Midnight Stubby

By basquej.

I used to work the four to midnight shift at the auto parts plant on the north end of town. I would run after work in the warm months to wash away the day’s stresses before bedtime. One night I found a five-dollar bill on the kitchen table and a note from my sleeping wife advising that we needed milk for the morning. So that night, I would be out for a walk since running with a gallon of milk in one hand was too off-balanced for my liking. The twenty-four-hour variety store was attached to an all-night gas station on the county road feeding the interstate highway, five blocks from home.

The first two blocks were residential, and the houses were mostly dark at that late hour. The third block housed a retirement home, a fire station, and a school. The fourth block held a church and vacant sports fields. The fifth block had a townhouse complex on one side of the road, which housed mostly students for the local college. The other side of the road had a once popular strip mall being demolished for more student housing and another townhouse complex of mixed low-income housing and college students.

The college catered to international students, which seems legit on the surface, but most students were there to work, and schooling was the avenue into this country. Not saying that’s a bad thing, but a certain amount of crime and gang activity popped up in the neighborhood. It was on this fifth block that I ran into trouble. Turning the corner, I heard unsettled voices ahead. I could not see what was happening, but at least a dozen male and female people had it out. F-bombs were dropping, and the talk was quite violent.

A smart person would have crossed the road; naturally, I didn’t. Eventually, I came within eyesight of the commotion and saw two gangs of a half dozen members each squaring off, blocking the sidewalk ahead. I’m much older than these college punks, so fear didn’t enter my mind, and I was curious, too, so I continued. Suddenly one gang backed completely off and did a backward walking retreat, keeping their foes in sight while uttering threats about how awful the future will be for their opponents.

I saw three guys and two females as I approached the remaining gang. One of the girls was a short, dumpy-looking thing: fat, big sloppy tits and thighs that rubbed together when she walked. She was barefoot, and her toenails looked long enough to scrape paint from a rusty boat. As I approached, she stepped closer toward me.

“Hey, daddy, got any money?” she said.

I didn’t like that daddy shit, it made me feel old, and her thick accent screamed gang member, so I brushed past her. Her voice was so loud I suspected she was high on something.

She stepped in behind me. “Hey, why are you ignoring me?” she said.

“Don’t have anything you want,” I said, hoping that would shut her up.

The dude who seemed to be the head honcho was also a short fucker, but he had a nasty look about him that made up for it. His facial expression told me this guy didn’t give a shit about anything.

He approached me, saying, “Who’s this asshole?”

I was about to tell him to fuck off when I saw the knife in his hand. As far as knives go, it wasn’t much of a threat: an inch-and-a-half or two-inch blade that wasn’t lethal but could certainly leave some wicked slashes. The other two dudes were also armed. One had a three-foot steel water pipe with a ninety-degree elbow on the end, and the other held a piece of ready rod, both taken from the demolished strip mall. No wonder the other gang backed off! They closed in around me, but I wasn’t particularly frightened. I took a defensive stance, ready for a fight. The knife wasn’t a big deal, and the dudes with the metal were my main concern.

“Back off, fuckheads,” I hissed in the best Clint Eastwood voice I could muster before the short fat girl behind me kicked me in the groin.

As far as a kick between the legs goes, it wasn’t devastating, my penis took most of the blow, and her long toenail had dug in through the thin material of my shorts and undies. I had to press a hand to my groin and work a few fingers under the waistband to confirm the dagger-like nail of her big toe hadn’t severed my cock. It hurt that much. That left me with one good hand. I wanted to keep the knife dude at arm’s length, but he closed in and pulled the cord between my earbuds and the iPod in my pocket. He probably thought he had scored a decent cellphone, but an ancient iPod Mini came into view.

“What the fuck?” he said disgustedly but pocketed it anyway.

I didn’t care; those were twenty years out of date, and I had another at home I had picked up at a yard sale for a couple of bucks.

“What else you got?” he says to me.

I handed over the five bucks to buy more time while figuring out my best action plan. Fighting these assholes was not a viable option. The dudes with the steel had me at a huge disadvantage. My best asset was running, something I could do well and had been doing over the twenty years since high school. All I needed was a decent opening to dash past the swing of the steel pipes, and one of the dudes inadvertently gifted me that.

He wanted my t-shirt, which I suspected would happen. As far as value goes, the shirt didn’t have much. It was a cheap knockoff of the local pro baseball team but had its old crest, discontinued in today’s woke environment. It was a cool crest, and I liked it for old times’ sake, but it was only worn during nighttime jogging. I took the shirt off quickly, and I whipped it off. For two seconds or so, it covered my head and left me defenseless.

They read my thoughts and laughed. I tossed the shirt onto the ground, where the dude asking for it would have to step aside to pick it up. I had my breakaway planned out in my mind: the guy would bend down to pick up the shirt taking the steel pipe out of action; a quick spin would put my face to face with the little shit bitch behind me, and I’d give her a quick kick to the cunt just because she had booted me in the balls.

Two steps would put me out of reach of the ready rod-carrying dude. I didn’t think these assholes could run. The fat barefoot girl would be holding her aching cunt and couldn’t chase me, and if she was mad enough to, those flabby thighs of hers would chaff up smoke signals. The other chick was in flip-flops, not a runner, either. The dudes were wearing running shoes but super white ones that had never seen dirt, too image oriented to break out a sweat. I had it all figured out, and it all went to shit.

One of the girls, I don’t know which one because my mind spun, said, “Yeah, take it off. Take it all off,” and laughed.

Another female voice said, “Yeah, I wanna see your junk. I wanna see everything.”

Those comments hit me like a ton of bricks. I’ve always been into exhibitionism since a teenage friend introduced me to it years ago. Not many opportunities to be naked in public exist in real life, not without twisting the setting. I wasn’t really afraid of these punks, and what a foolproof excuse to be naked! I was robbed. Who could argue that? Strip naked, let them have their laugh, and flash my dick at these two chicks. Who could lose? They’d leave, and I’d get dressed. If any bystander saw something, I had the perfect excuse. As these thoughts flooded my brain, the punks closed in around me, and I lost my chance to escape.

“Okay, let’s see your old wrinkly cock,” the knife dude said in a bored, lazy voice as if he had nothing to do but look at some old guy’s shriveled cock.

I took the old, wrinkly bit as a challenge, they all laughed at humiliating an old man, but for fuck sake, I was only twenty years older than them. I was pissed and excited at the same time, and even though deep down I knew this would probably end badly, I heeled off both of my shoes and then thumbed off each sock by lifting a foot one at a time. They watched me with amused sneers on their faces, and I realized my heart was pounding, and my stomach was knotted in fear.

Not fear for my safety but an egotistical dread of how my big reveal would be received. I wasn’t watching porn in the comfort of my basement but standing on a city street surrounded by armed punks. Adrenaline was pumping throughout my body, creating an unimpressive and unexpected result for anyone not medically trained. Add to that, the end of my dick felt like it had been dipped in a candle flame, thanks to that chick’s heinous toenail.

“Drop ’em,” one of them said.

“Right here, right now,” another said.

“Right in front of me,” someone said.

All I knew for certain is the dude with the knife said, “Don’t fuck with me,” in a tone of voice that one didn’t fuck with.

I dropped my shorts and stepped out of them, then hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my shorts. My stomach was churning in knots, but a tingling sensation was dancing over my testicles.

“If it helps, close your eyes and drop ’em,” one of the girls said with the easy expertise of someone who routinely watches people disrobe.

I slowly eased the waistband down, feeling the cool night air wash over my exposed buttocks. My penis, snuggled in its hairy nest, popped into view, and the laughter I had expected came roaring in. They laughed long and loud, far too loud. They certainly were high on something, had to be. The chubby girl behind me ran her hand lightly across my bum cheeks.

“He’s gone no ass,” she said.

“He’s got no dick either,” the other girl said, which caused another round of overly loud laughter.

My thigh muscles were quivering, and I thought I might cum, if it was physically possible to do that without touching my dick.

“You, sir, have a micropenis. Do you know what that is?” one of the guys said to me with the air of a urologist. “It’s an incredibly small dick,” he continued, “and that is you, incredibly small.”

I looked at the dark windows of the nearby houses, fearful that these loud buffoons had awakened someone. I told myself it was almost over, they were pretty much finished humiliating me, and the knife dude confirmed my suspicion.

“Yeah, he ain’t got much,” he said dismissively.

The dude started walking away, and one of the other guys scooped up my underwear and shorts. I hadn’t expected that. The chubby girl ran her hand over my thigh as she stepped in front of me. I half expected her to try to knee me in the nuts, but she pinched the end of my penis between her thumb and first finger. It hurt, and I winced.

“Daddy got an ouchy?” she said.

She was so close I could smell the weed stink of her clothes and vodka on her breath. I went for it, touched the side of her breast with one hand, and groped between her legs with my other hand. I felt a chubb growing, and she felt it too.

“Wanna kiss it better,” I said to her.

She laughed in my face and let go of my penis, giving it a mocking slap. “Is that all you got?” she said, mistaking my semi-chubb for a full-out erection. “You wanna grow some tiitties to match that cooch,” she said and sauntered off after the others, the sound of her rubbing thighs quite evident.

I didn’t know what to do. I was naked on a city street, and they had taken my clothes. I looked around nervously. Where had all my piss and vinegar gone? This is what I wanted. I tried to slip a sock over my penis and scrotum, but it fell off almost immediately. Surely they would throw my clothes into the street. Why would they keep them? Who wants someone’s used underwear?

I set off, following them down the sidewalk. They strolled, their voices alarmingly loud. They continued laughing, talking about me. Half a block to go until they hit the county road. It would be busy with transport, and they still had my clothes. All I needed was something, either my shorts or underwear, anything. We were approaching an apartment building that housed college students. I could hear music and party voices from the balconies.

“Hey,” a voice called out to me.

“Look, there’s a naked man over there,” another voice called.

“Do you see that dude?” another voice rang out.

The chubby girl looked back and saw me following. “Daddy’s goin’ to jail,” she hollered at me.

“You’re going to jail,” I shouted, trying to imitate her accent.

She didn’t like that. “Fucking pervert,” she shouted. “Call the police. We’ve got a naked pervert down here,” she shouted to the people on the balcony.

I was really into it now. How could these punks not see they were the ones headed for trouble? They had to call my bluff. They didn’t think I would follow them across the road and into the store, where they seemed to be headed. I got bold and stepped up my pace, catching up to them at the intersection with the county road. We were in a plain streetlight, and a transport driver blew his airhorn at us. I didn’t have the nerve to follow them any further. I was about to break and run for a little cover, but I couldn’t tell them.

“I’ll follow you over there. I don’t give a shit,” I said, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. “The cops are on the way,” I added for good measure.

They looked at me like I was nuts. They didn’t give a shit.

“That’s right, Daddy Pervert,” the chubby chick said. “They are coming to take your naked ass away.” She grabbed my shorts from one of the dudes and held them between her pinched fingers. “You want these?” she asked.

“Please,” I begged.

“Turn around and bend over,” she said.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. This would hurt. Flashing my dick was one thing, but my asshole was a complete other. I turned my back to her and bent over.

“Spread those cheeks,” she ordered, and I did.

“You ain’t cock ready,” one of them said.

“Better finger it, be ready for jail,” someone said to their laughter.

“Go on and fuck yourself, Daddy,” chubby hollered at me, and I realized her voice was further away.

I stood and turned around. The fuckers were already in the gas station parking lot across the road. I watched them stroll casually into the store, pausing to stuff my clothes into the garbage receptacle beside the door. Chubby even gave me the finger. That was it—I was fucked!

I turned and ran, bare feet slapping the concrete sidewalk, trying to stay in the shadows. I heard a car engine racing and the sound of tires gripping pavement as headlights swept around the bend in the street ahead. I jumped over a dirt pile and lost my balance, falling onto a pile of debris at the demolition site at the strip mall. How I didn’t get hurt by the pile of jagged metal was nothing short of a miracle. I watched a police car rip by. Looking for me? I could only suspect. I dashed across the road into the townhouse complex and came out the other side into the sports fields.

‘Easy breezy,’ I told myself, but I felt the city was hunting for me. What was the big deal? I was the victim here. Get taken home in a blanket by the police? My wife would never let me live it down, and she would tell EVERYONE. Last resort only. Just get home. And I did. I only ran into an old guy outside the retirement home. He seemed oddly unphased by the sight of a nude man approaching. I did not see him until it was too late.

He asked where my clothes were, and I told him I had been robbed. He said he couldn’t sleep at night and often went for walks. Never had seen anything that would suggest it was dangerous. He didn’t believe me, and I realized that perhaps those punks were right. He wanted to talk and either ignored or did not notice my uncomfortable impatience. He offered to drive me home, but I did not want him to know my address, and I was unnerved by how often he glanced at my penis.

I continued hiding behind parked cars when headlights appeared ahead or behind me. If my neighbors saw any part of my mad dash, they said nothing.

Once home, I sat on my front porch sipping whiskey to calm my nerves, foolishly waiting for a patrol car while fully knowing I was being unnecessarily paranoid. As the whiskey took hold, I thought back on the mission I had completed. I had seized an unexpected opportunity and completed a long-held dare. Mostly undetected, I had covered a vast distance in a most vulnerable condition.

If this were D-Day in Normandy, I would have been a survivor. I took another sip of whiskey and asked myself if I had counted a coup with my enemy. I had fearlessly faced their weapons, yes, but that fat little bitch almost had me finger my asshole to get my fucking pants back. And I would have. I knew it, and so did she. I spat the whiskey out onto the porch floor, my stomach turning sour. They beat me down and made me beg. There was no coup to be claimed, not by me. My ego was slowly deflating like air from a blow-up Christmas Santa. There was only one thing to do. I snuck into the bedroom, terrified of waking my sleeping wife, to snatch more clothes and another five-dollar bill.

I walked the five blocks to the store, proudly holding my head up. I wasn’t frightened or ashamed. I was taking back the night. Counting coup. I saw no one, not the old man, not the punks. Even the partying on the apartment balconies had died down. The store was quiet, with no commotion there at all. I bought and paid for the milk, but the clerk did not glance at me.

I thought about my clothes in the garbage receptacle. The shitpile of crap on top of them negated any worth they held. I did retrieve my shoes, though, admonishing myself for not doing so earlier. Leaving evidence behind for a tracking dog was not couth. A police car slowly cruised past me, the lone cop giving me a casual once over. A flash of panic overtook me, forcing me to continue walking casually. Was he checking me against the all-points bulletin description?

What would they have? A naked white dude with a small penis. Shit, line up all the guys in the city and strip them down. Half would be dead ringers for that description. I felt good because I was good; I was the man!

About a month after this episode, I was in the local grocery store on a Thursday evening. The store was moderately busy, and I obediently pushed the cart down an aisle while my wife selected the overpriced items we needed. I wasn’t paying particular attention to anything, but a young woman’s voice cut through the haze of my scattered thoughts.

“There he is. That dude over there is the guy with the tiny cock.”

I instinctively whipped around to see who had uttered that death sentence. That move, on my part, was a sign of guilt itself. My wife looked at me, puzzled at the girl’s statement. I shrugged my shoulders equally confusedly, and my wife shook her head, certain she had misheard what was said. I looked down the aisle again and did not recognize the two girls looking back at me with grins.

They certainly were not the short fat girl but could be the other. I didn’t know. Perhaps they had been talking to their friends about the old guy they had stripped naked and humiliated. Maybe I was recognized that way. But how so? Those punks had been buzzed on something that night. I looked away quickly, only to find the other shoppers in the aisle watching me.

They had heard clearly what the young woman had said and must be wondering how a college girl twenty years my junior would know such intimate detail. They could even be my neighbors! What shambles has this whole thing turned into? I moved on, head down, and did not see them again until after I had loaded the groceries into the trunk of the car. They were leaning against the brick wall beside the pharmacy, smoking cigarettes. I drove past them slowly, studying their features.

They saw me cruising by, and one of the girls made the classic small penis symbol with her thumb and finger and proceeded to flick her tongue over the invisible button. I winced an eyebrow down Clint Eastwood style and pointed my finger at her cooked pistol style, lowering my thumb to let her know I was gunning for her.

“Go ahead bitch, make my day,” I said bravely to myself.

Six months after the grocery store fandango, I escorted my wife to an ultrasound clinic for the beginning of her worst nightmare. I immediately recognized the receptionist, and my heart leaped to the back of my throat. The little fat bitch! She entered my wife’s information into her computer: name, address, and phone number. Everything I didn’t want her to know. She seemed calm and compassionate, and typed away dutifully, glancing at me without recognition.

I knew it was her. There was no weed smell about her, no vodka on her breath, and her fingernails trimmed and painted, but it was her. I leaned over the counter, hoping she was wearing sandals for those bayonet toenails would be a dead giveaway, but I could see she was wearing a skirt and hose. If there is hosiery made that could handle her nails the way they were that night, the army needs to know. So that was it. Within a year, I was forgotten about.

I’m back to being a nobody.

A small dick nobody, to some.


The End.


*This story has been edited to fix spelling, punctuation, formatting errors, & basic grammar, but the narrative and plot have remained the same. Even with the limited editing done here, it doesn’t mean any possible major flaws in this story were fixed (That’s the author’s job). The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been previously published on other free sites and is now public domain, which is why we can publish it here.

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