It Finally Happened!
A Fictional Story by TooSmall2Fuck-1111.
I can no longer penetrate my wife’s vagina.
Not from any position. Not with any amount of lube. Not after foreplay, not after patience, not after trying every angle, every pillow, every trick that the internet suggests to couples dealing with what the forums politely call “size mismatch.” I have tried them all. I have exhausted the list. And the conclusion is the one I’ve been running from for the entire duration of our marriage: my penis is too small to enter my wife.
Let me give you the numbers because they’re the whole story.
I’m five foot six. My wife, Corinne, is also five foot six. We’re the same height, which means when we stand face to face, we’re eye level, and there’s nowhere to hide. My waist is forty-four inches. I’m soft in the middle, thick through the trunk, the kind of body that carries its weight in the gut and the hips. Corinne’s waist is thirty-six inches, but her ass is fifty inches. Fifty. She carries her weight low and wide, heavy through the hips and thighs, the kind of bottom-heavy figure that makes jeans impossible to shop for and chairs impossible to sit in gracefully. Her ass is the first thing anyone notices about her. It’s the first thing I noticed. It’s the thing that defined our sex life before our sex life had even started.
And her pussy is huge.
I don’t mean that as an insult. I don’t mean it as a complaint. I mean it as a physical fact, the same way I’d describe my own erection as small. Corinne’s vagina is large. Deep. Wide. Accommodating in a way that suggests it was built for something significantly bigger than what I have to offer. Her favorite dildo is ten inches long and two inches thick, and she takes all of it. Every inch. She can slide that thing to the base, rock on it with her eyes closed and her mouth open, and come three times before she’s done. I’ve watched her do it. I’ve stood at the foot of our bed and watched my wife fuck herself with a dildo that is nearly four times the length of my erection and more than one and a half times the girth, and I’ve watched her take it all.
My erection is two and three-quarter inches long and one and a quarter inches thick.
Two point seven five by one point two five. That’s it. That’s the full extent of my manhood when I’m as hard as I’ll ever be. When I’m soft, I’m maybe an inch, sometimes less, a nub that barely protrudes from my pubic fat, that disappears when I sit down, that’s invisible in underwear. But hard—when I’m fully, maximally aroused—two and three-quarter inches. One and a quarter inches around. A stub. A peg. A thing that doesn’t look like a penis so much as it looks like the idea of a penis, a rough draft, a placeholder where the real thing was supposed to go.
I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ve known I was small since I was fourteen and saw my first locker room. I’ve known I was below average since I was seventeen and had my first sexual encounter and the girl looked down at my erection and said, “Is that it?” I’ve known I was functionally inadequate since my twenties, when condoms slipped off during sex and partners struggled to feel me and the pattern became impossible to ignore. But I didn’t know I was too small to penetrate my wife until three years into our marriage, when the evidence became so overwhelming that even I couldn’t deny it.
—
How It Started
The first time I tried to fuck Corinne, I couldn’t.
We’d been dating for two months. We were in her bed, in her apartment, on a Saturday night. She was on her back, legs open, wet from twenty minutes of my mouth on her. I’d gone down on her because going down on women was what I did. It was my primary sexual skill. My tongue had been my stand-in for my penis since I was nineteen, and I’d gotten very good at it. Corinne had already come once, her thighs squeezing my head, her hands in my hair, her hips grinding against my face. She was ready. She wanted me inside her.
I knelt between her legs. I stroked myself to full hardness—two and three-quarter inches, straining, as hard as I could get. I positioned the head against her opening. I pushed forward.
Nothing.
I pushed again. I felt her outer lips part around the head of my dick, and then… nothing. No resistance, but no entry either. No sensation of sliding into anything. No warmth closing around me. Just her wetness against my tip and then open space. Her vagina was so deep and so wide that my penis simply didn’t reach. It pressed against her entrance and stopped, like a finger poking through a doorway into a dark room.
I adjusted. I repositioned. I pushed my hips forward as far as they would go, pressing my pelvis against her, trying to drive every fraction of an inch I had into her. I felt my pubic bone against her vulva, felt her wetness on my skin, felt the heat of her body. But my dick wasn’t inside her. It was pressed against her, maybe the first half-inch of the tip nestled into her opening, but the rest of me was just… against her. Outside. Not in.
“Is it in?” she asked.
That question. That question. The question every small-dicked man dreads, the question that confirms what you already know, the question that turns your worst fear into a spoken fact.
“I think so,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. Her voice was neutral. Not excited, not disappointed, just… neutral. Like she was waiting for something to happen. Like she was giving me the benefit of the doubt.
I thrust. I pulled my hips back and pushed forward, trying to find a rhythm, trying to create friction where there was none. My dick slid along her vulva, catching briefly on her inner lips, then slipping up toward her clit, then back down. I was humping her, not fucking her. There was no penetration. There was no grip. There was no tightness or warmth or any of the things that sex is supposed to feel like. Just my small, hard dick sliding around on the outside of her large, wet pussy, looking for a hole it was too small to fill.
I came after about thirty seconds. I came on her, not in her. My semen shot onto her vulva and her inner thigh and the sheet beneath her. I collapsed, breathing hard, my face burning with shame.
She was quiet. She stroked my hair.
“It’s okay,” she said.
She didn’t say it was good. She didn’t say she’d felt it. She said it was okay. The same way you’d say it’s okay to someone who dropped a glass and broke it. An accident. A mishap. Something to be cleaned up and moved past.
—
Trying Everything
We kept trying. Of course we did. We were in love, we were attracted to each other, and we both wanted a sex life that included penetration. I wasn’t ready to give up on the idea that my penis could function as a penis. Corinne wasn’t ready to accept that her future husband’s dick was too small to enter her. So we tried everything.
We tried lube. We tried positions. We tried every position. Missionary—my dick pressed against her opening and went nowhere. Doggy—her massive ass created a distance between my hips and her vagina that my penis couldn’t bridge. I’d push forward, and my dick would slide up along her perineum and rest against her asshole, or slide down and poke her thigh, or just get lost in the folds of her pussy, swallowed by her outer lips without ever entering her. Her ass was so big, so deep, that in doggy style my pelvis couldn’t get close enough to her vaginal opening. There was at least two inches of ass between my hips and her pussy, and I only had two and three-quarter inches of dick to work with. The math didn’t work.
We tried her on top. She straddled me, reached down, took my dick in her hand, and tried to guide it in. She pressed the tip against her opening and lowered herself. I felt her pussy part around the head of my dick—warm, wet, the first real sensation of entry—and then she kept lowering herself and the head popped out. She’d gone past it. Her vagina was deeper than my dick was long, and when she tried to sit down on me, she simply slid past my penis and onto my pelvis. My dick was left behind, pressed flat against my stomach, her pussy lips on either side of it.
“It keeps coming out,” she said.
I know, I wanted to say. It keeps coming out because it’s too small to stay in.
We tried spooning. We tried with her legs closed. We tried with her legs wide open. We tried with pillows under her hips, pillows under my hips, pillows everywhere. We tried with me standing and her on the edge of the bed. We tried with me sitting and her lowering herself onto me. We tried it with her on her back, with me entering from the side: every position, every angle, every variation.
In every case, the result was the same. My dick either couldn’t reach her vaginal opening, or it reached the opening and couldn’t get past it, or it got the head in and immediately slipped out. I couldn’t maintain penetration for more than a single thrust. In most cases, I couldn’t achieve penetration at all.
Corinne was patient. She was kind. She never laughed, never mocked, never said the words hanging in the air between us with every failed attempt. But I could see it in her face—the frustration, the confusion, the slow realization that this wasn’t a technique problem or a position problem. This was a size problem. My penis was too small for her vagina. Not a little too small. Dramatically, comically, fundamentally too small. Like trying to park a bicycle in a warehouse. Like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Every cliché I’d ever heard about small dicks and big pussies was being confirmed in our bedroom, night after night, attempt after failed attempt.
—
The Dildo
Corinne’s dildo lived in the nightstand on her side of the bed. It was ten inches long and two inches thick, black, realistic, with veins and a pronounced head. She’d had it before we met. She’d been using it for years. It was her go-to, her reliable, the thing she reached for when she wanted to get off hard and fast.
I’d watched her use it. Early in our relationship, before the penetration attempts had fully failed, she’d used it in front of me as part of foreplay. She’d slide it in, and I’d watch her pussy open around it, take it in, swallow it inch by inch until the base was against her vulva and all ten inches were inside her. Then she’d fuck herself with it, pulling it out until just the head was inside, then driving it back in, and the sounds she made—those sounds, those deep, guttural, involuntary sounds of a woman being filled—were sounds she never made with me. Sounds she couldn’t make with me, because I couldn’t fill her. I couldn’t even enter her.
After a few months of failed penetration attempts, the dildo became our primary sex tool. I’d go down on her, get her close, and then she’d reach for the nightstand and slide the dildo in while I watched. Sometimes I’d hold it, fuck her with it, drive it in and out while she moaned and came. Sometimes she’d use it herself while I stroked my dick beside her, my two and three-quarter inches in my hand, her ten inches inside her.
The comparison was unavoidable. The visual was devastating. My dick, in my hand, barely visible between my fingers. Her dildo, in her pussy, stretching her open, filling her, giving her what I couldn’t. Every time we did this, I was confronted with the physical reality of my inadequacy, displayed in full color, side by side with the object that replaced me.
One night, she was on her back with the dildo buried to the hilt, and I was beside her, hard, stroking myself. She looked over at my dick in my hand and then at the dildo inside her and said, without thinking, without filtering, without meaning to say it out loud:
“God, I wish you were this big.”
She caught herself immediately. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“It’s not fine, I shouldn’t have—”
“Corinne. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. It was the most honest thing she’d said about our sex life, and it confirmed what I already knew. She wished I were bigger. She wished my penis could do what the dildo did. She wished the man she married could fill her the way a ten-inch piece of silicone could. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t even get inside her.
I came in my hand while she rode the dildo to another orgasm. I came thinking about the difference between two and three-quarter inches and ten inches. I came thinking about the fact that my wife’s pussy was so big that she needed ten inches to feel full, and I had two and three-quarters. I came thinking about the word “wish” and everything it implied.
—
The Conversation
We had the conversation six months into the marriage. I brought it up because I couldn’t carry it anymore. The weight of pretending we had a penetrative sex life when we didn’t. The charade of trying positions and failing and moving on to the dildo like it was a supplement rather than a replacement. The unspoken truth that sat between us every time we were in bed together: my penis didn’t work. Not with her. Not in her. Not for the purpose for which it was designed.
“I can’t penetrate you,” I said. We were sitting on the couch, TV off, facing each other. “I need to say it out loud because I can’t keep pretending.”
Corinne looked at me. Her face was soft, careful. “I know,” she said.
“You know?”
“Tommy, I’ve known since the first time we tried. I could feel it. Or I couldn’t feel it, I should say. You weren’t inside me. You were never inside me.”
Hearing her say it—plainly, directly, without euphemism—made my stomach drop and my dick hard simultaneously. The humiliation and the arousal, the twin forces that had shaped my sexuality, both firing at once.
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“We do what we’ve been doing,” she said. “My mouth, your mouth, the dildo. We have a sex life. It’s just not a penetrative sex life. Not with you.”
“Not with me.”
She reached over and took my hand. “Your dick is small. I’m not going to pretend it isn’t. You know it, I know it, and it’s the reason we can’t have penetrative sex. You’re too small for me. My pussy is too big for you. It’s a physical incompatibility, and it’s not going to change.”
“You’re too big,” I repeated. “And I’m too small.”
“Yes.”
She said it without cruelty, without pity, without the performative gentleness that would have been worse than cruelty. She said it like a fact. Like a medical finding. Like a measurement.
“Two and three-quarter inches,” she said. “That’s how big you are hard. And I need… I need a lot more than that. I need depth. I need girth. I need to feel something inside me, and you’re not big enough to be felt.”
My dick was straining against my pants. Two and three-quarter inches of straining, pathetic, inadequate erection. She was telling me, to my face, that I was too small. That she needed more. That my penis didn’t register inside her. And I was getting harder with every word.
“Can I be honest about something?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes when I’m using the dildo, I think about what it would be like if you were bigger. If you could actually fuck me. If I could feel you inside me the way I feel the dildo. And then I think about what you actually have—your little dick, your two and three-quarter inches—and I feel… I feel sad. And then I feel something else.”
“What?”
“Relief. That I have the dildo. That I can still get fucked, even if it’s not by you.”
Relief. She felt relief that she had a silicone substitute because her husband’s penis was too small to fuck her. She felt relief that she could still experience penetration, even if it came from a toy instead of her husband’s body. She was telling me that the dildo wasn’t a supplement to our sex life. It was the penetrative sex life I couldn’t provide.
I pulled my dick out. Right there on the couch. Two and three-quarter inches, hard, wet at the tip. I stroked myself while she watched.
“You’re getting off on this,” she said. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“On me telling you you’re too small.”
“Yes.”
She stared at my dick—at the small, hard, leaking dick in my hand—and I saw something change in her expression. Not cruelty. Not mockery. Something closer to curiosity. The curiosity of a woman who was seeing, for the first time, that her husband’s inadequacy wasn’t just a source of shame for him. It was a source of arousal. That the thing that made him too small to fuck her was the same thing that made him hard.
“Two and three-quarter inches,” she said again, watching me stroke. “That’s barely bigger than my thumb.”
I came. I came on my hand, on my pants, on the couch cushion. I came while my wife compared my erection to her thumb.
Corinne told her friends.
I don’t know when, exactly. I don’t know which friend it was first, what words she used, or how the conversation went. But at some point in the months after our couch conversation, she told them. I know because of the way they started looking at me. The way their eyes dropped to my crotch when I walked into a room. The way their conversations paused when I entered. The way they exchanged glances—quick, knowing, loaded glances—when I sat down at a gathering and crossed my legs.
Her two best friends were Bethany and Connie. Bethany was tall, loud, red-haired, the kind of woman who said whatever she was thinking. Connie was shorter, quieter, dark-haired, the kind of woman who communicated through facial expressions and strategic silences. They’d been Corinne’s friends since college. They were at our apartment at least once a week for dinner, drinks, or movie nights.
The first time I knew for certain that Corinne had told them was a Saturday night, about a year into the marriage. The four of us were on the couch watching a movie. Corinne was beside me, Bethany was in the armchair, Connie was on the floor with a pillow. The movie had a sex scene—a fairly graphic one, with a man and woman going at it, the woman moaning, the man clearly well-endowed based on the silhouette.
Bethany said, without looking away from the screen: “God, can you imagine not being able to feel that?”
She said it casually, like a throwaway comment. But Connie glanced at me—quick, deliberate—and then at Corinne. And Corinne looked at me too. And the three of them shared a moment that I was not part of, a moment of shared knowledge, shared secret, and shared awareness of my inadequacy.
“I can’t imagine,” Connie said. Still looking at me.
My face was burning. My dick was hard in my pants. Two and three-quarter inches of hard, invisible, pathetic arousal.
Later that night, after the friends had left, Corinne and I were in bed. I told her what I’d noticed.
“They know,” I said.
“Know what?”
“That I can’t… that we don’t… that I’m too small.”
Corinne was quiet. Then: “I told Bethany. I didn’t tell Connie. Bethany told Connie.”
“What did you tell Bethany?”
“That you’re small. That you can’t penetrate me. That we use a dildo because your dick doesn’t work inside me.”
My dick was so hard it hurt. “What did she say?”
“She laughed. She said she’d always wondered about you because she’d never seen a bulge in your pants. She said she figured you were either really small or a grower. She said, ‘So he’s not a grower either.'”
“Not a grower either.” Meaning Bethany had suspected I was small based on the absence of a visible bulge, and Corinne had confirmed that I was small both soft and hard. No bulge because no penis. No surprise because no growth.
“What else did she say?”
“She asked how big you are. I told her. Two and three-quarter inches.”
“You told her the number.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Oh my God. That’s like… that’s tiny. That’s really tiny, Corinne.’ She said she didn’t know dicks came that small.”
I was stroking myself under the sheets. Corinne could tell. She pulled the sheet back and watched me.
“You’re doing it again,” she said. “Getting off on it.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I know.” She watched my hand move on my dick—my small, two-and-three-quarter-inch dick, barely visible in my grip. “Bethany said she wants to see it.”
“See it?”
“She wants to see your dick. She doesn’t believe it’s that small. She said, ‘There’s no way he’s under three inches. That’s like a medical thing. That’s a micropenis.’ I told her it’s not technically a micropenis because micropenis is under two point eight inches and you’re two point seven five, but she said that’s basically the same thing.”
Two point seven five. I was a quarter of an inch away from a medical classification of micropenis. A quarter of an inch. The margin between “very small penis” and “micropenis” was a quarter of an inch, and I was on the wrong side of the line by a fraction.
“She wants to see it,” I said.
“Yes. Can I show her?”
I came. I came on Corinne’s hand, on the sheets, on my stomach. I came thinking about Bethany seeing my dick. About Bethany laughing. About Bethany telling Connie. About the number—two and three-quarter inches—being spoken aloud in a room I wasn’t in, by women who were discussing my inadequacy like a curiosity.
“Yes,” I said. “You can show her.”
—
The Showing
It happened the following weekend. Bethany and Connie came over for drinks. We sat in the living room. I had a beer. They had wine. Corinne had wine. The conversation was normal—work, gossip, a movie they’d seen—until it wasn’t.
Bethany looked at Corinne. Corinne looked at me. I nodded.
“Okay,” Bethany said. She put her wine glass down. “Show me.”
I stood up. I was wearing sweatpants, which I’d chosen specifically because they showed nothing. Because there was nothing to show. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and pulled them down. My dick was soft. One inch. A nub. Barely visible in my pubic hair.
Bethany stared. Her mouth opened slightly. Then she looked at Corinne.
“That’s… soft?”
“That’s soft,” Corinne said.
“And hard?”
“Show her,” Corinne said to me.
I stroked myself. It took about thirty seconds. My dick hardened to its full two and three-quarter inches, jutting out from my body, thin and short and unmistakably inadequate.
Bethany’s hand went to her mouth. Then she laughed. Not a cruel laugh—a shocked laugh, the laugh of someone who’s just seen something they can’t process. A reflex.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh, my God. That’s… Corinne, that’s tiny. That’s really tiny.”
“I know,” Corinne said.
“Can you even… does it go inside you?”
“No.”
“Like, at all?”
“At all. It doesn’t go in. It’s too small.”
Bethany leaned forward, staring at my dick like it was a museum exhibit. “It’s so little. It’s like a thumb. Connie, look.”
Connie looked. She’d been quiet the whole time, sitting in the armchair, wine in hand, watching. Her eyes dropped to my crotch and stayed there. Her expression was unreadable—neutral, analytical, the expression of a woman cataloging data.
“Two and three-quarter inches,” Connie said. “That’s what you told me, right, Corinne?”
“Yes.”
Connie held up her thumb. She looked at it, then at my dick, then back at her thumb. “Yeah. That’s about the same. Maybe a little smaller.”
She was comparing my hard erection to her thumb. And her thumb might have been bigger. I felt the humiliation wash over me in a wave—hot, consuming, total—and my dick twitched.
Bethany saw it twitch. “It moved. It moved when you said that, Connie.”
Connie looked at me at my face, which was flushed, and my dick, which was hard and twitching. “He likes this,” she said. “He’s getting off on it.”
“He does,” Corinne said. “He has a thing about it. Being small. Being told he’s small. It turns him on.”
Bethany’s eyes widened. “Seriously? You’re into this?”
I didn’t answer. My dick answered for me—twitching again, leaking a drop of precum that hung from the tip.
“He’s into it,” Connie said. “Look at him. He’s dripping.”
Bethany laughed again. “Oh, my God. Your husband is standing in the living room with a two-inch hard-on dripping precum because we’re talking about how small he is. Corinne, your life is wild.”
“Two and three-quarter,” Corinne corrected. “Not two.”
“Two and three-quarter,” Bethany repeated. “Okay. Two and three-quarter inches. And you can’t feel him inside you?”
“I can’t even get him inside me.”
“Not at all?”
“His dick doesn’t reach. My pussy is too deep and too wide, and his dick is too short and too thin. It doesn’t go in.”
Bethany looked at me with an expression I’d never seen before—pity mixed with fascination mixed with amusement. “So you’ve never fucked your wife?”
“I’ve never fucked my wife,” I said.
“Has he ever fucked anyone?” Bethany asked Corinne.
“I don’t know,” Corinne said. “Have you?”
“A couple of women,” I said. “Before you. But it was… it didn’t work very well.”
“Didn’t work very well,” Bethany repeated. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning the same thing. They couldn’t feel it. Condoms slipped off. I couldn’t stay inside.”
Connie set her wine glass down. She crossed her legs. She was looking at my dick with that analytical expression, like she was studying it. “Can I see it closer?”
I stepped closer to her. She leaned forward in the armchair and looked at my dick from about a foot away. She held up her index finger next to it—her finger was about three inches, slightly longer than my erection.
“Your finger is bigger,” Bethany said from the couch.
“My finger is bigger,” Connie agreed. She looked up at me. “Does that bother you? That my finger is bigger than your dick?”
I twitched again. Another drop of precum.
Connie smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile all night. “It does bother you. And it doesn’t. Both.”
“Can I touch it?” Bethany asked.
Corinne looked at me. I nodded.
Bethany came over and crouched next to Connie. She reached out and took my dick between her thumb and index finger. She pinched it lightly, holding it like a small object, which is what it was.
“God, it’s so little,” she said. “I’ve never seen one this small. I’ve been with guys who were like five, six inches. I thought that was normal. This is… this is a different thing. This is like a kid’s dick.”
“It’s not a kid’s dick,” Corinne said. “It’s a small dick. There’s a difference.”
“Okay, a small dick. A really small dick. The smallest dick I’ve ever seen.” She squeezed slightly. “Can you even feel this, Corinne? When he’s inside you?”
“He’s never inside me. That’s the point.”
“Right. Right.” Bethany let go. My dick bobbed in the air, two and three-quarter inches of inadequacy on display for three women. “So what do you do? Just the dildo?”
“The dildo and oral,” Corinne said. “He’s good with his mouth.”
“Good,” Bethany said. “Because he’s not good with his dick.”
She said it with finality. A verdict. A conclusion delivered by a woman who had just examined the evidence—my dick, two and three-quarter inches, held between her thumb and finger—and rendered judgment. Not good with his dick. An accurate assessment of my entire sexual life, delivered in a living room on a Saturday night.
I went to the bathroom and came into the sink. I came thinking about Bethany’s thumb and finger. About Connie’s finger, longer than my erection. About the word “tiny” and the word “little” and the phrase “not good with his dick.” I came in under a minute.
When I came back, the three women were talking. They stopped when I walked in. Bethany was grinning. Connie was sipping her wine. Corinne was watching me with an expression I knew—the expression that said she knew exactly what I’d just done and why.
“Feel better?” Corinne asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Sit down. We’re ordering pizza.”
I sat down. My dick was soft again—one inch, invisible, spent. The three women went back to their conversation. The pizza arrived. We ate. We watched a movie. Bethany and Connie left at midnight.
At the door, Bethany hugged Corinne, then turned to me and hugged me too. She whispered in my ear: “Two and three-quarter inches. I’m never going to forget that number.”
She pulled back, smiled, and left.
—
Now
This is our life now. Corinne uses the dildo. I use my mouth. I don’t attempt penetration anymore because there’s no point. My dick is too small, and her pussy is too big and the gap between us—literally, physically, measurably—is unbridgeable.
Bethany and Connie know. They’ve seen my dick. They’ve held it. They’ve compared it to their fingers and found it wanting. They bring it up sometimes, casually, in conversation—a joke about size, a comment about a movie, a reference to a well-endowed actor. “Now that’s a real dick,” Bethany said once during a movie with a shower scene. She looked at me when she said it. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. My dick was hard under the blanket.
Corinne has started talking about it more openly too. Not just with her friends—with me, in bed, when she’s using the dildo. She’ll look at my dick—my small, hard, two-and-three-quarter-inch dick in my hand—and say things. Things like, “Look at that little thing.” Things like, “You can’t even get it in.” Things like, “I need a real cock, not this.” She says it while the dildo slides in and out of her, ten inches of silicone doing what I can’t, and I stroke myself and come to the sound of her voice telling me I’m too small.
I’ve accepted it. I’ve accepted that I will never penetrate my wife. That I will never feel the inside of her vagina with my penis. That the most intimate physical act a husband and wife can share is, for us, physically impossible because of my size. I’ve accepted that my dick is a decoration, a nub, a thing that gets hard and gets off but doesn’t function as a penis. I’ve accepted that the dildo is her penis now. That the ten-inch silicone cock in the nightstand is what fucks her, what fills her, what makes her come from penetration. Not me. Never me.
I’ve accepted all of this. And it makes me hard every time I think about it.
Two and three-quarter inches by one and a quarter inches. The measurements of my inadequacy. The dimensions of my failure. The size of the dick that can’t fuck its own wife.
I’m hard right now, thinking about it. I’m going to go upstairs, lie next to my wife, and stroke my little dick while she slides ten inches into her huge, beautiful pussy, and I’m going to come thinking about the fact that I can’t enter her. That I’ll never enter her. That my penis is too small to be a penis.
That’s my life. That’s my sex life. That’s what two and three-quarter inches gets you.
Nothing.
The End.
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