Lunch with the Girls
A Fictional Story by Purpleredblue415.
I met these girls about a month ago through a mutual friend during Pride. We kind of just clicked. There’s Leah — loud, blunt, zero filter, the kind of person who says whatever she’s thinking at whatever volume she’s thinking it. Then there’s Nadia, who’s bi like me and probably the most chill of the group. Katie and Renee round out the table — both straight, both in their hoe phase, and both absolutely fascinated by anything involving gay sex.
They adopted me, basically. I’m the token gay friend, except I’m bi, which they treat as basically the same thing. They call me “one of the girls,” and honestly? I don’t even mind. It’s nice. I don’t have to perform masculinity around them. I can just exist.
What they don’t know — what I know and have never told anyone in this group — is that I’m not just bi. I’m bi with a three-inch dick. Hard. Soft, it’s basically a thumb. Half an inch, maybe. It’s the reason I mostly sleep with men. It’s the reason I’ve never topped. It’s the reason I’ve slowly, quietly, accepted that my sex life is going to look different from what I thought it would when I was younger.
They don’t know any of that. Not yet.
—
It was a Saturday afternoon, one of those late-summer days where the patio of the restaurant is the only place anyone wants to be. We’d gotten a round of margaritas and some tacos, and the conversation had drifted — the way it always does with this group — to sex.
Katie started it. She’d hooked up with some guy from Hinge the night before and was giving us the full rundown.
“He was fine,” she said, shrugging. “Like, his face was great. Body was okay. But the dick was… mid.”
“How mid?” Renee asked.
“Like, average. Maybe five inches? He thought he was doing something, though. He kept going ‘you like that?’ and I was like… sir, I can barely feel that.”
Everyone laughed. I sipped my margarita and stayed quiet. Five inches would be a miracle for me.
Nadia shared next — she’d been seeing a woman casually but had also hooked up with a guy recently. “He was big,” she said, holding her hands apart. “Like, porn big. I had to tell him to slow down.”
“Did you?” Leah asked.
“…No. I took it.”
More laughter.
Then Renee told a story about a guy who was so small he couldn’t stay inside, and the table erupted. I felt my face get warm. I shifted in my seat — partly from embarrassment, partly because my ass was still sore from the night before, and sitting on that wooden patio chair was a constant reminder.
Then they all looked at me.
“What about you?” Katie asked, leaning forward. “You’ve been quiet.”
“Yeah, you never talk about your sex life,” Nadia added. “You just say ‘I’m talking to someone’ and leave it at that.”
I took a breath. “Okay. So… I’ve been hooking up with this guy recently.”
“Ooh,” Leah said, already grinning. “Tell us everything.”
“He’s… yeah. He’s really hot.”
“How’d you meet him?” Renee asked.
“Online. We just started chatting and, you know. It’s casual.”
“Are you a top or a bottom?” Leah asked, like she was asking what I wanted for lunch.
I paused. “I’m a bottom.”
That got a reaction. Katie’s eyes went wide. Renee leaned back. Leah just nodded like it made sense.
“Have you ever topped?” Nadia asked.
“No,” I said. And then, because I’d already had two margaritas and the sun was warm and I was tired of hiding — “I have a small dick, so I always bottom.”
The table went quiet for about two seconds. Then Leah said, “Wait — like how small?”
“Like… three inches. Hard.”
Another beat of silence. Then Katie snorted. Then Renee. Then everyone.
“Three inches?” Leah repeated, way too loud. A couple at the next table glanced over.
“Keep your voice down,” I said, but I was kind of smiling.
“Sorry, sorry — three inches? That’s… that’s little.”
“I know,” I said.
“Can we see it?” Katie asked.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve changed the subject. Instead, I pulled out my phone and opened my hidden photos folder. I had a picture I’d taken a while ago — just me, hard, lying on my bed. Three inches, thin, barely there. I turned the phone toward them.
Katie covered her mouth. Renee actually said “Oh my god” out loud. Nadia bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh. Leah just looked at it and then looked at me and said, “Babe… that’s a clit.”
The table exploded. I felt my face go red — deep red, the kind where you can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks. But underneath the embarrassment, something else was happening. Something I didn’t want to examine too closely. My stomach felt tight. My skin felt electric. I was… turned on.
“It’s not that bad,” Nadia said, trying to be kind.
“It’s literally that bad,” Leah said. “Honey, that is a small penis.”
“I know,” I said again. I took my phone back and put it face-down on the table.
“So that’s why you only hook up with guys?” Katie asked.
“Yeah. I mean… it’s just easier. With guys, I don’t have to worry about… performing. I just bottom.”
“Does it bother you?” Nadia asked.
“Sometimes. But mostly I’ve just accepted it.”
The conversation shifted — they wanted to know about the guy I was seeing. I pulled up a picture he’d sent me. Not his face — his dick. I turned the phone around again.
The reaction was immediate and loud.
“Oh my GOD,” Katie said.
“That’s a dick,” Renee said, like she was confirming it was real.
“He’s big,” Nadia said, nodding slowly.
Leah just said, “How big is that?”
“About seven inches,” I said. “Girthy. A lot of foreskin.”
“Wait — so you take that?” Katie pointed at the phone. “That goes in you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you like it?”
“I mean… yeah.”
The table got a little quieter. They were all looking at me differently now. Not with pity — with curiosity. Like I was a puzzle they were trying to solve.
“Does it hurt?” Renee asked.
“Sometimes. Especially at first. He’s thick, so I have to warm up. But once I relax, it’s… yeah. It’s good.”
“How often are you guys fucking?” Leah asked.
“A lot,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Like, a lot. Sometimes it’ll hurt, but I’ll keep coming back.”
Leah threw her head back and practically shouted: “OMG, you let him keep fucking you even though you’re sore?!”
“Leah!” I hissed. “Please — everyone can hear you.”
She was laughing too hard to care. An older couple two tables over was openly staring now. A guy at the bar inside had turned around on his stool. I could feel their attention like a spotlight.
“Can you blame them?” Katie said, gesturing at the patio. “This is the most interesting conversation happening in this restaurant.”
“Great,” I muttered. But I was smiling. And I was hard in my shorts, which was almost invisible given my size, but I could feel it — that tight, warm ache of arousal, the kind that comes from being exposed and humiliated and not being able to stop it.
They kept pressing. More questions. More details. I gave them everything.
“He likes to bend me over,” I said quietly.
“HE BENDS YOU OVER?” Leah repeated at full volume.
“Leah, I’m begging you.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She was not sorry.
“He bends me over,” I continued, “and he’ll go hard. Like, really hard. Sometimes I’ll be sore for a day or two after.”
“Does he know you’re sore?” Nadia asked.
“He doesn’t ask,” I said. “And I don’t tell him. I just show up the next time he texts.”
“Why?” Katie asked. “Why not just… take a break?”
I shrugged. “In the gay community, guys hook up all the time. It’s casual. Tops like him — when they get bored, they move on to the next guy. So I’m going to enjoy this as much as possible until he’s tired of fucking me.”
The table went quiet again. Not uncomfortable — just… absorbing.
“So you’re basically his little bitch,” Renee said.
“I mean… yeah,” I said.
“You are his little bitch,” Leah confirmed, like she was making it official.
I didn’t argue. What was the point? It was true. I was his little bitch. I was the guy who dropped everything when he texted, who showed up already lubed, who let him fuck me however he wanted for as long as he wanted. I was the guy whose ass was still tender right now, sitting on this patio chair, feeling the phantom ache of his hips slamming into me the night before. I could still feel the bruising — a dull soreness along my pelvis and lower stomach where he’d pinned me down and gone deep.
I didn’t tell them that part. Some things you keep for yourself.
Then Katie asked something that made the whole table shift: “Do you actually like bottoming? Or do you just do it because you have to?”
I thought about it for a second. “I thoroughly enjoy being a bottom,” I said. “Like, genuinely. It feels good. I like being the one who gets fucked. I like giving up control. I like making someone else feel good. I don’t think about my dick when I’m with him. I just think about his.”
Nadia nodded slowly and said, almost under her breath: “That’s good. Because you don’t have a lot of options if you didn’t.”
The table went silent for a beat. Then everyone laughed — including me. But that one hit different. It landed somewhere deep in my chest, in that place where I keep the truth about my body and what it’s worth. You don’t have a lot of options. She said it so casually, like she was reading a weather report. And the thing is — she was right. I don’t. Three inches doesn’t open a lot of doors. It doesn’t satisfy a lot of people. It doesn’t make you the one who does the fucking. It makes you the one who gets fucked. And I’d made peace with that. But hearing someone say it out loud, in front of everyone, on a sunny patio where strangers could hear — that was something else.
My dick was straining in my shorts. All three inches of it, pressing against the fabric like it was trying to prove it existed.
—
When the check came, we split it. Everyone stood up, gathered their bags, started putting on sunglasses. The normal end-of-lunch shuffle. I threw down some cash and pushed my chair back, wincing slightly as the soreness in my ass reminded me it was still there.
As we were walking toward the exit, the waiter — a woman in her mid-twenties with a ponytail and a knowing smile — caught my eye. She’d been serving our section the whole time. She’d heard everything. I knew she had because every time Leah had shouted something, the waiter had glanced over.
She looked right at me, smiled, and said, “Have a good afternoon.”
That was it. Just that. But the way she said it — the slight pause, the raised eyebrow, the warmth in her voice that was almost maternal — I knew. She’d heard about my small dick. She’d heard about my top’s big one. She’d heard that I was his little bitch. She’d heard all of it. And she was smiling at me like she understood.
I felt my face go red one more time. I nodded at her and walked out.
Outside, the girls were already chatting about where to go next. Leah was talking about getting iced coffee. Katie was checking her phone. Nadia fell into step beside me and said, quietly, “That was really open of you. Thanks for sharing.”
“Thanks for not making it weirder than it already was.”
“Oh, it was weird,” she said, smiling. “But, like, good weird.”
I walked with them down the sidewalk, the sun on my face, my ass aching with every step, my tiny dick half-hard in my shorts, and the waiter’s smile burned into my memory.
I’d told them everything. They’d laughed. They’d commented. They’d called me a little bitch. And I’d sat there and taken it — the same way I take everything else in my life.
It was embarrassing. It was humiliating. Strangers had heard. A waiter knew my secret.
And I was already thinking about the next time my top would text me.
The End.
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