A Day to Remember

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This fictional story is the artistic expression of the author who wrote it. The Small Dick Club strongly believes in freedom of speech, and the right of artists to be heard, especially if what they say pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable in society. If you think you won’t like the content of this story, then don’t read it. It’s that simple. The Small Dick Club wishes to advise readers that any similarities in these stories to actual or real people or events is purely coincidental and unintended. That any story marked as a ‘true story’ shouldn’t be taken literally as we have no way to verify if stories submitted to us are true. The Small Dick Club takes no responsibility for the imaginations and literary creations of authors who post their stories here.
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By marcusdnelson

How can I say this? Things have been a little cold between me and my girlfriend Lisa since last night—not exactly kosher. The conversations have been short and only initiated by me. In a lot of her spare time, she looks into her cell phone screen, texting or on her social media accounts. Neither has she been receptive to me, wrapping my arms around her.

I am black, thought I would just get that out-of-the-way. Something else you should know about me is that I have a little dick. While the girth (thickness) is OK, the length is only 4.8″ if I’m having a really good day. These are the days where I feel anything is possible.

Don’t try to feed me that ‘you’re practically average’ bullshit. I’ve been around enough black men, and on both sides of the fence, to know. Hell, Lisa even admitted to me, long ago, that I was the smallest she’s been with. My size, in comparison with other men she’d been with and their lengths, took some “getting used to.”

A month ago, Lisa suggested we go to Evansville for Memorial Day weekend. We could go to Burdette Park, Mesker Park Zoo, and just enjoy not being in a big city, like St. Louis. Plus, Lisa has friends in Evansville. The more the merrier. Why not? Twenty minutes outside of St. Louis, it dawned on me: I forgot the toys. The strap-on dildo, which is eight inches by six-and-a-half and never fails to make her orgasm, and the vibrator, were in the box on the bedroom closet shelf at home. I cursed and shrugged the mishap off. One night without them wouldn’t hurt, I thought.

Last night, we got down to lovemaking. I spread candles around the hotel room, turned on some music, and put on a condom. Yes, Lisa and I have been together for several years and she stays on birth control of some sort. However, condoms help me to last longer. Without one, I can only promise a couple of minutes at best. With one, I can get a little closer to ten minutes, with about eight being my good nights where I’m really on my game.

Five minutes into it, I couldn’t hold back anymore. Bullets of sweat rolled down my face, dripping down to Lisa’s body. I came and collapsed on top of her. Lying next to her, my chest rising up and down as I breathed hard, Lisa asked that I get Mandingo (the 8-inch strap-on). Lisa turned away when I told her that I had forgotten the toys. I felt guilty. The last three trips, I had remembered to bring them. Hell, they were my ‘tools’, an important part of our sex life. They came in handy to get Lisa to orgasm.

I shoved my head between Lisa’s legs and started licking—something I spend a lot of time doing. She closed her legs, pulled the bed-sheets up over her body, then turned over. She faced the wall rather than towards the middle of the bed. I crawled up next to her and we went to sleep, silently.

This morning, I woke up in a good mood. A full eight hours sleep for once helped me to get more in a vacation mood. I loved swimming and the pools at Burdette Park opened today. Lisa, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. No good morning, or anything. I decided to just ride it out. To be honest, last night wasn’t the first night I came within five minutes. This is not anything unusual. I know Lisa. She just needed a little time to move on, I thought.

Lisa’s friends, David and Ashley, met us at Burdette Park. Ashley is white, and not much to look at by any standards. To be frank, she is extremely obese with dingy, scarred skin. David is black, and a little darker than me. He stands about five-foot-eleven-inches, and is a little bulkier than myself, maybe one-hundred and ninety-pounds. David’s son, from a previous girlfriend, Devante, is ten or eleven years-old. He’s about five-foot-three-inches and skinny.

We all paid admission, walked around and caught up on life, then went to the swimming pool. I hate locker-room/restrooms at swimming pools. Damp, mildew-y concrete. David and Devante had their swimming trunks on under their clothes already, so they undressed out by the lockers. Out of habit, I changed in a stall. The three of us walked out to the pool. Crowds swelled at the sides—a lot of whites, some blacks, and a few Hispanics here and there. The weather was perfect for swimming: mid 80’s, humid, with plenty of sunshine. A warm breezed whipped through the park every-so-often.

David, Devante, Ashley and I swam in the 5-foot end. Lisa stayed in the 2-foot section for a while. She eventually climbed out and sat at our table and chairs. Around two PM, Lisa and Ashley were getting food ready. They called us guys to get out and come eat. I was furthest away from the poolside as David and Devante climbed out and walked over to the table.

I swam to that side, planted my palms into the concrete walkway next to the pool, and lifted myself out. With the front of my body facing Lisa, David, Devante, and Ashley, as well as a dozen or so other people on either side of our table, I felt the bare air hit my crotch and ass. My trunks, which were a little too big around the waist, had slid down while swimming. They were now at my mid-thigh. My two-inch flaccid dick was probably one-inch from the cold water. It was a little stiff as well, sitting on top of my small, tight ball-sac and almost pointing forward.

“Shit,” David said. He turned away quickly, smirking as he did so.

Devante turned away slower while Ashley pretended to not see. Lisa looked the least-bit thrilled as I used one arm to pull my trunks up, then continue climbing out of the pool. Devante pressed his lips together, as if he were trying not to laugh. He then turned and said, I guess to his father, “Dang, my dick bigger than his is.”

Ashley tapped Devante on the shoulder, telling him to stop. A few snickers came from areas to either side of our table as I walked across the walkway and grabbed a towel. If I weren’t a peanut-butter brown, my cheeks (on my face) would’ve surely been red. Either I was paranoid or I felt the eyes of so many swimmers and park-goers locked on me for those long few moments, judging and saying God only knows what under their breath. To be honest, there was a little thrill (a tiny bit) to the attention. This thrill faded quickly, back and forth between embarrassment and eroticism.

Mixed emotions came over me as we all ate. Part of me wondered what was on everyone’s minds. Were they even still thinking about what they’d just seen? Or, are their attention spans short enough to hardly remember seeing my trunks come down and show my little dick? Was I embarrassed? Sure. This emotion kind of comes with having a small dick. There have been a few occasions in my life where I was found myself in a locker room of mostly black men. Embarrassed is the only way to describe how I felt when finding I am the one with the smallest dick.

Humiliated? A little, but not really. If anything was humiliating, it wasn’t having my manhood seen by our friends and by strangers. It was Devante’s comment. Not only was his childish remark comparing my manhood to that of his ten year-old self a little humbling and reminding of how cruel kids can be, but it was also ironic. My dick has not grown since I was in the sixth grade. Well, I take that back. I may have gained a centimetre of growth.

Just a week ago, I finally published a collection of essays on being a black man with a little dick: Coming up Short: The Perspective of a Black Man with a Small Penis. Then, this happens. One of the very scenarios (public exposure) I have always been wary of came to life. And it all happened a week after I put out my ‘life story’, so to speak, on being a black man with a four-and-a-half-inch dick.

Honestly, I was a little mad. I had forgotten the sex toys, lasted around five minutes in bed, and had a major small-dick exposure moment in a crowded, public place. I am more than sure some of the snickers came from the young black women nearby. For the rest of our time at the Burdette Park swimming pool, when my eyes met with other pool-goers, the person would always smile. The smiling faces were a mixture of: “How are you doing?” and, “That was some funny shit that happened over there.”

Certain moments in life really highlight what having a small dick does for and means to a man, especially if he is black and has to deal with myths and stereotypes. I am in my mid-twenties and thought I’d seen and experienced most of them. Regardless of other feelings, this pool incident infuriated me—not the embarrassment of being “outed” as the black dude with the little dick, but rather how it happened and when.

For the rest of our day, Lisa was warm with her friends and cold with me. David, who is only maybe a year or so older than me, seemed a little-more distant than he had been before we went swimming. There were even a few moments where I felt he was being somewhat belittling towards me. At the mall, he slipped in a joke about the size of his dick when he saw an attractive woman with a white man. He assured us that the man’s ‘little dick’ couldn’t be doing her right, the way he could. I grinned and bared it as he, Devante, and I walked on to meet Lisa and Ashley coming out of a department store.

The drive back to St. Louis was quiet. The seconds of talking that did happen between Lisa and I were at the halfway mark of the two-hour ride, when she was changing the CDs. I drove in thought. Part of me wished the pool incident would have happened sooner rather than later. I would’ve had even more to analyse and talk about in my eBook. I took months to put my real-life, small-penis stories and perspectives into words only for what could very well be one of the biggest ever to happen a week after I publish.

Now, it’ll be a Memorial Day to remember—another ‘chapter’, for lack of a better word, in being a black man with a little dick. I can look on the bright side, though. At least it didn’t happen in my own neighbourhood, where people know me. Could you imagine the looks on faces when people see me at the store or the bank after something like that? It does not seem the least-bit fun.

The End.

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