The Stag Party
A Fictional Story by NotTheBestMan.
There were about twenty of us that night. We started at a pub in town, drinking pints and doing shots, the usual stuff. Tom was red-faced and laughing by the time we left, his arm slung around his best man’s shoulders. Someone had arranged for a couple of “strippers” to show up back at his house. I say “strippers” because nobody was entirely sure what we were getting — this wasn’t some high-end Vegas production. It was two women who’d been hired through some word-of-mouth connection, and the whole thing had the chaotic, unscripted energy of a night that was about to go somewhere none of us expected.
We piled back to Tom’s place. It was a decent-sized semi with a big living room that had been cleared of furniture, the sofa pushed against the wall, a cheap speaker system blasting music I can’t remember. Someone had put a sheet down on the floor like it was a stage. Beer bottles everywhere. The energy was loud, stupid, male — the kind of atmosphere where dares get taken seriously and nobody wants to be the one who backs down.
The two women arrived around eleven. One was tall, dark-haired, maybe early thirties, with a sharp face and a knowing smile. The other was shorter, blonde, a bit softer around the edges but with this mischievous energy that made you feel like she was always about to do something you’d regret. They came in carrying bags, looked around the room at twenty drunk men, and didn’t even blink.
They did a little show first. Nothing elaborate — they danced, peeled off layers, ground against each other. Then they started working the crowd. The blonde one sat on some guy’s lap and bounced until he was blushing. The dark-haired one walked through the room in her underwear, letting guys tuck notes into her waistband, pressing herself against them, whispering things that made them laugh nervously. They were good at what they did. They knew how to keep a room on edge.
Then they pulled Tom up to the front.
Everyone cheered. This was the whole point, right? Embarrass the stag. Make him squirm. The best man was practically howling, filming on his phone. The two women pushed Tom down onto the sheet, and the dark-haired one straddled his chest while the blonde started tugging at his clothes. His shirt came off first — he was a big guy, broad and a little soft from years of beer, but solid underneath. Then she went for his belt.
Everyone in that room knew what was coming. Tom was famous for it. Every time he got drunk enough, it came out. At festivals, at house parties, in pub gardens. He’d whip it out with this proud, stupid grin and people would either cheer or groan, and the women would either stare or look away. It was huge. Everyone knew it was huge. He was the guy you’d heard about before you ever met him — the one with the big dick. It was practically part of his identity.
The blonde pulled his jeans down and then his boxers, and there it was. Even soft, it was substantial — thick, heavy, lying across his thigh like he’d been gifted something the rest of us could only dream about. The room erupted. Guys were hollering, clapping, some of them covering their eyes in mock horror. The strippers played it up perfectly. The blonde grabbed it and wiggled it around, making it bounce, holding it up like a trophy while the dark-haired one pretended to fan herself.
Then she started stroking him. Slowly at first, then with purpose. I watched it grow. It was like watching something inflate — that thing just kept getting bigger and thicker until it was standing straight up, easily nine inches, maybe more. The girth was ridiculous. The condom she rolled down it looked like it was struggling to contain everything. And then, without any real warning or transition, the dark-haired one squatted over him and lowered herself onto it.
She fucked him right there. In front of all of us. Twenty guys standing around with beers in their hands, watching this woman ride Tom’s massive cock while he lay there grinning like a king. She was facing the crowd, her hands on his chest, her hips rolling, and you could see it — see it going in and out, see her stretched around him, see how much there was. The blonde was cheering her on, slapping Tom’s thigh, egging the crowd up. Some of the guys were going wild. A couple looked uncomfortable. I just stood there, somewhere in the middle of the room, holding a beer I’d stopped drinking, feeling something I couldn’t name.
It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. It was something heavier. Something that sat in my stomach and radiated downward. I knew what I had. I’d known for years. One inch soft. Three and a half hard. A botched circumcision that left me with scars and skin that looked wrong. A penis so small that doctors had used the word “micropenis” in clinical notes. I’d measured it a hundred times, hoping I’d been wrong, hoping the ruler was lying. It never was.
Watching Tom — watching that thing slide in and out of her while twenty people cheered — I felt the full weight of what I was. What I wasn’t. The contrast was so stark it was almost funny. Almost.
The show wound down. The dark-haired one climbed off, pulled the condom off Tom, and held it up to the crowd like a trophy. More cheering. Tom pulled his clothes back on, still grinning, still the king. The strippers looked around the room, scanning for their next target.
“Who’s next?” the blonde called out, hands on her hips.
The room went quiet. Guys suddenly found their beers fascinating. A few shook their heads vigorously. One held up both hands like he was surrendering. Nobody wanted to follow that. Nobody wanted to be the guy who got naked after Tom and his nine inches had just put on a live sex show.
Then someone grabbed me.
I think it was the best man—I’m not sure; I didn’t turn to look. A hand on my shoulder, a shove forward. “Go on, get up there.” The voice was laughing. The room picked it up — a ripple of encouragement, the kind of group momentum that builds when someone’s been selected, and everyone wants to see what happens next.
I could have said no. I knew that. If I’d protested loud enough, pushed back, made a scene, they would have let me go. It was a joke. It was supposed to be a joke. But something else was driving me, something I’d carried for years — that dark, twisted impulse that had always lived at the center of my sexuality. The kink I’d never asked for, never wanted, but couldn’t escape. The desire to be seen. To be exposed. To have my worst secret laid bare in front of people and have them react to it.
I walked forward.
The two women circled me like sharks. The dark-haired one pulled my shirt over my head while the blonde ran her hands across my chest, making a show of it for the crowd. I was aware of every inch of my skin, every sound in the room, the heat of the lights, the smell of beer and sweat. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The dark-haired one moved behind me. She took my wrists and pulled them back, holding them together at the small of my back. I was trapped. Not really — I could have pulled free — but the illusion of it was enough. The blonde stepped in front of me, facing the crowd, and reached behind her. I felt her fingers find my belt buckle.
The room was watching. Twenty guys, some still holding their phones up. The buckle came undone. She popped the button. She pulled the zipper down slowly, dragging it out, making it a performance. Then she grabbed the waistband of my jeans and yanked them down to my ankles in one quick motion. I stepped out of them. I was standing in my boxer shorts, hands pinned behind me, chest exposed, in front of twenty people.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of my boxers. She was still facing the crowd, her body blocking theirs — blocking mine. She pulled them down in one smooth motion, and I felt the elastic drag over my hips, down my thighs, past my knees. The air hit my skin. I was naked.
She held the boxers up, twirled them around her finger, and tossed them to someone in the crowd. Then she stepped aside.
And there I was.
One inch. Soft, shriveled, practically retreating into my body. My balls tight and small, barely there. The scars from my circumcision visible even from a few feet away — uneven, angry lines where the skin had been cut wrong and healed wrong. My pubic area was shaved, which only made it look smaller. There was nothing to hide behind—no way to pretend.
The room didn’t react for a second. It was like a collective intake of breath, a moment of processing. Then the laughter started.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It was loud, explosive, the kind of laughter that comes when something is so much worse than expected that it becomes genuinely funny. Guys were doubling over. One guy slapped his knee. Another turned away, covering his face, his shoulders shaking. Someone let out a long, low whistle. The word “fuck” was repeated by at least three different people.
“Oh my God,” the blonde said, loud enough for everyone to hear. She was staring right at it. “What is that?”
The dark-haired one released my hands and came around to look. She bent down, getting close, her face level with my crotch. “That’s not a dick,” she said. “That’s a button.”
More laughter. Louder. Someone shouted something I didn’t catch. My face was burning so hot I thought my skin might blister. My hands were shaking at my sides. I could feel my heart in my temples, in my chest, in my stomach. And underneath all of it — underneath the shame and the heat and the overwhelming desire to disappear — something else was happening—something dark and electric, pulsing through me like a current.
I was the most turned on I had ever been in my life.
The blonde reached out and grabbed it. Between her thumb and forefinger, like she was picking up something tiny. She wiggled it back and forth, holding it up for the crowd. “Look at this little thing,” she said. “It’s like a baby’s.” She let go and patted my balls with her other hand, a gentle, almost affectionate tap. “And these little guys — look at them. Like two little grapes.”
The crowd was losing it. Guys were wiping tears from their eyes. Someone was definitely filming. The best man had his phone out and was zooming in. I stood there, naked, exposed, my one-inch dick on display for twenty people, and I felt something I’d never felt before — a kind of terrible, overwhelming validation. They were seeing me. The real me. The thing I’d hidden for twenty-seven years, the thing that had shaped every interaction, every relationship, every moment of sexual self-awareness — it was out. They knew.
The blonde crouched down in front of me. She looked up at me with this expression that was half pity, half amusement, and then she leaned forward and put my dick in her mouth.
I felt her lips close around it. The warmth, the wetness, the slight suction. She bobbed her head a couple of times, going through the motions. I could feel it — feel her mouth around me — and I wanted so badly to get hard. I wanted to respond. I wanted to prove something, anything.
Nothing happened.
My dick stayed soft. One inch, maybe a little less, sitting in her mouth like a piece of chewing gum. She tried for maybe thirty seconds, her tongue moving, her lips working, and I could feel the effort and the failure, and I could feel twenty pairs of eyes watching me not respond.
She pulled off, wiped her mouth, and looked up at me. Then she looked at the crowd. Then she looked back at my dick.
“Babydick loser,” she said, flatly, almost conversationally.
The room exploded again. She stood up, patted my chest like I was a child, and walked away. The dark-haired one gave me a look — something between sympathy and disgust — and turned back to the crowd. The show was over. I was done.
I found my boxers on the floor near a guy who was still laughing. I pulled them on, then my jeans, then my shirt. My hands were still shaking. My face was still burning. I grabbed a beer from the table and drank half of it in one go.
The party continued. The strippers did a bit more, collected their money, and left. Tom came over and clapped me on the shoulder, still riding the high of his own performance. “Tough act to follow, eh?” he said, grinning. He didn’t mention my dick. He didn’t need to. Everyone else was already talking about it.
The rest of the night was a blur of drinking and laughter and the occasional sideways glance. A few guys came up to me and told me I was “brave” for going up there, which somehow made it worse. One guy — I didn’t know him well — leaned in and said, “Seriously though, mate. Get that checked out.” He was drunk, but he meant it. I laughed it off and drank until I couldn’t feel my face.
I went home around three in the morning. I stood in my bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I pulled down my jeans and boxers and looked at my dick — one inch, soft, scarred, pathetic. I thought about Tom’s nine inches. I thought about the stripper’s mouth. I thought about the laughter. I thought about the word “babydick.”
I touched myself. I tried to get hard. It took forever — longer than it ever had — and when I finally did, all three and a half inches of it, I came almost immediately. The orgasm was intense, almost painful, and it was accompanied by a wave of shame so strong I had to sit down on the bathroom floor.
That was years ago. I still see some of the guys who were there around town. At the pub, at the shops, at the gym. They always greet me the same way.
“Alright, little guy.”
They say it with a grin. Some of them say it in front of other people. One of them — a guy called Danny — says it every single time, without fail, like it’s my actual name. I’ve never corrected him. I’ve never told him to stop. I just smile and nod and feel that same dark current pulse through me, that same mix of shame and arousal that I felt standing on that sheet in front of twenty people with my one-inch dick on display.
I jerk off to that memory constantly. The laughter. The pointing. The stripper’s mouth. The word “babydick.” The fact that I couldn’t get hard. The fact that everyone saw. The fact that they still remember.
It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was also the best. I’ve never been more alive than I was in that moment — naked, exposed, laughed at, reduced to nothing. Every other sexual experience I’ve ever had — and there haven’t been many — has been measured against that night, and every one has come up short.
I don’t know what that says about me. I’ve stopped trying to figure it out.
The End.
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