness of her thighs, and I wanted to bury my face in her and never come up for air.
She straddled me. She was in my lap, her thighs on either side of mine, her tits against my chest, her mouth near my ear, and she whispered, “Take your pants off.”
This was it. The moment. The point of no return.
I reached down. I unbuttoned my jeans. I pushed them down—along with my underwear, in one motion, because I didn’t want to prolong it, didn’t want to make it a striptease, didn’t want to draw attention to the reveal. I wanted it to be fast. I wanted it to be over. I wanted my pants off and my dick out and the truth on the table so we could move past it and get to the sex.
I pushed my jeans and underwear down to my thighs, and my dick sprang free.
Sprang. That’s generous. My dick didn’t spring. It was already hard—it had been hard since the car, hard since she kissed me, hard since she took off her shirt—and it jutted out from my body at a slight upward angle, four inches of thin, rigid, circumcised penis. Four inches. Not small enough to be a micropenis, not big enough to be anything else. Just small. Visibly, obviously, undeniably small. A penis that a woman could look at and immediately know was not what she was hoping for.
She was still straddling me. She looked down. She was close—close enough that my dick was inches from her body, close enough that she couldn’t miss it, close enough that the full visual of my four-inch erection was right there, in the space between us, impossible to ignore.
I watched her face. I watched her eyes move down—down from my face, down my chest, down my stomach, down to my lap. I watched her see it.
Her expression didn’t change dramatically. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t say “oh my god” or “that’s it?” or any of the things I’d been dreading. What she did was subtler and, in some ways, worse. Her eyes landed on my dick and stayed there for a beat—one second, maybe two—and in that beat, I saw something shift. Not horror. Not disgust. Something quieter. A recalibration. The look of someone who had expected one thing and received another and was rapidly adjusting their expectations in real time.
She looked back up at me. She smiled, but it was a different smile—softer, more careful, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve just seen something that changes the situation, and you’re trying to keep it from showing.
“Okay,” she said. Just that. Okay.
And then she reached down and wrapped her hand around my dick.
Her hand closed around it, and I felt the truth of my size in the most visceral way possible—her fingers met, her thumb overlapped, and there was space. Not the strain of a hand struggling to encircle something too thick, but the ease of a hand closing around something that fit with room to spare. She held it the way you’d hold a marker, a thick pen, something modest and manageable and not at all overwhelming.
She stroked it. Once. Twice. Her hand moved the full length easily—base to tip in a short, quick motion that covered everything I had without effort, without the long, sliding stroke that a bigger dick would require. My entire dick fit in her hand. My entire dick was in her hand. Four inches. That was all I had to give.
She looked at it again. This time, her expression was less guarded. This time, I saw the assessment—the honest, unfiltered evaluation that happens in the space between seeing and reacting, the split second where a woman looks at a penis and decides what she thinks of it. I saw it. She wasn’t impressed. She wasn’t excited. She was accepting. She was taking in the reality of my size, filing it under “smaller than expected,” and moving forward because she liked me; she was already here, the room was paid for, and she was going to make the best of it.
“Let’s try,” she said.
—
She got off my lap and lay back on the bed and pulled off her thong. She was naked—fully naked, fully visible, her big tits settling to the sides of her chest, her thick thighs slightly parted, the dark hair between her legs trimmed short, her pussy visible and real and right there—and I stood up and kicked off my jeans and underwear. I was naked too, and the contrast between us was everything you’d expect. She was a woman with a body that made men stupid—curves and weight and fullness and the kind of physical presence that filled a room. I was a man with a soft face and a small jaw and a four-inch dick jutting out from my body like a pinky finger, and I was about to fuck her.
I got on top of her. I positioned myself between her legs. She opened them wider—she had to, because her thighs were thick and my body needed the space—and I lined my dick up with her pussy, and I pushed in.
I want to describe what it felt like, but I need to be honest: I barely felt anything. Not because she was loose—she wasn’t; she was warm and wet, and I could feel her walls against my dick—but because my dick was so small that the sensation was limited. Four inches of penetration. Four inches of contact. I pushed in until my hips met hers and I was inside her as far as I could go, and it wasn’t far. I knew it wasn’t far. I knew that there was more of her that I couldn’t reach—depths that my dick couldn’t touch, places inside her that a longer cock would fill and that mine simply passed by on its way to its maximum, inadequate depth.
She didn’t react. When I pushed in, she didn’t gasp or moan or grab me. She put her hands on my back and held me, and I started to thrust.
One.
I pulled back and pushed in. A short stroke—the only kind of stroke I could manage, because my dick was four inches long and the range of motion was four inches, not the long, deep, pulling-out-and-pushing-back-in stroke that a bigger dick allowed. A short, quick, shallow thrust that moved my dick inside her but probably not in the way she needed.
Two.
I felt it already. The pressure. The building. The thing that I’d been afraid of since the car—the thing that I’d been afraid of my entire sexual life—the premature, unstoppable, humiliating rush toward orgasm that my small dick was prone to, because small dicks are sensitive. The excitement of being inside a woman was overwhelming. My body didn’t know how to last because my body had never had to last because my body had rarely been inside a woman. Every time it was, the novelty and the sensation and the sheer miracle of being inside a pussy was too much to sustain.
Three.
She was wet. She was warm. She was underneath me, her big tits pressed against my chest, her hands on my back, and I was fucking her—or trying to fuck her—with my four-inch dick, and I could feel the orgasm coming like a train.
Four.
I tried to slow down. I tried to think about something else—work, the drive, the book she’d been telling me about in the car. It didn’t work. It never works. The sensation was too immediate, too present, too real. She was under me, and I was inside her, and my dick was on fire, and I was going to cum.
Five.
I didn’t say anything. I should have. I should have warned her. But I was ashamed—ashamed of the smallness, ashamed of the speed, ashamed of the fact that I was five strokes in and already about to explode—and I stayed quiet because saying “I’m about to cum” after five strokes would have made it real in a way that I wasn’t ready for.
Six.
I felt my balls tighten—my small balls, the ones she’d later comment on, the ones that I now realized were proportionally small to match my small dick, producing a small amount of cum that was about to be deposited into a woman who deserved more than I could give her in every measurable way.
Seven.
I came. I pushed in—four inches, all the way, as far as my small dick could reach—and I came. It wasn’t a powerful orgasm. It wasn’t the kind of ejaculation that you see in porn, the kind where the man pulls out and shoots ropes across the woman’s body. It was a dribble. A weak, pulsing, internal dribble that I could feel moving through my dick in small, unsatisfying spurts. A small load from a small dick from small balls, deposited into a woman who was lying beneath me, barely warmed up, nowhere near orgasm, and I was done.
Seven strokes. Seven. That’s all it took. Seven short, shallow, four-inch strokes and I was finished, and she was lying under me with her hands on my back. I could feel from the stillness of her body that she was not finished, that she was not close, that she had not been allowed to be close, that I had taken something that was supposed to be shared and made it entirely about my own uncontrollable, premature, humiliating release.
I collapsed on top of her. My face was in her neck. My small dick was softening inside her—already softening, already shrinking, the four inches becoming three and then two and then slipping out of her because a soft dick that small doesn’t stay inside. It slips out. It falls. It retreats.
I rolled off her. I lay on my back. I stared at the ceiling.
She lay beside me. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. The silence was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.
She got up first. She went to the bathroom. I heard the water run. I heard her pee. I heard the toilet flush. I heard her wash her hands. I heard the door open.
She came back and sat on the edge of the bed. She was still naked. Her big tits hung as she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped. She looked at me.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I said.
“We need to talk about that.”
I closed my eyes. I wanted to disappear. I wanted the hotel bed to open up and swallow me and transport me to a different dimension where I had a normal dick and hadn’t just cum in seven strokes inside the woman I’d been fantasizing about for months.
“I know,” I said.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I care about you. You know that, right?”
I opened my eyes. She was looking at me with an expression that was kind but serious—the expression of someone who was about to say something difficult and was going to say it anyway because it needed to be said.
“I know,” I said.
“I care about you a lot,” she said. “Like, a lot. You’re my person. You’re the person I want to talk to about everything. You’re the person I want to watch movies with, argue about books with, and eat dinner with. You’re funny, and you’re smart, and you get me in a way that nobody else does.”
I waited. I knew what was coming. I could feel it the way you feel a storm before it arrives—the pressure drop, the air change, the knowledge that something is about to hit.
“But,” she said, and the word “but” hung in the air like a blade, “my penis—your penis—” she corrected herself, and the slip was telling, because in that moment she was distancing the penis from me, talking about it as an object, a thing, a separate entity that was not the same as the person she cared about, “—your penis isn’t big enough to satisfy me.”
She said it. She looked at me, and she said it. Not in those exact words—I’m paraphrasing now, reconstructing from memory, because the trauma of hearing them blurs the exact words—but the meaning was clear. My penis was not big enough. Not big enough to satisfy her. Not big enough to give her what she needed. Not big enough to be the penis of the man she wanted to be with in every other way.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt you. You asked me to be honest, and I’m being honest. We’re perfect together in every way except this. Every way except this one thing.”
One thing. My penis was one thing. But it was the thing. The thing that made the difference between “almost” and “actually.” The thing that kept us from being a couple. The thing that she’d felt inside her for seven strokes and that had confirmed what she’d probably suspected the moment she saw it: that I was too small.
“It’s small,” she said, and the directness of the word—small, not “a little smaller than I’m used to,” not “not quite what I was hoping for,” but small, the plain, unadorned, honest word—hit me in the chest like a fist. “It’s small, and I need—I need more than that. Physically. I need to feel it. I need to feel full. I need someone who can hit the spot that I like, and you—” she paused, and the pause was worse than the words, because the pause was her deciding whether to say the next part, “—you can’t reach it.”
I couldn’t reach it. My four-inch dick couldn’t reach the spot she liked. The spot that made her cum, the spot that a bigger dick would find naturally, the spot that my dick fell short of by inches that I didn’t have and couldn’t grow.
“And honestly,” she said, and here she looked down at my crotch—at my soft dick, which had retreated to its resting state, which was maybe two inches, maybe less, a small, shriveled, post-orgasm nub that was barely visible against my thigh, “—you came really fast. Like, really fast. And there wasn’t a lot.”
There wasn’t a lot. She’d felt it. She’d felt the weak, dribbling orgasm, the small amount of cum, the unsatisfying deposit that my small balls had produced. She’d felt all of it, and she was telling me about it because I’d asked her to be honest, and she was being honest, and the honesty was killing me.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “It’s not your fault. It’s just—it is what it is.”
It is what it is. The most devastating sentence in the English language, when applied to a penis. It is what it is. My penis is what it is. Small. Thin. Quick. Low-volume. It is what it is, and it will never be anything else, and she knows it, and I know it, and now we both know it, and the knowing doesn’t change anything.
—
We didn’t have sex again that weekend. We slept in the same bed—king-sized, white sheets, blackout curtains—and she wore a t-shirt and underwear, and I wore boxers, and we lay side by side, and she put her head on my chest, and I put my arm around her, and we watched a movie on her laptop, and it was nice. It was intimate. It was the kind of closeness I’d wanted with her for months, and I had it, and it was poisoned by the knowledge that we had it because my penis had disqualified me from the other kind of closeness.
In the morning, we drove home. She sat in the passenger seat, put her feet on the dashboard, talked about the book she was reading, and ate gas-station snacks, and it was normal. It was like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t taken my pants off and revealed my small dick and cum in seven strokes and been told that I wasn’t big enough to satisfy her. Like none of it had happened.
But it had happened. And we both knew it had happened. And the knowledge sat between us like a third person in the car, quiet but present, and I drove and she talked and I thought about my penis and her pussy and the spot I couldn’t reach and the seven strokes and the weak, dribbling cum and the words “it’s small” and “you can’t reach it” and “there wasn’t a lot.”
—
We stayed friends. That’s the part that surprises people, I think—the part that doesn’t make sense to anyone who hasn’t lived it. She told me my dick was too small to satisfy her, and we stayed friends. Not only did we stay friends, but we became closer. The honesty—the brutal, wine-level honesty that she’d delivered in that hotel room—opened something between us. A door. A door that led to a space where she could say things about my penis that she couldn’t have said before, because before, the penis was theoretical. Before, she hadn’t seen it, hadn’t felt it, hadn’t measured it against her own experience and found it wanting. Now she had. Now it was data. Now it was a known quantity—a small known quantity—and she could reference it, joke about it, pick on me for it, because the pretense was gone. The cat was out of the bag. The dick was out of the pants. And it was small.
It started slowly. A comment here, a joke there. We’d be texting about something unrelated—a movie, a game, a meme—and she’d slip in a reference. I’d make a joke about being bad at something, and she’d say, “You’re bad at a lot of things 😂” and I’d know what she meant. I’d send her a picture of something—a fish I’d caught, a project I’d built—and she’d say, “Not bad for a little guy,” and the word “little” would land differently than it would have before the hotel room.
Then it got more direct. More specific. More honest.
We were at dinner once—just dinner, just friends, just two people who’d almost been something and were now something else—and she was telling me about a guy she’d been seeing. A new guy. A guy she’d slept with. She told me about him the way friends tell each other about dates—with detail, with commentary, with the kind of candor that exists between people who’ve seen each other naked.
“He’s big,” she said. Not bragging and not rubbing it in. Just stating a fact, the way you’d state any fact about a person. “Like, really big.”
I felt my face get hot. I felt my small dick twitch in my pants. I felt the shame and the arousal and the complicated, contradictory response that I’d learned to live with—the response that my wife would later describe in a living room with a bottle of wine, the response that happens without mental work, the automatic, involuntary reaction of a small-dicked man to the mention of a big one.
“Good for you,” I said, and my voice was normal, and my face was smiling, and my dick was hard in my underwear.
“It’s different,” she said, and she looked at me with that expression—the one that was kind but honest, the one that said I like you and I’m going to tell you the truth. “It’s really different. Like, I can actually feel it. I don’t have to—” she paused, and the pause was loaded, because we both knew what she was about to say, “—I don’t have to work for it. It just happens.”
It just happens. The thing my wife would later describe. The ease. The automatic, effortless orgasm that a big dick provides. The thing that my four inches couldn’t give her and that this new guy’s big dick could.
“Must be nice,” I said.
She looked at me. She smiled. And then she said, “You know what your problem is?”
“My penis?” I said, because if she was going to go there, I was going to meet her there. If she was going to pick on me, I was going to make it easy for her, because the picking on me did something to me that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Among other things,” she said. “Your penis, yes. But specifically—you’re not long enough to hit the spot. You know that, right? You know there’s a spot?”
“I know there’s a spot,” I said. I did know. I’d read about it. I’d studied it. I knew where the cervix was, where the anterior fornix was, where the deep structures that a long dick could reach were located. I knew all of this theoretically, the way a man who’s never been to Paris knows the layout of the city from maps. I knew the spot. I just couldn’t reach it.
“You can’t reach it,” she said, confirming what I already knew, saying it out loud in a restaurant where anyone could overhear, though no one was listening. “Your dick isn’t long enough. It’s not a criticism. It’s just physics. You’re four inches, and the spot is—” she held her fingers apart, maybe six inches, maybe seven, a gesture that was so casually devastating that I almost choked on my water, “—it’s up there. You’d need another two or three inches to get to it.”
Two or three inches. She was telling me I needed to be two or three inches bigger. She was quantifying my inadequacy with her fingers, measuring the gap between what I had and what she needed, and the gap was two to three inches, which was almost doubling my size, which was the difference between a penis that satisfied her and one that didn’t.
“And your balls,” she said, and I almost spat my water. “I’m sorry, but they’re small too. Like, noticeably small.”
“My balls?”
“Your balls. They’re small. And that’s why you don’t cum a lot. Remember? In the hotel?”
I remembered. I remembered the weak, dribbling orgasm. The small amount. The unsatisfying deposit.
“I remember,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t a lot. And I think that’s because your balls are small. Small balls, small load. It’s just—it’s a pattern.”
A pattern. My small dick and my small balls were a pattern. A matched set. A coordinated system of inadequacy that meant I couldn’t fuck her deep enough, couldn’t fuck her long enough, and couldn’t cum enough to make any of it worthwhile.
“And the seven strokes thing,” she said, and she laughed—not cruelly, but with the easy, comfortable laugh of someone who’d been thinking about this for a while and was finally saying it out loud. “Seven strokes. I’ve never had a guy cum that fast. I’ve literally never had a guy cum that fast. I didn’t even know it was possible to cum that fast.”
“It was a lot for me,” I said, and I didn’t know what I meant by that. It was a lot for me—meaning the sensation was overwhelming? It was a lot for me—meaning the situation was emotionally intense? It was a lot for me—meaning being inside her was more than my small, sensitive, premature-ejaculating dick could handle? All of it. None of it. It didn’t matter.
“Seven strokes,” she repeated, shaking her head. “And then you were done. And I was just lying there like, ‘That’s it? That’s all?”
That’s it. That’s all. Seven strokes, a dribble, and then done. That’s what I’d given her. That’s what my four inches and my small balls and my premature ejaculation had added up to—a sexual experience so brief and so unsatisfying that she was still talking about it months later, not with anger, not with resentment, but with the bewildered amusement of someone who’d witnessed something she hadn’t known was possible.
—
It’s been like this ever since. We’re still friends. We’re still close. We still talk every day, still share memes, argue about books, and eat dinner together. And she still picks on me. Not constantly, not cruelly, but with the regularity of someone who knows where the buttons are and presses them because pressing them is fun and because I let her press them and because—though she doesn’t know this, though I’d never tell her—pressing them does something to me that I can’t explain and can’t stop.
She’ll text me: “Thinking about you. Thinking about your little problem. 😂”
She’ll say, in conversation, “You know what I miss? Being fucked properly. You wouldn’t know anything about that.”
She’ll reference the seven strokes: “I had sex last night. It lasted longer than seven strokes, so, you know, a win.”
She’ll talk about her current guy—the one with the big dick, the one who reaches the spot, the one who makes her cum without effort. She’ll tell me about it because we’re friends and friends tell each other things, and the things she tells me are about a man whose dick is everything mine isn’t: long, thick, deep-reaching, satisfying. She tells me about the fullness. She tells me about the stretching. She tells me about the way she can feel him in her gut, the way my wife would later describe it, the organ-displacing, body-filling, deep, total sensation of being fucked by a man who has enough.
And I listen. I listen because I’m her friend and that’s what friends do. I listen because she’s telling me about her life, and I care about it. I listen because the alternative is not to listen, and not listening would mean not being her friend, and not being her friend would mean losing her, and losing her would mean losing the only person who knows the truth about my penis and likes me anyway.
And I listen because—because—because when she tells me about the big dick, when she tells me about the spot he reaches, when she tells me about the fullness and the stretching and the way she cums without effort, without mental work, without having to think about other things—my dick gets hard. My four-inch, small-balled, seven-stroke, dribble-cumming dick gets hard. And I sit there in my apartment with my phone in my hand and my hard-on in my pants. I feel the shame and the arousal and the complicated, contradictory, short-circuited response that I’ve learned to live with, that I’ve learned to need, that I’ve learned to seek out because it’s the only thing my small dick responds to reliably.
She doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that her teasing makes me hard. She doesn’t know that when she says “little problem” with a laughing emoji, my dick twitches. She doesn’t know that when she talks about the big dick that satisfies her, I stroke my small one. She doesn’t know that the humiliation she dishes out as friendly picking is the thing I come back to at two in the morning when I’m alone and hard and needing to feel it.
Or maybe she does know. Maybe she’s always known. Maybe the Puerto Rican girl with the fat ass and the big tits and the nerdy glasses saw my small dick in that hotel room and understood everything—understood that I was a beta, understood that I was small, understood that I was premature, understood that I was the kind of man who would take her teasing and turn it into arousal and come back for more. Maybe she saw all of that in the seven strokes it took me to cum inside her, and maybe she’s been giving me what I need ever since.
I don’t know. I can’t ask. I can’t say, “Hey, do you know that making fun of my small dick makes me hard?” because saying that would change things in a way I can’t control, and the current arrangement—friend, teaser, humiliator, confidante—works. It’s the thing I have. It’s the version of intimacy that my penis allows me. Not sex. Not penetration. Not the spot I can’t reach or the fullness I can’t provide. Just friendship. Just honesty. Just a woman who knows I’m small and tells me so and likes me anyway and picks on me about it and doesn’t know—or pretends not to know—that every pick is a stroke, and every stroke is a step toward the seven-stroke orgasm that is my sexual destiny.
It’s a humiliation I live and deal with to this day. Every text. Every dinner. Every conversation about her sex life with men who have what I don’t. Every “little problem” and “seven strokes” and “you can’t reach it.” Every reminder that I’m the perfect man for her in every way except the one that counts.
The End.
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