Never Mind
An SPH Experience by tallnsmallguy.
We were in the break room, both of us grabbing coffee between meetings. Typical Thursday afternoon. Sun slanting through the windows, the low hum of fluorescent lights, the distant sound of someone’s muted Zoom call through the wall. Nothing special.
Then Erik turned to me, stirring his coffee, and asked: “Would you rather have half the length and twice the girth, or half the girth and twice the length?”
—
I froze.
It wasn’t the first time a coworker had asked me something inappropriate. Erik and I had a rapport—we’d bonded over fantasy football and shared complaints about our micromanaging boss. He was younger than me by a few years, early twenties, with that cocky confidence guys have when they haven’t yet realized the world doesn’t revolve around them. Good-looking in a frat-boy way. Tall, though not as tall as me.
But this question—this specific question—felt like a trap.
Because I knew the answer, I’d known it my entire adult life. If someone offered me twice the length, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I’d have given anything to wake up one morning with seven inches instead of three and a half. To look down in the shower and see something that didn’t make me feel like a teenager who’d stopped developing too early.
But I couldn’t say that. Not out loud. Not to Erik.
So I deflected. “What about you? What would you pick?”
Erik laughed—this easy, dismissive sound—and said, “Half the length and twice the girth, obviously. The only guys who would say twice the length are probably saying that because they’ve got a baby carrot between their legs.”
—
The words landed like a slap.
Baby carrot.
My face went hot. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, my neck, the tips of my ears. That involuntary flush that betrays you every time—the tell that screams guilty before you can even open your mouth.
I was six-foot-five. I lifted weights three times a week. I had broad shoulders, a deep voice, and a jawline that women had complimented since college. From the outside, I looked like I should be packing something impressive. Like I should fill out a pair of swim trunks with something more than a modest bulge.
But genetics had played a cruel joke. All that height, all that presence, and underneath it all—three and a half inches on my best day. Sometimes less, depending on the temperature, my stress level, how recently I’d jerked off.
And now Erik was looking at me.
Really looking.
—
His grin spread slowly. That knowing, shit-eating expression that said he’d figured something out. His eyes dropped—not subtly, not quickly, but deliberately—down to my crotch. Right at the front of my dress pants, where my modest bulge sat, barely noticeable even when I wasn’t actively trying to hide it.
Then he chuckled. Low. Almost gentle.
“Never mind.”
Two words. That’s all it took. Two words that confirmed everything I’d feared.
He knew.
—
I mumbled something about needing to get back to my desk and practically fled the break room. My heart was pounding. My palms were sweating. I could still feel the heat in my face, the humiliation crawling up my spine like ice.
I sat at my computer and stared at my screen without seeing it. My inbox was full of emails I didn’t care about. My to-do list had a dozen items that suddenly seemed meaningless.
All I could think about was Erik’s face. That moment of recognition. The way his expression shifted from casual curiosity to amused understanding.
Baby carrot.
Had he always suspected? Had he heard something from someone? I’d been so careful—never using the urinals when other guys were around, always changing in a stall at the gym, keeping my towel wrapped tight in the locker room. I’d dated women who I knew would never gossip about something like that, or so I’d told myself.
But Erik worked in a different department. We had mutual friends outside of work. People I’d known for years. People who might have talked, who might have shared stories, who might have—
No. That was paranoid. Erik had figured it out just now, in the break room, from my reaction. From the blush I couldn’t control. From the silence that spoke louder than any answer I could have given.
He’d asked his question, watched me squirm, and put the pieces together. Tall guy, nervous response, barely-there bulge. It wasn’t rocket science.
—
The rest of the afternoon passed in a fog.
Erik and I didn’t cross paths again—I made sure of it. I took the long route to the bathroom. I skipped the kitchen when I heard his laugh down the hall. I kept my head down and counted the minutes until five.
But my mind wouldn’t stop racing.
I kept replaying the conversation. His casual tone. The way he’d said “obviously” like the answer was self-evident. Like any guy with a decent cock would choose girth over length without hesitation.
And maybe he was right. Maybe guys with average or above-average dicks would rather be thick than long. Maybe length was a vanity metric, and girth was what actually mattered for pleasure.
But for me, length wasn’t about vanity. It was about visibility. It was about not looking like a child in the locker room. It was about the fear that every new partner would see me naked for the first time and have to hide their disappointment.
I’d been on the receiving end of that look more times than I wanted to count. The glance down, the slight pause, the effort to keep their expression neutral. The women who’d said “size doesn’t matter” with their words while their bodies told a different story.
And now Erik knew. A guy I worked with. A guy I’d have to see every day, smile at in meetings, pretend everything was normal while he carried around this secret knowledge of my most private insecurity.
—
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, running through every possible scenario. Would Erik tell someone? Would it become an office joke? Would I walk into the break room one day and hear laughter cut off abruptly when I entered?
My girlfriend, Rebecca, noticed something was off. She curled up against my side, her hand resting on my chest.
“You okay? You’ve been quiet all evening.”
I considered lying. I considered making something up about work stress. But Rebecca and I had been together for two years, and she knew me too well to fall for deflection.
“Someone at work figured out I’m… small.”
Rebecca was quiet for a moment. Her hand slid down to my stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns.
“Figured out how?”
“Asked a question. I reacted. He put it together.”
“Who?”
“Guy named Erik. We’re friendly, but not close. I don’t know if he’ll say anything.”
Rebecca shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her expression was soft, concerned.
“Does it matter if he knows?”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
I turned to face her. “Because it’s humiliating. Because I don’t want people talking about my dick at work. Because I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep this private, and now some guy I barely know has figured it out from a thirty-second conversation.”
Rebecca’s hand moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my boxers. Her fingers found my cock—soft, small, barely a handful.
“You know I don’t care about your size, right?”
“I know.”
“You know you’re the best lover I’ve ever had, regardless of what’s between your legs?”
“I know.”
But knowing didn’t make the shame go away. It didn’t erase the decades of locker room anxiety, the careful avoidance of skinny-dipping, the way I’d trained myself never to let anyone see me soft.
—
Rebecca’s fingers wrapped around me, and I felt myself start to stir. Even fully hard, I barely filled her palm.
“Tell me what he said,” she murmured. “Exactly.”
I recounted the conversation. The question. My deflection. Erik’s answer. The baby carrot comment. The look. The “never mind.”
Rebecca’s grip tightened slightly as I spoke. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
“He knew exactly what he was doing,” she said finally. “Asking that question. Watching your face. He wanted to see you squirm.”
“You think?”
“I think some guys get off on that. Figuring out who’s small. Making them feel inferior. It’s a power thing.”
Her hand started moving, slow strokes that made my breath catch.
“Does it turn you on? Thinking about him knowing?”
I hesitated. The question felt dangerous somehow.
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
—
Her pace increased. I was fully hard now, my three and a half inches straining against her grip.
“Tell me the truth,” she said. “Does it make you hard, knowing Erik figured out you have a small dick?”
“Yes.”
The word came out before I could stop it.
Rebecca smiled. That knowing smile that made me feel seen in ways I wasn’t sure I wanted.
“Good boy,” she said. “Now let me take care of you.”
She slid down beneath the covers, and I felt her warm breath against my tip. Then her lips wrapped around me, taking my entire length easily, her nose pressing against my pubic bone.
She didn’t need to deep throat me. There was nothing to deep throat.
—
Afterward, lying in the dark with Rebecca’s head on my chest, I tried to make sense of what had happened.
The humiliation in the break room had been real. The shame, the embarrassment, the fear of exposure—all of it genuine. But beneath that, there was something else. Something I’d been running from for years.
A part of me had enjoyed it.
Not in a conscious, straightforward way. But the flush of heat, the racing heart, the way Erik’s knowing grin had made me feel small in a way that was almost… electric.
Rebecca had seen it before I had. She’d felt me get hard while I told the story. She’d known what I was feeling even when I didn’t.
Maybe Erik had known too. Maybe that’s what his “never mind” had really meant—not just acknowledgment, but recognition. A silent message: I see you. I know what you are. And I know you liked being seen.
—
The next day at work, I saw Erik in the hallway.
He caught my eye and smiled. Not a mocking smile, not a cruel one. Something more complicated. Something that made my stomach flip.
“Hey,” he said casually, as if nothing had happened.
“Hey.”
We passed each other without another word. But I could feel his gaze on my back as I walked away.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t over.
Erik knew my secret now. And some part of me—buried deep beneath years of shame and denial—was glad he did.
The End.
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