Average
An SPH Experience by No-Gardian.
Cassie was the kind of girl who was hard not to look at. Not in an intimidating, out-of-your-league way—more in a warm, magnetic way. She had dark curly hair that she was always pushing behind her ear, olive skin, and a wide mouth that looked like it was built for laughing. She was short—maybe five-three—and had the kind of compact, curvy body that looked great in anything, but especially in the oversized sweatshirts she wore to class. She had a boyfriend named Ben, a guy she’d been dating since freshman year. He was quiet, kind of preppy, and played club lacrosse. By all accounts, he treated her well, and she talked about him the way you talk about someone you genuinely love—not with fireworks, but with a steady, comfortable warmth.
But Cassie also had an ex. His name was Ryan, and he came up more than Ben did, in certain contexts.
We started getting close around midterms. We’d study together at the campus library, grab coffee between classes, sit on the benches outside the humanities building and talk for way longer than either of us planned to. The conversations drifted personal over time—family stuff, ambitions, fears, and eventually, relationships.
I don’t remember the first time sex came up, but once it did, it became a regular topic. Cassie was surprisingly open about it. Not in a crude way—more in a matter-of-fact, this-is-just-part-of-life way. She talked about her sex life with Ben in terms that were affectionate but not exactly glowing. He was sweet. He was attentive. He was “good in bed” in the way that meant he cared about her pleasure and took his time. She liked that. She loved him.
But Ryan was different.
“Ryan was an asshole,” she told me one afternoon, sitting cross-legged on a bench outside the library, her coffee cup balanced on her knee. “Like, genuinely a bad person. Controlling, jealous, the whole thing. I would never go back to him.”
“But?” I said because there was clearly a “but”.
“But the sex was…” She exhaled, looking up at the sky, searching for the right word. “Insane. Like, the best sex of my life. By a lot.”
I laughed. “Better than Ben?”
She gave me a look—half guilty, half amused. “Different. Ben makes love to me. Ryan fucked me. There’s a difference.”
“I mean, yeah, I get that.”
“Ryan was just… animal. He’d throw me around. He’d pull my hair. He’d make me cum so hard I’d see stars. And he was big. Like, really big.”
She held her hands apart in a way that looked exaggerated, and I laughed again.
“How big?” I asked.
“Nine inches. Maybe a little more. I measured it once,” she said, with a casualness that made it even more striking. “I was curious.”
“Nine inches,” I repeated.
“Nine inches,” she confirmed. “Thick, too. My hand couldn’t go all the way around it. The first time I saw it, I actually got nervous. I was like, where is that going?”
I shifted on the bench. I was aware of a familiar tightness in my chest—the one that came whenever the topic of dick size came up in conversation. It was a low-grade anxiety that I’d carried since I was a teenager. I’d measured myself more times than I cared to admit. Soft, I was an inch. Maybe an inch and a half on a warm day after a shower. Hard, I topped out at four inches—four and a quarter if I pressed the ruler into the bone, but who was I kidding. I knew what I was working with.
I’d told Cassie I was average. It came up once, early on, when she’d made a joke about some guy on TikTok who was clearly packing, and I’d said something like, “Well, not all of us are blessed,” and she’d asked what I meant, and I’d said, “I’m average. Like, totally average.” She’d raised an eyebrow but let it go.
She didn’t let it go forever.
—
The teasing started gradually. It would be small comments—little jabs that she’d deliver with a grin, testing the waters.
One day in the library, I was complaining about how cold the study rooms were, and she said, “Better keep your pants on, or it’ll disappear entirely.”
I looked at her. “What?”
She shrugged, still grinning. “I’m just saying. Cold shrinkage is real. Not that you have much to shrink.”
“I told you, I’m average.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.”
“Okay, Tom. Whatever you say.”
Another time, we were talking about a mutual friend who’d just hooked up with a guy from a dating app, and Cassie said, “She said he was huge. Like, porn-star huge. She could barely walk the next day.” She glanced at me. “Don’t worry, Tom. Not everyone needs to be huge. Average is fine.”
The way she said average—with that slight pause before it, the little emphasis—made it clear she didn’t believe I was average at all. She was playing a game, and she knew I was playing along.
I should have stopped. I should have changed the subject. But there was something in the way she teased me—this light, flirtatious, almost conspiratorial energy—that made me want to keep engaging. It was humiliating, but it was also attention. She was thinking about my dick. That thought, in itself, did something to me.
One night we were texting, and she sent me a meme—a screenshot from a TikTok where a girl was holding up her pinky finger with a caption that said, “When he says he’s 6 inches.” Below it, Cassie had written: “u.”
“I’m not that small,” I texted back.
“Prove it,” she replied instantly.
I didn’t. Not then. But my heart was hammering, and I was hard—my full, unimpressive four inches straining against my boxers—and I lay in bed staring at my phone, running through every possible scenario of what would happen if I actually sent her a picture.
—
The night it happened, I was drunk.
It was a Friday. I’d been at a house party off campus with my roommate, and I’d come back to my dorm around midnight, buzzed but not sloppy. I was lying in bed in my boxers, scrolling through my phone, when Cassie’s name popped up on Snapchat.
She’d sent me a text: “drunkkkk 🥴”
I opened it. “Same,” I wrote back. “Just got back.”
“from where”
“Party at Tyler’s house. You?”
“Was with Tessa. Now alone at my place. wine 🍷🍷🍷”
Tessa was her best friend. I’d met her a few times. She was taller than Cassie, with straight blonde hair and a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor. She was the kind of girl who made you feel like she was always evaluating you and finding you lacking. I didn’t know her well, but I knew enough to feel slightly intimidated by her.
Cassie and I went back and forth for a while—voice notes and texts, the conversation loose and rambling the way drunk conversations are. She sounded warm and giggly in her voice notes, her words slightly slurred. I was in a similar state—loose, uninhibited, my normal filters dialed down to almost nothing.
At some point, the conversation turned to sex. I don’t remember how. Maybe I brought it up. Maybe she did. But suddenly we were there, in that familiar territory, and she was talking about Ryan again.
“God, his dick was so big,” she said in a voice note, her voice low and a little dreamy. “I miss it sometimes. Is that bad? Like, I love Ben, but Ben’s dick is just… It’s fine. It’s like five inches. Maybe five and a half. And Ryan was nine. That’s a big difference, Tom. That’s almost double.”
I sent a voice note back. “Five inches is average, though. That’s literally average.”
“Average is fine for Ben. But you’re not even average, are you?”
“I told you, I’m average.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can tell, Tom. I can just tell. The way you get weird about it. The way you change the subject. Guys who are actually average don’t care when it comes up. You care. That means you’re small.”
I stared at my phone. My face was hot. I was lying in bed in my boxers, and I could feel my heartbeat in my groin—not because I was hard, but because I was nervous. And because I was small. Soft, I was probably less than an inch right now, the alcohol and the anxiety combining to shrink me down to almost nothing.
“I’m not small,” I typed.
“Prove it,” she sent back.
And then, before I could think about it—before the rational part of my brain could intervene—I opened my camera roll.
I had a nude. I’d taken it a few weeks earlier, standing in front of the bathroom mirror after a shower. It was a full-body shot—me standing there in nothing but my boxers pulled down to my thighs, my dick on display. I’d taken it for… I don’t know. Curiosity, maybe. To see what I looked like. To see if it looked as small in a photo as it did in real life.
It did. In the photo, I was soft. My penis was barely visible—a small, circumcised nub, maybe an inch long, sitting on top of my balls. It looked like a thumb. The photo was clear and well-lit, with no angle trickery to make it look bigger. If anything, the straight-on mirror shot made it look smaller.
I attached it to the chat and hit send before I could stop myself.
The three dots appeared, indicating she was typing. Then they disappeared. Then appeared again. Then disappeared.
Then I saw it: a notification that she had taken a screenshot of the photo.
My stomach dropped. My mouth went dry. The alcohol haze evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp, cold clarity. She screenshotted it. She saved it. She had a photo of my tiny dick on her phone, and she could do whatever she wanted with it.
A voice note came through. I pressed play.
The first thing I heard was laughter. Not just Cassie’s laugh—there were two voices. Cassie’s familiar giggle and another, sharper laugh that I recognized as Tessa’s.
“Oh my God,” Cassie said, between laughs. “Oh my God, Tom.”
Then Tessa’s voice, loud and incredulous: “Is that it? Is that actually it?”
More laughter. Then Cassie again, trying to catch her breath: “Tom, you said you were average. That is not average. That is… that is small. That is so small.”
Tessa again, and I could hear the grin in her voice: “I’ve seen bigger dicks on my pinky finger. Oh my God. He actually sent that? He actually thought that would prove he was average?”
Cassie: “Tom, if that’s average, I don’t know what small is. I really don’t. Like, I’m trying to think of something smaller, and I’m struggling.”
Tessa: “My clit might be bigger.”
They both dissolved into laughter again. The voice note ended.
I was lying in bed, staring at my phone. My face was burning. My hands were shaking. And I was hard. Fully, achingly hard—my four inches standing straight up, straining, the head flushed and tight. The humiliation had hit me like a wave, and somewhere in the crash of it, something in my wiring had crossed. The shame and the arousal were tangled together, inseparable, each feeding the other.
I was mortified. I was harder than I’d been in months.
I sent a text: “Please delete that.”
A pause. Then: “Delete what? 😂”
“The photo. Please, Cassie. Delete it.”
Another voice note. Just Cassie this time, but I could hear Tessa in the background.
“Relax, small dick. I deleted it. See?” She sent a screenshot of her chat, and the photo was gone from the conversation. But the screenshot notification was still there, burned into my feed like a scar.
“Did you actually delete it?” I asked.
“Yes, Tom. I deleted it. Calm down.”
Tessa’s voice in the background: “I wouldn’t worry about it, small dick. It’s not like there’s much to see anyway.”
Cassie laughed. “Okay, okay. Leave him alone. Tom, I deleted it. I promise.”
But the rest of the night, every text she sent me started with “small dick.”
“Goodnight, small dick.”
“You’re lucky I’m nice, small dick.”
“Next time you want to prove you’re average, maybe get hard first, small dick. Actually, never mind. That probably wouldn’t help either.”
I lay in bed, reading each message, my face on fire, my cock so hard it hurt. I didn’t respond to most of them. I just lay there in the dark, replaying the voice note—the two of them laughing, Tessa saying Is that it?, Cassie saying that is so small—and I wrapped my hand around my four inches and came harder than I had in a long time.
The orgasm was intense and immediate, and the shame that followed it was equally intense. I lay there in the dark with cum on my stomach, staring at the ceiling, the glow of my phone the only light in the room. I felt sick. I felt exposed. I felt like I’d handed someone a weapon and begged them not to use it.
Over the next few days, things went back to normal between Cassie and me. She didn’t bring it up. I didn’t bring it up. The teasing continued in its usual low-key way, but the photo felt like a line that had been crossed and then papered over. I told myself it was fine. She’d deleted it. She said she deleted it. It was a drunk mistake, and we were moving past it.
I believed her. I wanted to believe her. And for two years, I did.
—
Two years later, I was at a bar with a mutual friend of ours—a guy named Kyle, who’d known Cassie and me since sophomore year. We were a few beers in, and the conversation had drifted to old college stories, people we hadn’t seen since graduation, relationships that had lasted and ones that hadn’t.
Kyle mentioned Tessa. He’d run into her recently at some alumni event. I hadn’t thought about Tessa in months—maybe a year. The memory of that voice note was still there, but I’d buried it deep, and most of the time, it stayed buried.
“Yeah, I saw Tessa a couple weeks ago,” Kyle said, swirling his beer. “She’s… the same. Still wild.”
“Still terrifying?” I asked, smiling.
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. You know Tessa.” He paused. He looked at me for a moment, and something shifted in his expression—like he was deciding whether to say something. “Hey, can I ask you something kind of weird?”
“Sure.”
“Did you ever send Cassie a dick pic back in college?”
The beer in my stomach turned to ice. I kept my face neutral—or tried to.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Tessa told me she has it. Like, she showed people. A while back. At a bar, actually—this same bar, maybe a year ago. She was drunk, and she pulled it out and showed it to a bunch of people. Including some guys you know.”
My mouth was dry. My hands were flat on the table, and I could feel the grain of the wood under my fingertips.
“What?” I said.
Kyle shifted in his seat. “Look, I don’t know the whole story. But Tessa was at a group thing—a bunch of people from our year, out drinking—and apparently she got talking about Cassie’s old friends, and she brought up this guy who sent Cassie a nude on Snapchat. And she had the screenshot. She showed it to people.”
He looked at me, and I could see the recognition in his eyes. He already knew it was me. He’d known before he asked the question.
“Tom,” he said, his voice lower now. “She showed it to people. I don’t know exactly who was there, but I know some of the guys from your floor were there. And she was… she was laughing about it. Making jokes.”
I stared at the table. The noise of the bar—the clinking glasses, the music, the conversations—seemed to recede, like someone had turned down the volume on the world. All I could hear was the blood in my ears and the echo of a voice note from two years ago: Is that it? Is that actually it?
“What kind of jokes?” I asked, and my voice sounded flat and far away.
Kyle winced. “Just… size stuff. She was saying the guy was tiny. Like, really tiny. Making jokes about it and comparing it to things. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I heard about it after the fact from someone who was.”
He paused.
“I’m sorry, man. I figured you should know.”
I nodded slowly. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I picked up my beer and took a long drink, and the cold liquid hit my stomach like a stone.
For two years, I’d believed Cassie when she said she deleted it. And maybe she had. But Tessa had kept it. Tessa—the sharp, evaluating girl who’d said my clit might be bigger—had held onto a screenshot of my tiny, soft, one-inch dick and had pulled it out at a bar and shown it to people I knew. People from my floor. Guys I’d lived with, eaten with, studied with. Women I’d had crushes on. People who’d seen my face every day for a year and now had an image of me standing in front of a bathroom mirror with my boxers around my thighs and my barely-there penis on full display.
They’d seen it. They’d laughed. They’d heard Tessa’s jokes. And they’d known it was me.
I thought about every interaction I’d had in the months after that night. Every time someone had been quiet when I walked into a room. Every time a conversation had paused when I approached a group. Every strange look, every half-smile I couldn’t quite read. I’d chalked it up to nothing—paranoia, self-consciousness, the normal social anxiety of being in your early twenties and surrounded by people you’re trying to impress.
But it wasn’t nothing. They’d seen my dick. They’d seen how small I was. And they’d laughed.
I finished my beer. Kyle sat across from me, quiet, watching my face.
“It was small,” I said. Not to Kyle. Not to anyone. Just to the air, to the table, to the ghost of a version of myself that had thought sending that photo was a good idea.
“Yeah,” Kyle said gently. “I know, man. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t go home with anyone that night. I didn’t go home with anyone for a long time after that. Every time I thought about being intimate with someone, I saw Tessa’s face. I heard her voice. Is that it? Is that actually it? And the wave of shame that followed was so intense it killed any possibility of arousal, of connection, of vulnerability.
I stayed home. I watched TV. I jerked off alone, always in the dark, always with the image of that mirror photo in my mind—my own body, exposed and ridiculous, preserved forever on a stranger’s phone.
Cassie and I barely talked after that. Not because of the photo—because of life, because of graduation, because of distance. But the last time I saw her, at a reunion thing a year later, she hugged me and said, “Hey, small dick,” with a warm, familiar grin, like it was just our thing. An inside joke. A nickname.
I smiled back. I laughed. And then I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself—my face, my body, the shape of me—and tried to figure out how a single photo, sent in a single drunk moment, had managed to define two years of my life.
I couldn’t figure it out. I pulled down my pants. I looked at my dick—soft, small, barely there—and I thought about Tessa showing it to a room full of people, and I felt that same sick, electric jolt. Shame and arousal, tangled together, inseparable.
I zipped up. I washed my hands. I went back out.
And I never sent anyone a photo again.
The End.
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