Average Dave
An SPH Experience by aleem123p.
I’m big. I’ve always been big. Not internet-big, not “add two inches and round up” big. Actually, measurably, undeniably big. Seven inches soft. Nine and a half hard. And thick—thick enough that I’ve had partners who couldn’t wrap their hand all the way around it, thick enough that I’ve been told to go slow more times than I can count, thick enough that it’s noticeable through clothing in a way I’ve had to learn to manage. It’s not something I brag about. It’s just a fact about my body, the way being tall is a fact or having big hands is a fact. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t work for it. It’s genetics, or luck, or whatever you want to call it. But it’s mine, and it’s shaped the way I move through the world in ways I’m only partially aware of.
In my friend group, it’s known. Not because I’ve gone around announcing it, but because word gets around—locker rooms, group chats, exes who talk. I’m the biggest. Not by a little. By a lot. I’ve seen most of my friends in various states of undress over the years—gym showers, lake trips, that kind of thing—and I’m bigger than all of them, softer than most of them are hard. That’s not a boast. It’s just the math. It’s just what’s there.
Dave used to bring it up.
Dave was older than me by a few years. I’d known him since my early twenties—we’d met through a mutual hobby, hit it off, stayed in touch. He was a good guy. Funny, a little self-deprecating, the kind of person who made jokes at his own expense before anyone else could. He was average-looking, average height, average build—average in the way that most people are average, which is to say completely normal and unremarkable. I liked him. He was easy to be around.
And he had this thing where he’d bring up my cock. Not constantly, but enough to notice. It would come up in conversation—usually when we were drinking, usually when the topic drifted toward sex, which it often did when Dave was around because he steered it there. He’d say something like, “Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” or, “Easy for you to say, you’re hung like a horse.” He’d laugh when he said it, and I’d laugh too, and it would pass. But it kept happening. A recurring joke. A reflex. Whenever the topic of size came up, Dave would redirect it to me.
I figured it was just his way of teasing. Some guys are like that—they latch onto a characteristic and riff on it. I had a big cock, so that was my thing, and Dave was the guy who pointed it out. I didn’t think much of it.
But sometimes, when he’d had enough to drink, he’d get a little more specific. He’d say things like, “Must be nice, having a third leg.” Or, “I bet you’ve never had a complaint.” And then, occasionally, he’d say something about himself. “Mine’s average,” he’d say. “Totally average. Nothing special, nothing wrong. Just average.” He’d say it with that same self-deprecating shrug, that same easy laugh, and I’d nod and say something like, “Average is fine, man. Most guys are average.” And he’d say, “I know. I know. I’m fine with it.”
I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? I had no reason to. He said he was average, and I took him at his word. Average is average. Most guys are average. That’s what average means.
—
The photo came out of nowhere.
We were at his apartment. It was a Friday night, just the two of us—some beers, a game on the TV, the kind of low-key hang that doesn’t need a reason. We’d been talking about his fiancée. They’d been engaged for about six months, together for about two years, and things were… complicated. She’d been distant lately. He’d noticed. He was worried but trying not to show it, and the way he tried not to show it was by talking about everything except the thing he was worried about, which meant we talked about sex, because sex was always Dave’s safe topic.
“She keeps saying she’s tired,” he said. “Always tired. Always not in the mood.”
“That happens,” I said. “Relationships go through phases.”
“Yeah.” He took a drink. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like something’s off.”
He was quiet for a minute. Then he pulled out his phone. He was scrolling through something—photos, messages, I couldn’t see—and he stopped and stared at the screen for a few seconds. Then he turned the phone toward me.
“Look at this,” he said.
I looked. It was a photo of him. Shirtless, standing in front of a bathroom mirror. He’d sent it to his fiancée at some point—months ago, based on the timestamp. He was smiling in the photo, trying to look casual, trying to look good. And he was naked from the waist down.
I looked at his cock.
I need to describe what I saw accurately, because this is where the story turns, and the turn depends on the visual. His cock was soft. It was small. Not average-small, not “on the smaller side of normal” small. Small small. It was maybe an inch long—maybe slightly more, maybe slightly less, but in the neighborhood of one inch. It was thin. It sat on top of his small balls, and the whole package looked… diminished like it had been shrunk. Like it was a preview of something, a placeholder, a sample. It was the kind of cock that, if you saw it in a locker room, you’d look away quickly—not out of politeness, but out of a reflexive, almost protective instinct, the way you look away from someone who’s been caught in an embarrassing moment.
It was, and I’m trying to be accurate and not cruel, pathetic. That’s the word that came to mind then, and it’s the word that still comes to mind now. Pathetic. Not in the way that means contemptible or worthless—in the older, simpler sense of the word. Evoking pity. Sad. A small thing that didn’t know it was small, or that did know and was trying not to show it.
I looked at the photo. I looked at Dave. He was watching me look at the photo, and his expression was—this is the part I keep coming back to—complicated. He was smiling, but the smile was wrong. It was the smile of a man who was showing you something he didn’t want to show you, who had decided to show it anyway, who was bracing for your reaction. It was the smile of a man who had been saying average for years and knew, in this moment, that the word was about to be taken apart.
“See?” he said. “Average.”
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I was processing. I was looking at the photo and thinking about every time he’d said, “mine’s average, totally average, nothing special, nothing wrong,” and I was doing the math, but the math didn’t work. An inch soft wasn’t average. An inch soft was small. Genuinely, measurably, statistically small. Below the first percentile, probably. The kind of small that most men will never see in person because most men who are that small don’t show anyone.
And he’d been calling it average. For years. To me, to himself, to anyone who’d listen. Average.
“Dave,” I said. I didn’t know what to say after that. I just said his name.
“What?” He was still smiling that wrong smile. “It’s average, right? That’s what average looks like.”
I could have said yes. I could have said, “Sure, man, totally average,” and let him keep the word. Let him keep the fiction. Let him go on believing that an inch was in the normal range, that he was just a regular guy with a regular cock, that the world hadn’t dealt him anything unusual.
I didn’t say yes.
“It’s… on the smaller side,” I said. I tried to be gentle. I tried to use the softest language I could find. “Smaller side” felt like a compromise—honest enough to not be a lie, vague enough to not be a knife.
His smile flickered, just for a second. A micro-expression, a brief crack in the surface, and then it reassembled. “Nah,” he said. “It’s fine. It gets bigger when it’s hard.”
“How much bigger?”
“Enough.” He took the phone back. He looked at the photo one more time, and I saw something cross his face—something fast and dark, something he pushed down before it could fully form—and then he put the phone away.
“It’s fine,” he said again. “It’s always been fine.”
I let it go. What else was I going to do? Argue? Pull out a measuring tape? Tell him that his cock was small and he’d been lying to himself for years? I wasn’t his doctor. I wasn’t his therapist. I was his friend, and friends let things go. Friends let each other have their fictions.
But I couldn’t unsee it. The photo was in my head now, and it stayed there. One inch. Soft. Thin. Small. And the word average echoing around it like a lie told so many times it had become wallpaper—invisible, ambient, just part of the scenery.
—
The cheating happened about three months later.
He called me at midnight. I was in bed. I picked up, and the first thing I heard was silence—the kind of silence that means the person on the other end is trying to figure out how to say the thing they called to say. Then a breath. Then:
“She cheated on me.”
I sat up. “What?”
“She cheated on me. I found out today. She’s been… for months. With some guy from her work.”
I won’t go into all the details of that conversation. It was long and ugly and raw, the way those conversations always are. He was devastated. He was angry. He was confused. He kept asking why—why would she do this, why would she lie, why would she throw away two years and an engagement? I said the things you say in those situations: I’m sorry, that’s awful, you don’t deserve this. The standard phrases. They’re inadequate, but they’re all you have.
But here’s the thing I didn’t say, and the thing I’ve been turning over in my head ever since: I wasn’t entirely surprised.
I need to be careful here, because I know how this sounds. It sounds like I’m saying she cheated because his cock was small. And I want to be clear: I don’t think it’s that simple. People cheat for all kinds of reasons—emotional disconnection, boredom, opportunity, selfishness, the thousand small failures that accumulate in a relationship until someone decides to blow it up. I don’t think she sat down one day and thought his cock is small, so I’m going to fuck someone else. That’s not how it works. That’s a cartoon version of infidelity, and real life isn’t a cartoon.
But I also can’t pretend the photo wasn’t in my head. I can’t pretend I didn’t know what I knew. I can’t pretend that when he said she keeps saying she’s tired, she’s always not in the mood, I didn’t think about the one-inch cock in the bathroom mirror and wonder. I didn’t connect the dots out loud. I didn’t even fully connect them in my own head at the time. But the thought was there, floating below the surface, and it stayed there.
An inch. Soft. And he’d been calling it average. And she’d been pulling away. And now she’d cheated.
I thought about what it must have been like for her. Not to be cruel—not to reduce her to a person who left because of dick size—but just to imagine the reality of it. Two years with a man whose cock was an inch long, soft. How big did it get hard? Three inches? Four? I didn’t know. I’d never seen it hard, and he’d never said. But even if it got to four or five, that’s still small. That’s still the kind of small that you notice, that you feel, that you’re aware of every time you’re together. And maybe she was fine with it at first—maybe she loved him, maybe she didn’t care, maybe she told herself size didn’t matter because she wanted it not to matter. And maybe, over time, it started to matter. Not because she was shallow, but because sex is part of a relationship, and the sex was… what it was. And what it was, was sex with a man who had a very small cock.
And then someone at work—someone who was probably bigger, probably average, probably normal in the way Dave claimed to be—showed interest. And she made a choice. A shitty, hurtful, destructive choice. But a choice that maybe, in some way, had roots in something physical. Something Dave had been pretending didn’t exist.
I’m not defending her. Cheating is wrong. Full stop. She should have ended the relationship if she was unhappy. She should have been honest. She should have done more than she did.
But I understand it. Or I’m trying to. Or some part of me understands it, and that part makes me uncomfortable, because understanding feels like a betrayal of Dave, who was my friend, who was in pain, who had been lied to in the worst way.
And then I feel the other thing—the thing I don’t want to feel, the thing that makes me think I might be an asshole—and it’s this: when he told me she cheated, somewhere in the mess of sympathy and anger on her behalf and on his, there was a flicker of something else. Something that felt like… confirmation. Like the world had confirmed what the photo had already shown me. That Dave was small. That his smallness was real. That it wasn’t just a joke or a photo or a word he’d been misusing—it was a fact, and facts have consequences, and the consequence was this: his fiancée cheated on him, and maybe—maybe—one of the reasons was the thing he’d been calling average.
I felt something else, too. Something I’m less proud of. Something that I’ve been circling this whole time without saying directly.
When Dave showed me that photo, and I saw his cock—his one-inch, soft, thin, small cock—and I compared it to what I knew about myself, I felt a pulse. Not of arousal, exactly. Not in the moment. But something adjacent to arousal. Something that lived in the same neighborhood. An awareness of the difference. A consciousness of my own size relative to his. A feeling that was part pity, part superiority, part fascination, and part something darker that I don’t have a clean word for.
I’m nine and a half inches hard. He’s… I don’t know how hard he is, but if that photo was any indication, probably not more than four or five inches. The difference between us is enormous. It’s the difference between a cock and a nub. The difference between a man who fills a hand and a man who barely fills two fingers. The difference between someone who has never had to think about size and someone who has built his entire self-image around the word average to avoid thinking about it.
And standing in that difference, feeling my own largeness against the knowledge of his smallness, I felt something. A charge. A current. Something that I recognized, because I’d felt it before—in locker rooms, in group settings, in any situation where my size was visible, and others’ sizes were also visible. The feeling of being big. The feeling of being bigger. The feeling of being the biggest. It’s not sexual, exactly. It’s deeper than that. It’s primal. It’s the feeling of an animal knowing it’s larger than the other animal. It’s dominance without effort. Superiority without action. Just the raw fact of mass, of volume, of size.
I felt that when I saw his photo. I felt it again when he told me about the cheating. And I felt guilty about feeling it, and I still feel guilty about it, and the guilt doesn’t make it go away.
—
After the cheating, Dave changed. He got quieter. The jokes stopped. The mine’s average stopped. He stopped bringing up my cock, which was almost more noticeable than the other silences, because it had been such a constant for so long. When we hung out, there were gaps in the conversation where the old material would have been, and neither of us filled them.
I saw him a few months after it happened. We were at a bar, just the two of us, and he’d had a few drinks, and he got quiet in the way he got quiet when something was building. I could see it coming—the way you can see a wave forming before it breaks.
“You know,” he said, staring at his drink, “I always told myself it didn’t matter—the size thing. I always told myself it was fine to be average. That it was enough.”
I didn’t say anything.
“But it’s not average, is it?” He looked up at me. His eyes were red. Not from crying—from the drinking, from the not-sleeping, from the months of whatever he’d been carrying. “You saw the photo. That’s not average.”
I opened my mouth. I was going to say something gentle. Something careful. Something that would let him keep a shred of dignity while also being honest, because he was asking me to be honest, and he deserved honesty after all the years of lying to himself.
“It’s on the smaller side,” I said. The same words I’d used before. Safe, soft, noncommittal.
He laughed. Not a good laugh. A hollow one. “Smaller side. That’s generous.” He took a drink. “It’s small. You can say it. I know it’s small. I’ve always known.”
That hit me. I’ve always known. Not that I just found out, or that I never realized. I’ve always known. He’d known the whole time. Every time he’d said average, he’d known it was a lie. He’d been saying it to me, to himself, to anyone who’d listen, not because he believed it but because he needed it to be true, and saying it was the closest he could get to making it true.
And then he said the thing that I think about most.
“Do you think that’s why she did it? The cheating?”
He was asking me. Directly. Looking at me, waiting for an answer. And I had to decide, in that moment, whether to lie or to tell the truth, and the truth was: I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know. Maybe it was a factor. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she cheated because she was selfish and weak and didn’t dare to end a relationship she wasn’t happy in. Maybe she cheated because the sex was bad and the sex was bad for reasons that had nothing to do with his cock. Maybe she cheated because of something I never knew about, something between them that had nothing to do with size or sex or any of it.
“I don’t know,” I said. “People cheat for all kinds of reasons. It probably wasn’t any one thing.”
He nodded slowly. “But maybe.”
“But maybe,” I said.
He finished his drink. He set the glass down carefully, precisely, the way you do when you’re trying very hard to seem sober. “I spent years telling myself it didn’t matter,” he said. “And then I showed you that photo, and I saw your face, and I knew. I knew you’d seen it. Really seen it. And I knew what you saw.”
“What did I see?” I asked, though I knew.
“You saw small,” he said. “You saw a small cock. That’s what you saw. And you felt… I don’t know. Something. You felt something, because I could see it on your face. Not pity, exactly. Something else. Something like… I don’t know. Like you were measuring yourself against me and coming out ahead.”
I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t. He was right. That’s what had happened. That’s what I’d felt. And he’d seen it, because Dave wasn’t stupid—Dave had always been sharp, always perceptive, always able to read people—and he’d read me in that moment the way he’d been reading me for years.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “It’s honest. It’s more honest than anything I’ve been doing.” He signaled for another drink. “I’d rather you feel something real than pretend you don’t see what’s right in front of you.”
—
That was a year ago. We’re still friends. The dynamic is different now—quieter, more careful, with certain topics off-limits in a way they weren’t before. He doesn’t bring up my cock anymore. He doesn’t say average anymore. When the topic of sex comes up, he deflects, changes the subject, makes a joke that isn’t about size.
But sometimes I catch him looking at me. Not at my cock—at me. At the whole of me, the way you look at someone when you’re measuring something that can’t be measured with a tape. Comparing and taking stock. Doing the math that he’s been doing his whole life, the math that always comes out the same way: he’s big, I’m small, and the world treats those two things differently.
And I catch myself looking at him, too. And feeling the thing I feel—the thing that isn’t clean, the thing that’s part pity and part superiority and part that darker current that runs underneath both of them. The thing that makes me aware, every time we’re together, of the difference between us. The difference that he spent years calling average and that I spent years not thinking about, because I didn’t have to. Because I was big. Because being big means you never have to think about size, the way being tall means you never have to think about reaching things.
He’s small. He’s always been small. He’s known it, and I’ve known it, and now we both know that the other knows, and the knowing sits between us like the photo on his phone—something that was shown, something that was seen, something that can’t be unshown or unseen.
And his fiancée cheated on him. And I’ll never know how much of it was the cock. And he’ll never know. And not knowing is its own kind of weight, the kind that settles into you and stays, the kind you carry around without realizing you’re carrying it until someone asks you about your friend and you feel it there, heavy and present, in the space between what you say and what you think.
He’s small. He was always small. And the world didn’t treat him the way it treats me, and he knew it, and he lied about it, and the lie fell apart, and now he’s sitting in the wreckage of the lie, and I’m standing next to him with nine and a half inches in my pants and a feeling I can’t name and a guilt I can’t shake.
That’s the story. That’s all of it. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it means I’m a bad friend, a bad person, or just a person who happens to be big, happens to know someone small, and happens to feel something complicated about the distance between those two facts.
I just know that when he showed me that photo, and I saw his one-inch cock, and I heard him call it average one more time, I felt the difference. And the difference was enormous. And it’s still enormous. And it will always be enormous. And neither of us will ever say so.
The End.
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