New Year, New Discoveries
A Fictional Story by HotWoman38.
Charming. Real charmer, this one.
I sat wedged between my boyfriend Tyler and a girl named Cass on the curved bench of the hot tub, the jets bubbling against my back, the steam curling up into the cold December air. There were eight of us crammed in there—four guys, four girls—all clustered in the backyard of this ridiculous McMansion our friend Becca had somehow convinced her parents to let us use for the holiday. The backyard was lit by string lights and the blue glow of the tub itself, the rest of the neighborhood dark and quiet past the privacy fence.
Nick was across from me, naturally. As far from me as he could get while still being in the same tub. He’d been shooting me looks all night—little sneers, eye rolls whenever I spoke, a muttered comment under his breath when I won a round of “would you rather” that I’m pretty sure was something about me being “a know-it-all cunt.” Tyler didn’t hear it. He never does. That’s the thing about Nick. He’s smart enough to be cruel just below the threshold where anyone calls him on it.
“Alright, Nick’s gotta take a double shot of gin,” Matt announced, holding up the bottle of Tanqueray he’d snagged from inside. Matt was this lanky, perpetually grinning guy who’d known Tyler and Nick since high school. He had the energy of a golden retriever who’d just discovered a tennis ball—enthusiastic, a little dumb, completely incapable of reading a room. “Double shot, straight, no chaser. Those are the rules.”
“I fucking hate gin,” Nick said, like that was going to change anything.
“Then you shouldn’t have lost three rounds,” Cass said, grinning.
“It’s rigged.”
“It’s literally not,” Tyler said, laughing. He squeezed my knee under the water. “You just have no filter, bro.”
Nick flipped him off, then snatched the bottle from Matt. “Fine. But someone’s gotta get me a shot glass.”
“There’s one on the table,” Matt said, pointing to the little side table set up near the tub’s entrance steps, where a few bottles and mixers were arranged alongside some plastic cups and one lonely shot glass someone had brought inside from the kitchen.
Nick hauled himself out of the tub, water streaming off his broad shoulders and the legs of his board shorts. He was a big guy—taller than Tyler, thicker through the chest and arms, the kind of guy who clearly spent a lot of time at the gym and wanted you to know it. He’d been showing off all night, flexing when he stretched, making sure everyone saw his abs when he leaned back. I’d noticed. Hard not to. It was like he was performing for an audience that hadn’t asked for a show.
He grabbed the shot glass, poured a generous double, and turned back toward the tub. But instead of getting back in, he climbed up onto the little two-step staircase that led into the water and stood there, looking down at all of us.
“Yo, what are you doing?” Tyler asked.
“Taking the shot from up here so you guys can all witness it,” Nick said, puffing up. “Since apparently everyone thinks I’m a liar.”
Nobody had said that, but whatever. Nick always needed an audience.
He raised the shot glass, made a show of it, then tossed it back. His face immediately twisted—he really did hate gin—and he grimaced, shaking his head like a dog trying to shake off water.
Which was when Matt came back.
Matt had slipped out to use the bathroom a few minutes earlier, and his timing was almost too perfect. He came around the corner of the house, saw Nick standing on the steps with his hands at his sides and his face still scrunched up from the gin, and his eyes lit up with that golden-retriever gleam. I just had an idea on Gleam. The kind of gleam that preceded every terrible decision Matt had ever made, which was saying something because Matt’s decision-making track record was not stellar.
“Yo, watch this,” Matt said, loud enough for everyone to hear, and then he was behind Nick in two quick steps, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Nick’s board shorts, and he yanked.
Down.
All the way down to Nick’s ankles in one fast, brutal motion.
And Nick was standing on a step above all of us, completely naked from the waist down, his shorts pooled around his ankles, and his dick was right there. Right there at eye level—maybe a foot and a half from my face.
And it was… tiny.
Like, genuinely, shockingly tiny. I don’t mean small-ish or on the smaller side. I mean I actually had a moment where my brain stuttered because I was looking at it and trying to reconcile what I was seeing with the fact that this was a grown man’s actual penis. It was about as thick as a nickel—maybe a little thicker, but not by much—and there was essentially no shaft at all. Just the barest nub of a tip poking out from his groin, this little pink gumdrop sitting on top of a ballsack that was also surprisingly small, two little almonds in a thin pouch of skin. The whole package looked like it belonged on a middle schooler, not a twenty-three-year-old man who benched two-fifty and talked about pussy like he was an authority on it.
For a second, nobody said anything. Just this frozen, crystalline moment of silence where eight people all processed the same information at the same time.
Then Becca snorted.
And that was it. The dam broke. Everyone started laughing—not the polite, covering-your-mouth kind of laughing, but the full-body, doubled-over, can’t-breathe kind. Cass had her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Tyler was laughing so hard he was coughing, slapping the water. The other guys were howling. Even the two girls on the other side of the tub who barely knew Nick were cracking up, their faces pink from more than just the steam.
I laughed too. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t. I laughed hard, harder than I should have, maybe, but God—after months of this guy making snide comments about my body, my intelligence, my worth, after listening to him call women “bitches” and “hoes” and “thots” for the entire time I’d been dating Tyler, after watching him puff and preen and act like he was God’s gift to the female gender—there it was. His big secret. His tiny, tiny little secret, right in front of everyone, this pathetic little nub that looked like it couldn’t satisfy a tampon.
“Are you… are you really that cold, Nick?” Becca asked, still giggling, and that set everyone off again—a fresh wave of laughter, louder this time, more pointed.
Nick’s face went through about five colors in two seconds. Red, then white, then a kind of mottled purple. His hands flew down to cover himself, but there wasn’t much to cover—one fist completely obscured his entire package, which honestly made it worse, because everyone could see that his hand was basically empty. There was nothing to hide. He might as well have been clenching air.
“Matt, you fucking—” He kicked his shorts off his ankles and grabbed them, holding them in front of himself like a shield. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you motherfucker?! What the fuck?!”
“Dude, I—” Matt was still laughing, trying to stop, failing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just—”
“You think that’s funny?! You think you can just—” Nick was sputtering, rage and humiliation tangling together in his voice, making him incoherent. His eyes were wild, scanning the tub, landing on each laughing face like he was cataloging enemies. When they landed on me, they stuck.
He looked at me. And I knew exactly what he was thinking: that I was laughing the hardest. That I was enjoying this the most. That the girl he hated was getting to see him at his most exposed and vulnerable, and she was loving it.
He wasn’t wrong.
“Fuck all of you,” Nick spat. He yanked his shorts back up, fumbling with the drawstring, his fingers shaking. “Every single one of you. Fuck you.”
“Bro, come on, sit down—” Tyler started, reaching toward him.
“Don’t tell me to sit down! Don’t—” Nick slapped his hand away. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, and you’re sitting there laughing at me with your girlfriend like—”
“Nick, man, it was a joke—” Tyler tried again.
“A JOKE? You think—motherfucker, I will—” He was spiraling, his voice cracking, his whole body vibrating with this explosive, helpless fury. He couldn’t fight Matt, not really—not with everyone watching, not after what just happened. He couldn’t do anything. He was just standing there in his damp shorts with his fists clenched and his face burning and his tiny little dick tucked away where no one could see it, and everyone knew. Everyone knew.
“Where are my clothes?” he muttered, and then he was storming across the yard toward the pile of towels and jackets by the back door, not running but walking fast, that stiff-legged walk of a man trying to maintain dignity when he had none left.
Tyler got out of the tub and followed him, still apologizing. I watched them go—Tyler dripping wet and earnest, Nick rigid and seething—and I stayed in the tub with the others, who were still snickering, still replaying it, still making jokes.
“Was that… was that real?” Cass whispered to me, her eyes wide. “Like, that was his actual—”
“Yep,” I said.
“That’s… wow.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I mean, I’ve seen smaller in like… textbooks. Medical textbooks. About micropenis.”
I snorted. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Oh my God, I’m not saying it to his face. I want to live.” She paused. “But seriously. That was smaller than my pinky.”
“Your pinky’s being generous,” Becca said, leaning in. “I’ve seen clits bigger than that.”
That set off another round of laughter, this time hushed and conspiratorial, like we were sharing state secrets. The guys were doing their own version of it on the other side of the tub—Matt looking sheepish but still grinning, the other two making size comparisons with their fingers, holding up pinkies, then shaking their heads and making the gesture even smaller.
Through the back door’s glass, I could see Nick in the living room, yanking his shirt on, shoving his feet into shoes, Tyler standing there with his hands up in that come on, man, calm down gesture that never works on anyone, let alone a guy who’s just had his deepest insecurity laid bare in front of eight people.
Nick shoved past Tyler and headed for the front door. Tyler followed. The front door opened and closed. A car engine revved. Tires on pavement.
Tyler came back a minute later, looking conflicted. “He’s gone,” he said, getting back into the tub. “He’s really pissed.”
“He’ll get over it,” Matt said, still grinning. “It was just a joke, dude.”
“He didn’t think it was funny.”
“Because his dick’s the size of a Tic Tac,” one of the other guys muttered, and everyone lost it again.
Tyler looked at me, and I could see him trying to figure out how to feel. His best friend had just been humiliated and left, but also… he was still laughing. Not as hard as the rest of us, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. He’d seen it. He knew. And he couldn’t un-know it.
“You okay?” he asked me, which was funny, because I was having the best night I’d had in months.
“I’m great,” I said. “I’m really, really great.”
—
Nick didn’t text Tyler back that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that. When he finally did respond, three days later, it was a single message: tell your girlfriend to keep her mouth shut about what happened.
Tyler showed me the text, looking uncomfortable. “He’s really upset.”
“He should be,” I said. “Not about people knowing. About the fact that he’s been walking around acting like he’s some kind of alpha stud when he’s packing a gummy bear.”
Tyler winced. “Babe.”
“What? It’s true. You saw it.”
“Yeah, I saw it, but—”
“And you laughed. Harder than I did, actually.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. “Yeah. I did.”
“So.”
“So… yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not gonna lie, I was not expecting… that. I’ve known the guy for six years, and I’ve seen him in locker rooms and stuff, but I never really… I guess I never looked.”
“Mm-hmm. Well. Now you’ve looked.”
“Now I’ve looked.” He paused. “It was really small, right? Like, I’m not crazy?”
“You’re not crazy.”
“Like… really, really small.”
“Tyler. It was the smallest penis I have ever seen on an adult human male. It looked like a thumb had a baby with a cashew. It looked like someone glued a pencil eraser to a couple of marbles. It looked—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
“I’m just making sure we’re on the same page.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he started laughing again—this guilty, helpless laugh. “Poor guy.”
“Mmm,” I said, which wasn’t agreement, just a sound, because I didn’t feel sorry for Nick. Not even a little. Nick, who called women bitches. Nick, who made jokes about my body. Nick, who acted like he was God’s gift to the world and treated me as an obstacle between him and his friend. That Nick had a micropenis, and now I knew, and there was something deeply, satisfyingly cosmic about that.
I didn’t feel bad. I felt like the universe had a sense of humor, and for once, it had aimed the punchline in the right direction.
And maybe that makes me a bitch. Nick certainly thinks so. But Nick thinks everything I do makes me a bitch, so I might as well enjoy the one thing I have on him—the one small, pink, gumdrop-shaped thing.
The truth is, I think about it sometimes. Not in a sexual way—God no—but in that way you think about something too good to be true. Like finding out your high school bully cries during Pixar movies, or that the guy who cut you off in traffic got a flat tire two miles later. It’s schadenfreude, pure and simple, and I’m not going to pretend I’m above it.
Nick’s got a tiny dick. Everyone knows it. And he knows everyone knows it.
And that’s the best New Year’s gift I could have asked for.
The End.
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