The Right Curve
A Gay SPH Experience by mdigi31.
Nicole texted me about the edibles on Tuesday. “Got these new 5mg gummies. Extra small, supposed to be real smooth. You and Tyler should come over Friday. Fire pit weather.”
Tyler was more excited than I was. He’s always been the adventurous one between us. I’m the worrier, the planner, the one who double-checks the stove before we leave the house. Tyler’s the one who says “fuck it” and figures out the consequences later. It’s probably why we work—he stretches my comfort zone, and I keep him from doing anything that’ll end up on the news.
We got to their place around seven. Their backyard is this perfect little setup—string lights, a stone fire pit, comfortable chairs arranged in a loose circle that feels more like a conversation than a confrontation. Nicole had a whole spread: hard iced teas in a cooler, regular beer for Kevin, who’s a purist, water bottles for responsibility, and a small jar of gummies that looked deceptively like candy.
“Five milligrams,” Nicole said, shaking one into my palm. “Perfect starter dose. You won’t even feel it for like an hour, and then it just… eases in.”
I popped it without thinking. Tyler, meanwhile, was already packing his bong.
“You’re doing both?” Kevin asked, passing him the lighter.
“I’m feeling ambitious,” Tyler said, and took a long, slow hit that made the water bubble. He held it for an impressively long time before exhaling a thick cloud toward the sky. Then he grabbed a gummy from the jar and chewed it like an afterthought.
“Pace yourself,” I said, but Tyler just grinned at me with that grin—the one that means he’s planning something, or he’s already done something I don’t know about yet.
The first hour was easy. We caught up on work drama, Nicole’s sister’s wedding drama, Kevin’s new project at his job that he hates but won’t quit because the insurance is good. The fire crackled and popped, and the iced teas went down smooth, and I felt this warm, loose sensation spreading through my chest. Not high exactly, but… softer. Like the edges of things had been sanded down.
Tyler was on another level. I could tell by the way he was talking—faster, louder, jumping between topics without bridges. He’d always been chatty, but when he’s really feeling it, he becomes this unstoppable force of conversation, and everyone else just has to hold on.
We were talking about Nicole’s ex-boyfriend from college—some guy named Derek she dated for two years before realizing they were fundamentally incompatible.
“The funny thing,” Nicole said, laughing, “is that Derek and Kevin have the same body type. Like, down to the build. I clearly have a type.”
“Bigger guys,” Tyler said, nodding. “Beefy.”
“Beefy,” Nicole agreed. “Give me broad shoulders and a chest I can rest my head on, and I’m happy.”
Tyler gestured at himself dramatically. “Well, as you can see, I am the opposite of that. I am what I like to call a retired twink. Used to be skinny and smooth, now I’m skinny and smooth with a mortgage.”
Everyone laughed. Tyler had this way of making self-deprecation sound like a brag.
“What about you?” Nicole asked, turning to me. “What’s your type?”
I thought about it. “Honestly? I don’t really have a physical type. I’m attracted to—”
“He has a type,” Tyler interrupted, grinning at me with that look. “He just won’t admit it.”
“I don’t—”
“The guys he’s most into,” Tyler said, addressing Nicole and Kevin like I wasn’t sitting right there, “have nothing there. Not a lot of muscle, no ass, they’re just skin and bones and a dick.”
“Hey—”
“But usually,” Tyler added, pausing for effect, “they have a big dick.”
The fire crackled. I felt my face heat up, and it wasn’t from the flames.
“What do you mean?” Nicole asked, genuinely curious.
Tyler leaned forward, warming to his subject. “Okay, so, think about it. Most twinks—real twinks, not retired ones like me—are either hung, or they appear more hung because they’re so skinny. There’s no fat pad at the base, no thighs that make it look smaller by comparison. Everything is… visible.” He gestured vaguely at his own lap. “But bears? Beefy guys? Guys with some weight on them?” He glanced at me—just for a second, but long enough. “They’re usually small. Or at least they look smaller because of the extra weight. The fat pad hides some of the length. The thighs make it look tinier. It’s just… proportions.”
I took a long drink of my iced tea. My cage felt tighter than usual, and I knew it wasn’t my imagination. The plastic was pressing against me in that familiar way, but something about the conversation was making it worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it.
“Is that true?” Kevin asked, looking between us. “About size and body type?”
“I mean, it’s not a rule,” Tyler said. “But in my experience? Pretty consistent. The skinny guys are packing, and the bigger guys are… not.”
Nicole laughed. “Does size even matter to gay men? I feel like I’ve heard conflicting things.”
I tried to step in, to take control of the conversation. “It kind of depends on the guy. Some like longer, some like thicker. Some don’t care at all. It’s not that different from—”
“I’m not a bottom,” Tyler announced, cutting me off completely. “But back when I did bottom—and I did plenty, don’t get me wrong—my preferred dick was actually on the smaller side.”
I froze.
“There’s this thing,” Tyler continued, completely oblivious to my internal screaming, or maybe completely aware of it, “where a small dick with just the right curve—it hits the prostate perfectly. Like, better than a big one that just pounds away without any precision. You don’t need a lot of length if you’ve got the angle right.”
The fire popped. Someone’s chair creaked. I was acutely aware of the plastic cage around my cock, of the way it was straining against the confines, of the fact that I was getting hard—or trying to get hard—in a chastity device while my husband discussed my penis with our friends.
“That makes sense,” Nicole said slowly, processing. “Like, girth over length, maybe?”
“Exactly,” Tyler said, pointing at her. “You get it.”
I cleared my throat. “So, Nicole—true or false: women prefer girth over length?”
“God, definitely true,” she said, grateful for the pivot. “Length is nice for the aesthetic, but girth is what actually does anything. I’d take a thick five inches over a skinny seven any day.”
“See?” I said, too loudly. “Gay men, straight women—same preferences.”
“Although,” Kevin added, grinning, “there’s something to be said for a guy who knows how to use what he’s got, regardless of size.”
“True,” Tyler said, and then—then—he looked directly at me, with this little smile, and added, “My husband knows exactly how to use what he’s got.”
The conversation moved on. We talked about work, about a movie Nicole wanted to see, about Kevin’s mom’s new boyfriend who was apparently “a lot.” Normal things. Safe things. But I couldn’t focus on any of it because my brain was stuck on what had just happened, on the fact that Tyler had essentially told our friends—our long-time friends, people we’d see again, people who would remember—that I had a small penis, that I had a small penis with a curve, that I had a small penis with a curve that he knew about intimately.
And worse—so much worse—was that I was straining against my cage the entire time. Every time I thought about it, every time I replayed the conversation in my head, I felt that familiar pressure, that desperate, confined ache. I was getting turned on by my own humiliation, and there was nothing I could do about it.
We left around midnight. Tyler drove because he’d sobered up enough by then, and I sat in the passenger seat, replaying the night, trying to figure out if I was mortified or thrilled.
“You did that on purpose,” I said, about halfway home.
Tyler glanced at me, then back at the road. “Did what?”
“Talked about my dick. In front of Kevin and Nicole.”
“I was just making conversation.”
“You told them I have a small dick.”
“I said some bears are small. I didn’t say you were small.”
“You talked about a small dick with a curve hitting the prostate. You’re not a bottom anymore. The only person that could possibly apply to is—”
“Okay, fine.” Tyler’s voice was light, teasing. “Maybe I hinted.”
“Hinted? You basically announced it.”
“Did they seem upset? Did anyone look uncomfortable?”
I thought about it. Nicole had been curious, engaged. Kevin had been nodding along as if it were a perfectly normal topic of conversation. Neither of them had looked at me with pity or disgust. They’d just… accepted it.
“No,” I admitted.
“Then what’s the problem?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Because the problem was that there wasn’t a problem—there was just me, sitting in a car with my husband, my cock straining against a plastic cage, thinking about the fact that our friends now knew I was small, and that I was somehow harder than I’d been in weeks.
When we got home, Tyler fucked me. He didn’t take the cage off—he rarely does these days—and I came hands-free from the prostate stimulation he’d talked about earlier. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The small dick with the right curve, hitting exactly where it needed to.
The next morning, I texted him while he was at work: “I totally caught your not-so-subtle outing of my size last night.”
He hasn’t responded yet. But I know he saw it. And I know that when he gets home, there’s a good chance he’ll have something to say about it—something that’ll make me blush and strain and probably come hands-free again.
I’m touching my cage right now as I type this. I’ve been touching it on and off all morning. The plastic is warm from my body heat, and I can feel myself trying to get hard inside it, over and over, like my body hasn’t figured out that it’s not allowed.
Tyler’s shift ends at five. It’s two now.
Three hours.
I can wait.
The End.
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