The Party
A Fictional Story by Obvious-Builder-9857.
“You’re moping,” he said.
“I’m not moping. I’m resting.”
“You’re moping in the dark. That’s worse.” He flipped my desk lamp on like he was making a point. “There’s a party at Brent’s house. You’re coming. End of discussion.”
I should have told him no. I should have locked the door and put in my earbuds and let the night swallow me whole the way I preferred. But Jacob had that energy about him — the kind that wore you down not through argument but through sheer, relentless proximity. He just stood there, arms crossed, grinning, until the path of least resistance became agreeing with him.
So I went.
—
Brent’s house was packed by the time we arrived. Music thumped through the walls so hard I could feel it in my sternum. Red solo cups everywhere. A keg in the kitchen surrounded by people I vaguely recognized from campus. Girls in tight tops and short skirts. Guys flexing and posturing. The whole ecosystem of a college party in full, chaotic bloom.
I grabbed a cup. Then another. Then another.
The truth was, I had a reason for drinking that had nothing to do with social lubrication. Aja was here.
Aja. Pronounced like the continent. She was in my Tuesday-Thursday literature seminar, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. Dark brown skin that caught every light in the room. Long box braids that she sometimes pulled over one shoulder while taking notes. A laugh that could stop traffic. And these eyes — deep, dark, knowing — that made me feel like she could read every thought I was too cowardly to say out loud.
I was in love with her. Pathetically, hopelessly, completely in love with her.
She had a boyfriend, of course.
Peyton.
The name alone made my stomach clench. Peyton was built like a Greek statue that had been brought to life and then enrolled in a business program—broad shoulders, thick arms, a jaw that could cut glass. Word around campus was that he benched over 300 pounds. He wore compression shirts like they were a personality trait. And he had made it his personal mission to make my life miserable ever since he caught me looking at Aja a beat too long during a study group last semester.
He knew. He knew full well I was in love with his girlfriend. And he treated that knowledge like a weapon he could pull out and brandish whenever the mood struck.
Which was often.
“Hey, little man,” he’d say when he passed me in the hall, emphasizing the word little with a smirk that suggested he knew things about me he shouldn’t. He’d shoulder-check me in doorways. Make comments about my height — I was average, actually, but next to him everyone looked small. He’d once introduced me to his friends as “the guy who stares at my girl like a lost puppy,” and they’d all laughed, and I’d stood there with my hands in my pockets wanting the floor to open up and swallow me.
Tonight, I could see him across the room. He was holding court near the kitchen, surrounded by his crew — Travis, Cole, and a few other guys who all looked like they’d been carved from the same block of muscle and entitlement. Aja was beside him, her arm looped through his, leaning into his side. She looked incredible. A cropped top that showed her midriff. High-waisted jeans that hugged her hips. Gold hoops in her ears.
I looked away before anyone caught me staring. I drank.
Cup after cup after cup. The cheap beer tasted like nothing, which made it easy to keep going. I settled onto a couch in the living room, slumped into the corner, and let the room spin gently around me. I told myself I was working up the courage to talk to Aja. Just a casual hello. Just a normal human conversation. But every time I thought about standing up, I imagined Peyton’s face, that sneer, and my legs turned to cement.
So I stayed on the couch. And I drank. And I watched the room blur at the edges.
—
Everyone knows alcohol shrinks things. The cold does too. Nerves, definitely. And I was dealing with all three — drunk, nervous, and the AC in Brent’s house was cranked so high I could feel goosebumps on my arms. But the truth was, I wasn’t packing much to begin with. One inch soft. Three and a half hard. I’d measured more times than I care to admit, hoping the number would change. It never did. I’d looked at porn, looked at myself, looked at porn again, and felt the kind of despair that settles into your bones and becomes part of who you are.
I shaved, too. Everything. Down to the skin. I’d read somewhere that trimming made it look bigger, so I’d gone further — completely bare. The result, I would later realize, did not make it look bigger. It made it look like it belonged to someone who hadn’t hit puberty yet—a smooth, tiny nub sitting above two small, hairless balls. But I didn’t know that yet. I still thought I was doing myself a favor.
I was fighting sleep. My eyelids were leaden. The music had become a distant, rhythmic pulse. The room was warm and cold at the same time, and the couch cushions were softer than they had any right to be. I remember thinking, Just close your eyes for a second. Just a second.
I fell asleep.
Hard.
—
I don’t know how long I was out. Hours, apparently. The party had shifted, thinned, reconstituted itself around me. When I started to surface, it was gradual — like swimming up through thick, dark water. The first thing I noticed was that I was cold. Not the ambient chill of the AC. Direct, skin-level cold. Air touching places it shouldn’t. My arms. My legs. My stomach. My—
Then I heard it. Giggling. Not one person. Several. That stifled, trying-not-to-laugh-out-loud sound that groups make when they’re witnessing something hilarious and trying to be quiet about it. And underneath it, the soft electronic clicking of phone cameras. Snap. Snap. Snap.
I opened my eyes.
There were faces. A ring of them, hovering above me, lit by the blue glow of their phone screens. Someone to my left. Someone to my right. More behind them. Six, maybe eight people, all looking down at me with expressions ranging from amused to horrified to barely containing themselves.
Travis was there, phone out, grinning. Cole was beside him, one hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. A couple of girls I half-recognized from the communications building. A guy I didn’t know at all, filming.
And I was naked.
Completely, utterly, devastatingly naked.
I looked down at myself, and the full horror hit me like a freight train. My clothes were gone. Shirt, pants, underwear — all of it stripped off me while I slept. I was lying on my back on the couch, legs splayed slightly, arms at my sides, and right in the center of everything — my tiny, hairless, shriveled penis, sitting there like a joke without a punchline. The alcohol and the cold and the sleep had done their work. It was barely visible—a little pink nub, no bigger than a thumb tip, completely exposed. My balls had retracted so tight they were almost invisible. The smooth, hairless skin made it worse — so much worse. I looked prepubescent. I looked like a little boy who’d wandered into a college party and lost his clothes.
And I was hard. Or trying to be. Some cruel biological reflex had kicked in while I slept, and my dick stood straight up — all three and a half inches of it, thin and pink and comically small against my bare body. It looked like a pinkie finger pointing at the ceiling. A party favor. A punchline.
I was frozen. My brain was trying to process too many things at once. The cold. The nakedness. The cameras. The laughter. The fact that I was hard and tiny and hairless and on full display for God knows how long while I slept. How long had they been standing there? How many pictures had they taken? How many people had seen?
Then I saw her.
Aja.
She was standing between my knees. Right there, directly in front of me, looking down at my naked body with an expression I will never forget as long as I live. One hand was over her mouth. Her eyes were wide. She was trying not to laugh — I could see the muscles in her face working, the corners of her lips twitching, the way her shoulders trembled with the effort of holding it in. But she was losing the battle. A small, strangled sound escaped through her fingers. Her eyes dropped to my crotch, then back up to my face, then back down again.
She had been looking at it. This whole time. While I slept. While they took pictures. She had been standing there, between my spread legs, staring at my tiny, hard, hairless little dick.
“Aja—” I croaked.
That’s when she lost it. The laugh broke free — a sharp, helpless burst that she tried to muffle with both hands but couldn’t. Her whole body shook with it. She doubled over slightly, braids falling forward, and when she straightened up, there were tears in her eyes. Not from sympathy. From laughing.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Oh, my God.”
Behind her, Peyton appeared. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole scene with a look of pure, satisfied cruelty. He’d done this. He and his goons had stripped me while I was passed out, arranged me like a display piece, and called everyone over to see. And he was enjoying every second.
“Look at that little thing,” Travis said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He zoomed his phone in. “Bro, is that real? That can’t be real.”
“It’s real,” Cole said, grinning. “Look at it. It’s like a baby carrot.”
“More like a cocktail weenie,” someone else offered.
The laughter swelled. More phones. More pictures. I could hear someone saying, “Send that to me, send that to me.” Someone else was narrating for a video: “Aight, check it out, this dude passed out, and his dick is tiny, bro. Like, medically tiny.”
I finally moved. My hands shot to my crotch, covering what little there was to cover. But the damage was done. The images were captured. The moment was burned into everyone’s memory — and their camera rolls.
I scrambled upright. The room lurched. My bare feet hit the cold floor, and I stumbled, catching myself on the arm of the couch. My hands were pressed over my dick, but my ass was out, and I heard someone behind me say, “Oh shit, he’s got no hair anywhere!” More laughter. More cameras.
I ran.
I pushed through the crowd, naked, hands clamped over my crotch, and bolted for the front door. I didn’t grab a blanket. I didn’t look for my clothes. I didn’t think. I just ran. Out the door, into the night, barefoot on the cold sidewalk, my bare ass catching the porch light as I fled. I heard someone shout, “Where’s he going?” and someone else answer, “Home, probably. To cry.” More laughter, fading behind me.
I ran the entire way back to my dorm. Three blocks. Naked. Crying. The cold air hit every inch of me, and by the time I reached my building, my penis had shrunk to almost nothing — a tiny, cold, raw nub barely poking out from my body. I fumbled with my key card, hands shaking, and let myself in. The hallway was empty. I made it to my room, locked the door behind me, and collapsed on my bed.
I lay there in the dark, naked, shaking, and stared at the ceiling. I could still see Aja’s face. The way she’d looked at me. The way she’d laughed. The way her eyes had dropped to my crotch and stayed there, taking in the full, pathetic reality of what I was packing.
I pulled up my phone with trembling hands. I didn’t want to look, but I looked anyway. The group chats were already blowing up. Someone had posted the photos. Blurred, but not blurred enough. You could still see everything — the tiny erection, the smooth, hairless skin, the look of pure humiliation on my sleeping face. Comments were rolling in.
“Bro’s packing a micropeen 💀💀💀”
“Is that it? That’s all of it?”
“Why is it so small AND bald lmaooo”
“Aja saw that and DIED 😭😭”
“Baby dick baby dick baby dick”
“Peyton really did him dirty with this one”
I put the phone down. I pulled my knees to my chest. I stayed like that for a long time.
—
I never lived it down. The photos circulated. The nickname stuck. For the rest of that year — and honestly, beyond — I was “Baby Dick” to anyone who’d been at that party and anyone they’d told. Peyton made sure of it. He’d walk past me in the dining hall and say, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Hey, little guy. Keep it warm for me.” And people would laugh. Aja would sometimes be with him, and she’d look at me with that same expression — the one that was trying not to be a smile but couldn’t quite help itself.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d replay the moment in my head. Not the running. Not the crying. The moment before — when I opened my eyes and saw her standing there, looking down at me. The way her eyes traced over my naked body. The way she took in my tiny, hard, hairless little cock and couldn’t stop herself from laughing.
That image lives in my head rent-free. It always will.
The End.
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