Below Average
An SPH Experience by Extra-Childhood8295.
Strictly platonic. Neither of us had ever had sex. Neither of us knew much about it, honestly. She’d made out with a guy at a party once. I’d held hands with a girl at a movie. We were both late bloomers, and we were comfortable with that.
Comfortable. That’s what I was before the conversation that changed how I saw myself.
—
It started as a joke.
We were hanging out at her place on a Saturday afternoon, eating takeout and scrolling through TikTok on her couch. A video came up—some girl rating celebrity bulges—and Kristen started laughing.
“Imagine having a dick,” she said, popping a piece of orange chicken into her mouth. “Like, it just hangs there. Flopping around.”
“Very eloquent,” I said.
“I’m just saying. It seems inconvenient.”
“It has its perks.”
“Name one.”
“Peeing standing up.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s it? That’s the big advantage?”
“There are others.”
“Like what?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Jerking off is pretty convenient.”
Kristen wrinkled her nose. “Gross. I don’t want to think about you doing that.”
“You brought it up.”
“I was talking about dicks in general. Not yours specifically.”
“Same difference.”
She threw a piece of broccoli at me. I caught it and ate it.
—
The conversation drifted. We started talking about sizes—how big, how small, what was normal. Neither of us had any real experience. Our knowledge came from porn, jokes, and things we’d heard other people say.
“If you had a dick,” I said, grinning, “it’d be like four point five inches.”
I thought I was being generous. I thought I was giving her an “average” dick in the hypothetical scenario.
She stopped chewing.
“What?” She stared at me. “Why is mine so small?”
“Four point five is average.”
“No, it’s not.” She pulled out her phone. “They don’t even get that small in real life. That’s not fair!”
I laughed nervously. “What are you talking about? Four point five is totally average.”
“Google it.”
“Fine.” I pulled out my own phone. “I’ll prove it.”
I typed: average penis size.
The results loaded.
Average erect penis length: 5.1 to 5.5 inches.
I blinked.
Micropenis classification: Below 2.8 inches.
Small penis: Below 4 inches.
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
—
“Well?” Kristen leaned over. “What does it—oh.”
She saw the screen. I saw her process the information.
“Five point one,” she read slowly. “That’s average?”
“Apparently.”
“And four point five would be…” She trailed off.
“Below average.”
“Significantly?”
I scrolled. “About an inch below average. Maybe more.”
Kristen sat back. “Huh.”
I felt heat rising in my face. The joke had backfired. I’d tried to give her a small dick in the hypothetical, and she’d been offended on her own behalf. But the numbers on the screen told a different story.
“Wait,” I said, a thought forming. “How do you know they don’t get that small? How do you know what’s small or not?”
“I don’t. I just assumed.”
“Assumed what?”
“That four point five was, like, tiny. Like, medical condition tiny.”
“It’s not.”
“I know that now.” She gestured at my phone. “The internet says otherwise.”
I stared at the screen. The numbers blurred.
Average: 5.1 to 5.5 inches.
Small: Below 4 inches.
My stomach dropped.
—
“How do you know?” Kristen asked suddenly.
“Know what?”
“That four point five isn’t tiny. You said it was average. You seemed pretty confident.”
“I just… assumed.”
“Based on what?”
I didn’t answer.
“Wait.” She sat up straighter. “How do you know they get smaller than four point five? You said that earlier. ‘They get smaller than that.’ How do you know?”
My mouth went dry.
“Because…” I started.
“Because what?”
I shouldn’t have said it. I know I shouldn’t have said it. But the moment was strange and uncomfortable, and I was trying to prove a point about averages and sizes, and the words came out before I could stop them.
“Because I’m three point nine inches.”
—
Kristen froze.
The silence stretched. Five seconds. Ten.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “What?”
“Three point nine.” My voice cracked. “Erect. That’s my size.”
She stared at me. I stared at my phone.
“Three point nine,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“And that’s…”
“Small.” I swallowed. “According to the internet, that’s small. Not technically a micropenis, but close. The cutoff is two point eight. I’m above that, but…”
“But you’re small.”
“Yes.”
She didn’t say anything.
—
“I’m sorry,” Kristen said finally. “I didn’t mean—I was just joking—I didn’t know you were—”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. I made jokes about small dicks, and you’re sitting right there with…”
She trailed off.
“With a small dick,” I finished.
“Yeah.”
I looked up the actual statistics. We both sat there on her couch, side by side, reading about penis sizes. Percentiles. Medical classifications. What was normal, what wasn’t.
3.9 inches: Below the 5th percentile.
That meant ninety-five percent of men were bigger than me.
Ninety-five percent.
“Essentially a micropenis,” Kristen read from a forum post. “Some doctors classify anything under four inches as functionally micropenis.”
“Great,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I am.” She put her phone down. “I made jokes. I said four point five was tiny. And you’re even smaller, and I didn’t know, and that must have been…”
“Embarrassing?”
“Yeah.”
I let out a breath. “It’s fine. I didn’t know either. I thought I was average.”
“You thought three point nine was average?”
“I didn’t measure against other guys. I just… assumed.”
—
We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the day. We finished our food, watched a movie, pretended the conversation hadn’t happened. But something had shifted. I could feel it in the way she looked at me—glances, as if she were trying to picture it.
My small dick.
Three point nine inches.
Functionally a micropenis.
—
The jokes started a few weeks later.
Kristen didn’t mean to be cruel. I know that now. She’d forget, make some comment about size, then remember what I’d told her and freeze.
We were at the grocery store together, picking up snacks. She grabbed a cucumber from the produce section—a small one, maybe five inches long—and held it up.
“Look at this tiny cucumber,” she laughed. “Who would even buy this? It’s so—”
She stopped.
Her eyes met mine.
“That’s still bigger than me,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry.” She put the cucumber back. “I forgot. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. But what was I going to say?
—
It happened again at dinner with friends.
Someone made a joke about a guy’s package at the gym—something about a small bulge in his compression shorts. Kristen laughed along, then caught my eye across the table.
She stopped laughing immediately.
“I have to stop doing that,” she whispered to me later. “I keep forgetting.”
“Forgetting what?”
“That you’re… you know.”
“Small?”
She winced. “Don’t say it like that.”
“It’s what I am.”
“You’re my friend. Your size doesn’t matter.”
But it did matter. It mattered because every time she saw something small—a remote control, a hot dog, literally anything under five inches—she’d think of me. And she’d apologize. And I’d have to acknowledge, again, that yes, that thing is bigger than my dick.
—
I started noticing things I’d never noticed before.
Locker rooms became unbearable. I’d always known I wasn’t huge, but now I had numbers to confirm it. Five point one inches was average. I was three point nine. That meant every guy I saw naked—every guy I’d ever seen naked—was statistically likely to be bigger than me.
Much bigger.
I started measuring things. My phone: six inches. My toothbrush: seven. The remote control: eight. Everything was bigger than me. Everything.
Porn became a minefield. I couldn’t watch without comparing, without feeling that familiar shame settle in my chest. The actors were all six inches, seven, eight, nine. I was three point nine.
Functionally a micropenis.
—
Kristen and I were hanging out at my apartment one night, watching TV, when she suddenly turned to me.
“Do you think about it a lot?”
“Think about what?”
“Your… size.”
I muted the television. “Sometimes.”
“Does it bother you?”
“What do you think?”
She pulled her knees up to her chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I keep making jokes, and I keep forgetting, and every time I remember, I see your face, and you look so…”
“Humiliated?”
“I was going to say sad.”
“Same thing.”
—
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Can I ask something?” Kristen said carefully.
“Go ahead.”
“Does it… work? Like, functionally?”
“My dick?”
“Yeah.”
“It works. I can get hard. I can orgasm. It just… isn’t big.”
“Oh.”
She processed this.
“So you can have sex?”
“Theoretically.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.”
“I know.”
—
Another pause.
“Do you want to?” she asked.
“Have sex?”
“Yeah.”
I considered the question. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried. I’m scared, I guess.”
“Of what?”
“Of a woman seeing it. Reacting. Being disappointed.”
Kristen nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. I mean, if I had a small… if I were a guy with a small dick, I’d be scared too.”
“You don’t have to say ‘small dick.’ You can say ‘micropenis.’ That’s basically what I have.”
“That’s not true. The cutoff is two point eight.”
“Three point nine is close enough.”
“But it’s not technically—”
“It’s functionally the same thing.”
—
She didn’t argue.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“You keep apologizing.”
“Because I keep making it worse.”
“You’re not making it worse. You’re just… reminding me.”
“Of what?”
“That I’m small. That I’m below average. That ninety-five percent of men are bigger than me.”
Kristen winced. “See, that’s what I mean. I don’t want to remind you of that.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s just… facts.”
“Facts can still hurt.”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath. “They can.”
—
The jokes kept coming.
Not from Kristen—she’d learned to catch herself. But from other friends. From movies. From TikTok. From literally everywhere.
Small dick jokes were universal. They were easy. They were lazy. And they were everywhere.
I started flinching every time I heard one. A comment about a guy compensating. A joke about a small package. A laugh about something being “tiny.”
Three point nine inches.
That was me.
—
I suspected Kristen told people.
I couldn’t prove it. But sometimes, when I was around her friends, I’d catch them looking at me—glances at my crotch, smirks I couldn’t quite read.
Maybe I was paranoid. Maybe I was imagining it.
Or maybe my best friend had told her friends that I had a small dick, and they all knew, and they were all laughing at me behind my back.
I never asked. I didn’t want to know the answer.
—
One night, Kristen and I were at a party. A guy we knew—tall, athletic, confident—was holding court near the keg, telling a story about a hookup.
“She was so tight,” he bragged. “But I still hit the back. You know what I mean?”
His friends laughed.
“I don’t have that problem,” someone muttered nearby.
More laughter.
I stood in the corner, nursing a beer, feeling my face heat up.
Kristen appeared beside me. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine.”
She followed my gaze to the group of guys. “Oh.”
“It’s nothing.”
“They’re just being stupid.”
“I know.”
—
She touched my arm. “For what it’s worth, size isn’t everything.”
“That’s what people with small dicks say.”
“I don’t have a dick.”
“Then you don’t get to have an opinion.”
She recoiled. “That’s harsh.”
“I’m sorry.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m just… tired.”
“Of what?”
“Of feeling like this.”
“Like what?”
“Small. Inadequate. Less than.”
—
Kristen was quiet for a long moment.
“You’re not less than,” she said finally. “You’re my friend. You’re smart and funny and kind. Your dick size doesn’t define you.”
“Then why does it feel like it does?”
“Because society is obsessed with size. Because men are taught that their worth is tied to their dicks. Because every movie, every show, every joke reinforces that small is bad and big is good.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“I know.”
“I’m three point nine inches, Kristen. That’s not just below average. That’s barely functional.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s what the internet says.”
“The internet says a lot of things.”
—
I finished my beer. “I should go.”
“Wait.” She grabbed my arm. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m not good company right now.”
“You don’t have to be. Just… stay.”
I looked at her—eighteen years old, pretty, kind, my best friend. The person who knew my secret. The person who’d accidentally made me face the truth about my body.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay.”
—
We sat outside on the porch, away from the noise, watching people come and go.
“Can I ask you something?” Kristen said.
“Another question?”
“Last one, I promise.”
“Go ahead.”
“Has anyone ever… seen it? Your dick?”
I shook my head. “No. Not since I was a kid. Doctors, maybe.”
“So I’m the only one who knows?”
“You know the number. You haven’t seen it.”
“Right.”
—
She pulled her knees up. “Do you want me to see it?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Not in a weird way. Just… so someone has. So you’re not alone with it.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll see how small it is, and then you’ll really know.”
“I already know. Three point nine inches. You told me.”
“Knowing the number is different from seeing it.”
—
She considered this.
“You’re probably right,” she admitted.
“Thanks for not pushing.”
“Of course.”
We sat in silence.
“For what it’s worth,” Kristen said quietly, “I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of.”
“I’m three point nine inches.”
“So? That’s just a number.”
“It’s a number that puts me in the bottom five percent.”
“Okay. And?”
“And that means almost every man on earth is bigger than me.”
“Probably. But you’re still a person. You’re still my friend. You’re still you.”
—
I looked at her. “You really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Even though I have a small dick?”
“Even though.”
“Even though it’s basically a micropenis?”
“Even though.”
I exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being my friend. For not making it weird.”
“It’s already weird.”
“Yeah. But you’re handling it well.”
She smiled. “I try.”
—
I still think about that conversation.
I still measure things against my three-point-nine inches. I still flinch at small dick jokes. I still feel the shame when I remember that ninety-five percent of men are bigger than me.
But I also have Kristen.
She still makes jokes sometimes—she can’t help it. But she always catches herself. She always apologizes.
And I always forgive her.
Because she’s the only person who knows my secret. The only person who’s seen the number. The only person who knows that I’m three point nine inches—functionally a micropenis—and still treats me like a human being.
—
I suspect she tells her friends.
I see the way they look at me sometimes. The smirks. The whispers.
But I can’t prove it.
And honestly, I don’t want to.
Because if I ask and she says yes, I know for sure my secret is out. That girls I’ve never met know about my small dick. That I’m being discussed and laughed at and pitied.
So I keep my mouth shut.
And I live with the knowledge that my best friend might be telling people that I have a small penis.
Three point nine inches.
Below average.
Functionally a micropenis.
That’s me.
—
Last week, Kristen held up a banana at the grocery store.
“Look at this tiny banana,” she started to say.
Then she stopped.
She looked at me.
She put the banana back.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I keep doing it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll try harder.”
“I know you will.”
—
We kept shopping.
I didn’t tell her that the banana was still bigger than me.
Some things are better left unsaid.
The End.
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