Roommate Briefs
A Fictional Story by limpshrimp83.
I own seven pairs of briefs. Not boxer briefs—briefs. Tighty-whities. The kind of underwear that leaves nothing to the imagination, the kind that clings to whatever you have and shows the outline of whatever you don’t. I didn’t buy them because they’re comfortable, although they are. I bought them because of what they do to me when someone sees me in them.
Six of the seven pairs are deliberately embarrassing. One pair is plain white—classic, basic, the kind of underwear a kid wears before he learns that boxers are the socially acceptable option for adult men. The other five are worse. A pair with cartoon dinosaurs on them, child-sized print on an adult-sized waistband. A pair of pink cotton briefs with “PRINCESS” written across the back. A pair with strawberries printed all over them, with a frilly trim along the waistband and leg openings that my girlfriend at the time bought as a joke and that I kept because the joke was on me and I liked the joke. A pair of sheer white briefs that are essentially transparent when stretched over my body. And a pair of pale blue briefs with a small padlock print on the front, right where the bulge should be.
The seventh pair is the plain white ones. Those are the ones I started with.
—
I moved into the dorm in late August. It was a standard university residence hall—two beds, two desks, a shared bathroom down the hall, a window that looked out onto a parking lot. My roommate’s name was Connor. He was tall—six-two, maybe six-three—with broad shoulders and the kind of easy, confident body language that comes from never having to worry about how you look. He played club rugby. He lifted. He had a drawer full of boxer briefs from athletic brands, each pair sized for a man who needed the support.
I knew this because I saw them. The first week of living together, I saw him change—pulling off his jeans, standing in his boxer briefs, reaching for a pair of shorts. I saw the outline. The bulge. The clear, obvious, substantial shape of a penis that was soft and still clearly bigger than mine was hard. He didn’t think about it. He didn’t adjust himself, hide, or turn away. He just stood there, in his underwear, doing the normal things that a man does when he’s comfortable in his body, and his body has never given him a reason to be uncomfortable.
I looked away. I always looked away. Looking was dangerous—looking led to comparing, and comparing led to the thing I tried not to think about, which was the fact that my penis was 2.7 inches hard and less than an inch soft and that when I wore briefs, the front of them was flat. Not flat like a woman’s underwear—flat like a man’s underwear on a man who doesn’t have enough to create a shape. The fabric hung loose where it should have stretched. The pouch, if you could call it that, was empty.
I wore boxers for the first two weeks. I wore them because boxers hide things. Boxers are loose, shapeless, forgiving. You can’t tell what’s underneath boxers unless someone is looking very carefully, and even then, the fabric bunches and folds, creating the illusion of more. Boxers were my camouflage. My way of existing in a shared room with a man whose body was everything mine wasn’t.
But I wanted to wear the briefs.
I wanted to wear them because of what would happen when I did. Because of what Connor would see—or rather, what he wouldn’t see. Because the briefs would show exactly what I had, which was almost nothing, and the showing would be the thing. The exposure. The humiliation. The quiet, private, devastating act of being seen as I actually was.
I thought about it for two weeks. I thought about it while lying in bed at night, listening to Connor breathe in the bed across from mine. I thought about it in the shower, standing under the water, looking down at my small, shriveled, cold-affected dick and imagining what it would look like in a pair of white briefs. I thought about it when I was hard, which was often—lying in bed, thinking about being seen, my 2.7 inches stiff and thin and barely visible in my own hand. I’d imagine walking out of the bathroom in my briefs, Connor looking up from his phone, seeing me, the front of my underwear flat, and the understanding landing in his eyes.
I thought about it until I couldn’t think about it anymore, and then I did it.
—
It was a Tuesday night. Connor was on his bed, back against the wall, watching something on his laptop. He was wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt. I was in the bathroom—our room had a sink and mirror, though the toilet and shower were down the hall—and I was changing. I’d been in jeans and a hoodie all day, and I wanted to get into something comfortable for the evening.
I pulled off my jeans. I pulled off my boxers. I stood there in the bathroom, naked from the waist down, and I looked at myself in the mirror.
My dick was soft. It was less than an inch—maybe three-quarters, maybe less, depending on the temperature and my level of anxiety, which was currently high. It sat against my body, barely protruding, the head partially hidden, the shaft almost nonexistent. My balls were small and tight, pulled up close. The whole package looked like it belonged on a boy, not a man. Like something that hadn’t finished developing. Like something that was waiting for a puberty that had already come and gone and hadn’t done much.
I picked up the white briefs. I stepped into them. I pulled them up.
The fit was what I expected. The waistband sat on my hips. The fabric stretched across my ass—fine, normal, unremarkable. And the front. The front was flat. The pouch that was designed to hold a penis and balls held nothing—or held so little that the fabric didn’t stretch, didn’t fill, didn’t do anything except hang there, smooth and empty, like the front of a pair of women’s underwear. There was no bulge. No outline. No shape. Just flat white cotton with nothing behind it.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I could feel my heartbeat in my chest, in my throat, in my face. I could feel the heat rising—the blush, the tell, the thing that always gave me away. My face was pink. My ears were red. I looked like a man who was about to do something he was ashamed of and aroused by in equal measure.
I opened the bathroom door. I walked into the room.
—
Connor glanced up. His eyes moved from his laptop to me, the automatic look that happens when someone enters your peripheral vision. He saw me standing there in a t-shirt and white briefs. His eyes went to the briefs—just for a second, the natural, involuntary glance that anyone gives when someone walks into a room in their underwear—and then back to his laptop.
Then back to the briefs.
He looked again—longer this time. Not staring, but looking. The kind of second look that happens when your brain registers something unexpected and needs another moment to process it. I could see the slight furrow in his brow, the tiny shift in his expression that said wait—
He’d seen me in boxers for two weeks. Boxers that hid me, that bunched and folded and created the illusion of normalcy. Now I was in briefs, and the briefs were flat, and the flatness was the kind of thing that a person notices even if they don’t want to notice it, even if they would never say anything about it, even if they try to look away and focus on their laptop.
He noticed.
I walked to my bed. I sat down. I pulled out my own laptop and opened it, acting casual, acting like this was normal, like I always wore briefs, like there was nothing unusual about a grown man walking around his dorm room in tighty-whities with nothing in the front. I could feel the fabric against my skin—smooth, tight, empty. I could feel my dick, soft and tiny, pressed against the cotton without creating any visible shape. I could feel the air on my thighs. And I could feel Connor’s awareness—the way the energy in the room had shifted, the way the silence had taken on a different quality, the way he was very carefully not looking at me again.
My face was burning. My heart was pounding. And underneath the briefs, underneath the flat, empty cotton, I was starting to get hard.
—
I wore the white briefs for about an hour. We watched TV—Connor had plugged his laptop into a monitor on his desk, and we were watching some show I wasn’t paying attention to. I sat on my bed with my legs up, laptop on my thighs, the t-shirt draped over my lap in a way that was probably more conspicuous than just letting the briefs show. Every few minutes, I’d feel a pulse—my dick twitching inside the flat cotton, responding to the situation, to the knowledge that Connor had seen and that the seeing had registered and that we were both pretending it hadn’t.
I was half-hard for most of that hour. Not enough to create a visible bulge—half-hard for me was maybe an inch and a half, still mostly hidden, still not enough to fill the pouch. But enough to feel it. Enough that the arousal was there, constant, low-level, a hum in my body that I couldn’t turn off.
When I got up to go to the bathroom, I caught Connor’s eyes flicker down—just for a moment, just long enough to confirm that he was looking. That the flat front of my briefs was something his eyes returned to even when he was trying not to. I walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror. My face was red. My briefs were flat. I could see the tiny outline of my half-hard dick through the cotton—barely visible, a small bump that could have been a fold in the fabric. I pressed my hand against the front. Felt myself. Felt how small I was, even half-hard, even aroused, even in the situation I’d been fantasizing about for two weeks.
I went back to my bed. We kept watching TV. Connor didn’t say anything.
—
He said something two days later, when I wore the dinosaur pair.
I’d planned it. Not obviously—I didn’t want it to seem deliberate, didn’t want Connor to know that I was curating my underwear for his reaction. So I waited two days, wore boxers in between, and then on Thursday evening, I changed into the dinosaur briefs after a shower.
They were worse than the white ones. The white ones were plain, at least—generic, unremarkable, the kind of underwear that could be explained away as preference or habit. The dinosaur briefs were childish. Cartoon stegosauruses and triceratops in primary colors, printed on white cotton, with a waistband that sat low on my hips. They looked like something a six-year-old would wear. On me—on my body, with my flat front and my lack of bulge—they looked appropriate. That was the thing that made my stomach tighten and my face flush and my dick stir inside the empty pouch: the briefs looked like they belonged on me. Like the childishness of the underwear matched the underdevelopment of what was inside it.
Connor saw them and laughed.
It wasn’t a big laugh. It was a short, surprised exhale—the kind of sound that escapes before you can catch it. He was on his bed. I walked in from the bathroom, and he looked up, saw the dinosaurs, made the sound, then pressed his lips together like he was trying to take it back.
“Dude,” he said.
“What?” I said. I was already red. I could feel it—the heat in my face, the blush that I couldn’t control, the thing that turned every moment of embarrassment into a visible, public event.
“Nothing. Nice underwear.”
“Thanks.”
“Are those…dinosaurs?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at me. At the briefs. At the flat front of the briefs, where the dinosaurs marched across empty cotton. His eyes stayed there for a beat too long—on the front, on the flatness, on the absence of what should have been there. Then he looked away.
“My girlfriend got them for me,” I said. I didn’t have a girlfriend. I’d never had a girlfriend who would buy me dinosaur briefs. But it was the kind of thing you say when you’re standing in embarrassing underwear in front of your roommate, and you need an explanation that makes it someone else’s fault.
“Cool,” he said. He went back to his laptop.
I sat on my bed. My dick was hard—fully hard, 2.7 inches, pressing against the inside of the briefs without creating any visible shape. The cotton was still flat. The dinosaurs were still marching. And I was sitting there with a full erection that was invisible inside underwear designed for a child, and I could feel every inch of the 2.7, every millimeter of the thin, stiff shaft, and I was more turned on than I’d been in weeks.
—
I wore a different pair every few days. I spaced them out—boxers in between —so it didn’t seem planned and could pass as the random underwear choices of a man who happened to own a variety of briefs. The pink PRINCESS pair. The sheer pair. The blue pair with the padlock print. Each one was its own small event, its own moment of exposure, its own silent interaction with Connor, consisting of him seeing and me being seen. Neither of us saying what was actually happening.
The pink PRINCESS pair got a reaction. I wore them on a Saturday morning, and Connor was at his desk, and I walked out of the bathroom in them. He turned around in his chair and looked at me, and his face went through several expressions in quick succession—surprise, confusion, amusement, and then something that looked almost like discomfort, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to find it funny.
“Princess?” he said.
“Laundry day,” I said. “Wearing what’s clean.”
“Those are clean?”
“Very clean. Never been worn.”
He stared at the back of the briefs, where PRINCESS was stretched across my ass. Then his eyes moved to the front. The flat front. The pink cotton with nothing behind it. He stared for a moment—longer than he’d stared at the dinosaurs, longer than he’d stared at the white ones. Long enough that I could feel the looking, feel it on my skin like heat, like sunlight, like a hand pressing against the flat, empty cotton.
He turned back to his desk without saying anything else.
I was hard before I made it to my bed.
—
The sheer pair was the one that almost broke the silence.
They were white, but sheer—thin enough that when stretched, they were transparent. Not subtle about it. Not “lightly sheer” or “semi-transparent.” See-through. The kind of fabric that exists to be looked through, that defeats its own purpose by hiding nothing.
I put them on knowing what they would show. That was the point. The white briefs showed the flatness. The dinosaur briefs showed the childishness. The PRINCESS briefs showed the humiliation. The sheer briefs showed the thing itself—my actual dick, my actual size, visible through the fabric like a window into the reality of my body.
I stood in the bathroom and looked at myself. Through the sheer cotton, I could see my dick. Soft, less than an inch, a small pink nub against my body. I could see my balls—small, tight, barely there. I could see the skin, the hair, the shape of everything. The briefs were a technicality, a formality, a gesture toward modesty that accomplished nothing. I was effectively naked.
I walked into the room.
Connor looked up. His eyes went to the briefs. He saw what the briefs showed—or rather, what they failed to hide. I watched his face change—the slow, dawning recognition that he was looking at my actual penis through the fabric. That the sheer cotton was revealing exactly how small I was. That the flatness he’d been seeing in the other briefs wasn’t a trick of the fabric, a result of the cold, or an optical illusion. It was me. This was what I had.
He didn’t say anything. He looked away quickly—too quickly, the kind of quick avoidance that happens when someone has seen something they weren’t supposed to see, or when they’ve seen something that changes their understanding of a person, and they need a moment to adjust.
I sat on my bed. My dick was already getting hard inside the sheer fabric, and I knew—could feel, could see in the bathroom mirror afterward—that when hard, the sheer briefs showed everything. The thin shaft. The small head. The 2.7 inches that was my full, maximum, fully aroused size, visible through transparent cotton like a specimen under glass.
I sat with my laptop on my thighs, hiding my lap, and I could feel Connor’s awareness in the room like a physical presence. He knew. He’d seen. Through the sheer fabric, he’d seen my actual penis, and it was small, and he knew it was small, and we were both sitting in the room with that knowledge between us like a third person.
After about ten minutes, he said: “You can see through those, by the way.”
“I know,” I said.
“Okay.” He paused. “Just making sure you knew.”
“I know.”
He went back to his laptop. I went back to mine. The knowledge sat between us. My dick was hard inside the sheer briefs, and if I’d moved the laptop, if I’d stood up, if I’d done anything that exposed my lap, he would have seen it—seen the small, stiff, 2.7-inch erection through the transparent fabric, seen the thing that I’d been hiding and that he’d been suspecting and that the sheer briefs had just confirmed.
I didn’t move the laptop. I sat there, hard and hidden, and the not-showing was almost as intense as the showing would have been.
—
The blue pair with the padlock print was the one that prompted the comment I’d been waiting for.
I wore them on a Thursday. The padlock was printed on the front, right where the bulge should be—a small, silver padlock graphic, locked, sitting over the empty pouch. The symbolism was obvious, or at least it felt obvious to me—locked, small, inaccessible, the padlock guarding nothing.
Connor saw them and said: “Do you even need those?”
“What?”
“The briefs. Like—” He gestured vaguely at my crotch. “Do you even need the support? Seems like you could go commando and nobody would know the difference.”
He said it casually. Not cruelly, not mockingly, just the kind of observation a man makes after noticing something for weeks and finally deciding to say it out loud. The flatness. The emptiness. The fact that my underwear had no bulge because there was nothing to bulge.
I felt the heat hit my face like a wall—the blush—full, immediate, uncontrollable. I could feel my skin burning, could feel the redness spreading from my cheeks to my ears to my neck. And I could feel my dick responding—the twitch, the stir, the beginning of an erection inside the flat blue cotton.
“I’ve never needed the support,” I said.
The words came out before I could think about them. They were true—literally true, factually accurate, the honest answer to his question. I’d never needed supportive underwear because there was nothing to support. My dick was too small to bounce, too small to shift, too small to need containment. Briefs or commando, the difference was negligible. The padlock on the front of my underwear was guarding an empty room.
Connor looked at me. At my red face. At the flat front of the briefs. He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something else, then closed it. He turned back to his laptop.
I sat on my bed. I was red-faced and hard, and the padlock was sitting over my tiny erection without any visible change in the fabric. I manspread—slowly, deliberately, letting my knees fall open, letting the flat blue cotton stretch between my thighs, letting the padlock and the emptiness behind it be visible to anyone in the room who looked. Connor didn’t look. Or if he did, he did it when I wasn’t watching.
I sat like that for ten minutes. We watched TV. The silence was full of the thing he’d said and the thing I’d confirmed and the thing we both knew and weren’t talking about: that my penis was small. That the briefs were flat because I was small. That the support comment wasn’t really about support—it was about size, and we both knew it.
I got up and went to my room. My face was still red. My dick was still hard. I closed the door and stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself—the blue briefs, the padlock, the flat front with the tiny erection hidden inside it—and I touched myself through the cotton. Felt the small, stiff shape of my cock under the fabric. Pressed my fingers against it and watched the fabric deform—barely, slightly, the smallest possible bump where my 2.7 inches was straining against the cotton.
That was what I had. That was what Connor had seen and commented on. That was what the padlock was guarding.
I came in the briefs. Stood in front of the mirror, hand inside the waistband, stroking my 2.7 inches with two fingers and a thumb. I came in less than a minute, the orgasm hitting me hard and fast, and I watched the small wet spot appear on the front of the blue cotton—barely visible, barely there, the smallest possible evidence of a man’s climax.
—
I wore the strawberry pair last.
It was the last week of school. Finals were over. Connor was packing. I was packing. The room was half-empty, boxes stacked against walls, posters peeled off, the bare concrete walls showing through where we’d lived for a year.
I put on the strawberry briefs—the frilly ones with lace trim and cartoon strawberries printed on pink cotton. The most embarrassing pair. The one I’d saved for last. The one that my ex-girlfriend had bought as a joke, the joke being that they were women’s underwear in a men’s size, the joke being that they looked ridiculous on a man, the joke being that on me—on my body, with my flat front and my lack of bulge—they looked like they fit.
I walked out of the bathroom. Connor was on his bed, sorting through a box of stuff. He looked up. He saw the briefs—the strawberries, the lace, the pink cotton, the flat front. He stared at me. His mouth fell open. Not dramatically—slack-jawed, literally slack-jawed, his lips parted, his eyes on the briefs, on the flatness, on the frills.
I started making jokes. “My girlfriend left these behind,” I said. “I told you I’d wear them for you—”
He interrupted me. “Dude.” His voice was strange—quiet, almost gentle, the voice of someone who has realized something and is trying to figure out how to say it. “I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Are you…is this…do you like this?”
He gestured at the briefs. At me. At the situation—the whole situation, the whole year, the white briefs and the dinosaur briefs and the PRINCESS briefs and the sheer briefs and the padlock briefs and now the strawberry briefs, the whole slow, deliberate, escalating parade of underwear that had been designed to show him exactly what I had and exactly what I didn’t.
“Like what?” I said. My face was red. My dick was hard inside the strawberry cotton, 2.7 inches pressing against the fabric without creating a visible shape.
“Like…me seeing you. In these. Is that a thing for you?”
I stood there. In the strawberry briefs. In the lace and the pink and the flat front. And I thought about lying—about deflecting, about laughing it off, about saying no, I just like the underwear or no, it’s laundry day or no, it’s not a thing. I thought about all the ways I could deny what was obviously true, what had been obviously true for months, what Connor had figured out and was now standing in front of me with the question I’d been wanting someone to ask me for years.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a thing.”
He nodded slowly. He looked at the briefs again—at the flat front, at the strawberries, at the lace. At the small, barely visible bump where my erection was hiding inside the cotton.
“I kind of figured,” he said. “After the sheer ones. I could see—” He stopped. He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. I knew what he could see. He could see my dick through the sheer fabric. He could see how small it was. He’d seen it, and he’d known, and he’d spent the rest of the semester watching me parade in front of him in increasingly embarrassing underwear with an increasingly flat front. He’d figured out that the flatness and the underwear and the frequency were connected. That I was doing it on purpose. That the exposure was the point.
“I can see you’re hard right now,” he said. “Through the strawberries.”
I looked down. He was right—the fabric was stretched tight enough, thin enough, that my erection was creating a small, barely visible bump in the cotton. A bump that, on any other man, would have been the outline of a cock. On me, it was a small, rounded protrusion that could have been mistaken for a fold in the fabric. That was my hard-on, visible through cartoon strawberries. That was what I had.
“I know,” I said.
“Is it…is that as big as it gets?”
“Yeah.”
“How big is it?”
“2.7 inches.”
He was quiet for a moment. Not laughing and not mocking. Just processing. The number—2.7 inches—sitting in the air between us, a number that was smaller than he’d expected, smaller than the cultural average, smaller than what he was packing in his boxer briefs by a margin that neither of us needed to state.
“Okay,” he said. “I didn’t know. I mean, I could tell something was—I could tell the briefs were flat, but I didn’t know if that was just—or if you were—”
“I’m small,” I said. “I know I’m small. That’s the thing. That’s why I wear the briefs. Because they show it.”
He nodded again. He looked at me—standing in the strawberry briefs, hard, red-faced, exposed in a way that went beyond the physical. He’d seen my body. He’d seen the flatness. He’d seen the sheer briefs. And now he’d seen the number—2.7 inches—and he knew everything.
“Okay,” he said again. “I gotta be honest, I noticed. Like, right away. The first pair—the white ones. I was like, there’s nothing there. I didn’t know if you were just—or if it was cold or—but then you kept wearing them, and I was like, he’s doing this on purpose.”
“Was it obvious?”
“The flatness? Yeah. Yeah, it was obvious. I could tell there was nothing in the pouch. Like, the fabric was just hanging there—no shape, no bulge, nothing. I’ve shared rooms with guys before, and I’ve never seen—I mean, most guys, you can see something. Even soft. Even in briefs. There’s a shape. With you, there was just…flat.”
My dick twitched inside the strawberries. I felt it—the small, involuntary pulse of arousal that came from hearing him say it. Flat. Nothing. No shape. The words I’d been wanting to hear, the confirmation I’d been seeking, the verbal acknowledgment of what my body looked like in those briefs.
“And you kept wearing them,” he said. “More and more. And I was like, is he doing this because he wants me to notice? And then the sheer ones—I could literally see your dick through them. Like, I could see how small it was. And I was like, okay, he’s doing this on purpose. He wants me to see.”
“I did,” I said.
“I know. I figured it out. I just didn’t know how to—I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to make it weird.”
“It’s already weird.”
He laughed. A real laugh, not mocking, not cruel. The laugh of someone who has been holding something in for months, finally letting it out. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s pretty weird.”
I stood there in the strawberry briefs, and I let the moment exist—the two of us in a half-packed dorm room at the end of the year, the underwear and the flatness and the 2.7 inches all out in the open, the thing that had been building for months finally spoken, and I felt the familiar combination of shame and arousal that I’d been chasing my whole life.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Sure.”
“When you saw—when you saw how small I was—what did you think?”
He looked at me. He thought about it. He was quiet for long enough that I could feel my heartbeat in my chest, in my throat, in my cock.
“I thought it was small,” he said. “I thought—yeah. I thought it was really small. I felt bad for you, at first. And then I figured out you were doing it on purpose, and I was like, okay, he’s into this, and I felt—I don’t know. I felt like I was part of something. Like you wanted me to see, and I was seeing, and that was the whole point.”
“It was.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “It’s really small, dude. Like, really small. I’ve never seen one that small. Not in person. I didn’t—I mean, I knew guys were different sizes, but I didn’t know it could be that—I didn’t know it could be basically nothing.”
Basically nothing. The words landed in my body like a physical sensation—a pulse, a twitch, a surge of arousal so strong that I felt my cock strain against the strawberry cotton, all 2.7 inches of it, pressing against the fabric, creating a bump that was barely there.
“I know,” I said. “I know it’s small.”
“Is it hard right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Right now? In those?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not—it doesn’t look hard. It doesn’t look like anything.”
I looked down. The strawberry briefs, stretched over my erection, showed almost nothing. A small bump. A slight protrusion. The kind of shape that could be a seam, a fold, a trick of the fabric. My full, maximum, hardest erection, and it was invisible inside cartoon strawberries.
“That’s it,” I said. “That’s as hard as it gets.”
He stared at the briefs. At the bump. At the 2.7 inches that was all I had, all I’d ever had, all I’d ever offer. He stared at it the way you stare at something that doesn’t make sense—something that challenges your understanding of the world, of bodies, of what’s normal and what’s possible.
“Huh,” he said.
—
We finished packing. We moved out. We said goodbye in the parking lot, loading our boxes into separate cars, going to separate summers, separate lives. The strawberry briefs were in my suitcase, folded neatly, the lace trim poking out of the waistband like a secret.
I never saw Connor again, not in person. We texted a few times over the summer—casual stuff, the way you text a roommate you’re not going to live with again. He never brought up the underwear. I never brought it up. The conversation in the dorm room—the it’s really small, dude and the basically nothing and the that’s it?—stayed in the dorm room, in the past, in the space between us that had been filled for a year with flat briefs and unspoken knowledge.
But I think about it. I think about the white briefs, the flat front, and the first time he looked and saw nothing. I think about the dinosaur briefs and the dude and the laugh. I think about the PRINCESS briefs and the way his eyes moved to the front and stayed. I think about the sheer briefs and what he saw through them—my actual dick, my actual size, the thing itself, unhidden. I think about the padlock briefs and the support comment and the I’ve never needed the support and the way the silence after that sentence was the loudest silence of my life.
And I think about the strawberries. The last pair. The frilly, pink, cartoon-fruit, women’s-underwear-in-a-man’s-size pair that I saved for the last week of school, the pair that broke the silence and made him ask the question and got me the answer I’d been wanting: it’s really small. Like, really small. Basically nothing.
I’m wearing the strawberries right now. I’m sitting in my apartment, in my own room, alone. My dick is hard inside them—2.7 inches, pressing against the cotton, creating a barely visible bump. I’m thinking about Connor’s face when he saw them. The slack jaw. The open mouth. The moment of recognition.
I’m thinking about wearing them somewhere. In front of someone. Not a roommate this time—someone new, someone who hasn’t seen, someone who will look at the flat front and the strawberries and the lace and see what Connor saw: nothing. The absence. The smallness. The thing that I am and that I want to be seen as.
I’m thinking about the next pair of briefs. What they’ll look like. Who will see them. What they’ll say.
I’m thinking about the flat front—the empty pouch. The padlock guarding nothing.
I’m thinking about 2.7 inches and the way it sounded when Connor said, “That’s it?”—the disbelief, the confusion, the quiet, genuine astonishment of a man who has just learned that a penis can be that small and that a person can want that smallness to be seen.
That’s it. That’s all I have. And I want someone to see it again.
The End.
*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.