Pool Party
A Fictional Story by Ok-Cockroach3010.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me set the scene.
I was eighteen. It was summer. It was a pool party—a birthday party for my crush, who was turning eighteen the same week I was. Her family had a big house with an in-ground pool in the backyard, the kind of pool with a diving board, a slide, and those little mosaic tiles on the bottom that always looked like they were moving when the water refracted the light. There were maybe twenty people there—friends, classmates, family members—and everyone was in swimsuits. Everyone. The girls were in bikinis. The guys were in trunks. The moms were in swimsuits that were probably one-pieces but looked like bikinis because of how they were cut, and there was so much skin. So much skin. Brown skin and pale skin and freckled skin and tanned skin, stomachs and thighs and backs and the soft, round swell of breasts pushed up by bikini tops and the wide, heavy curves of asses barely contained by bikini bottoms, and I was eighteen. All of it surrounded me, and my brain didn’t know how to process it, and my dick—my small, cold, shriveled dick—didn’t know how to respond to it.
My crush. God, my crush. She was the reason I was there. She was the reason I’d been invited, or at least the reason I’d made sure I was invited, because we ran in the same circles. We’d been flirting for months in that tentative, oblique way that teenagers flirt—texting late at night, sitting next to each other at group outings, finding excuses to touch each other’s arms and shoulders and knees. She was short and curvy and had dark hair and a wide, full ass that looked incredible in her bikini, a bright pink bikini that tied at the hips and the neck, and that left nothing to the imagination. Her tits were big—really big, the kind of big that made bikini tops struggle, the kind that jiggled when she laughed and bounced when she ran and that I thought about constantly, obsessively, every night in my bed with my hand around my three and a half inches, stroking and imagining and cumming in weak, quick spurts that I tried not to think about too hard.
And her moms. Two moms. She had two moms—a fact that I’d known since I’d met her, but that took on a different, more charged quality at the pool party, because both of them were there. Both of them were in swimsuits, and both of them were the kind of women that an eighteen-year-old with a small dick and an active imagination would file under “MILF” and never stop thinking about. One was taller, broader, with short hair and a more athletic build—she looked like she’d been a softball player in college, with thick arms and a strong jaw and a one-piece that showed off her shoulders. The other was shorter, softer, with red hair that she’d pulled into a messy bun and freckles across her nose and the kind of body that comes from having kids and not caring that your stomach isn’t flat anymore—wide hips, heavy breasts, thick thighs, and a soft, round belly that her two-piece showed without shame. She was the one I stared at. She was the one I couldn’t stop staring at. Her breasts were enormous—bigger than my crush’s, bigger than any I’d seen in person—and her bikini top was fighting a losing battle against them, the fabric stretched tight, the straps digging into her shoulders, the cups overflowing with soft, pale, freckled flesh that moved when she moved and that I wanted to put my face between and never come up for air.
I was in the pool. I’d been in the pool for a while—long enough that the cold had done its work, long enough that my dick had retreated to its minimum, long enough that my trunks felt loose and empty in the front because there was nothing in them to fill the space. I was treading water and talking to friends and trying not to stare at my crush’s ass every time she climbed out of the pool, which she did frequently, and every time she did, the water ran down her body in streams that followed the curve of her hips and the shape of her thighs and the round, full swell of her ass, and I watched. My dick tried to get hard and couldn’t because the cold had it, the cold had won, and my three and a half inches was currently maybe one inch, maybe less, a tiny, cold, shriveled nub that was barely a penis and more of an afterthought.
I didn’t know this was a problem yet. I didn’t know what was about to happen. I was eighteen, at a pool party, with beautiful women surrounding me in bikinis, and I was happy and cold and oblivious. My small dick was tucked away in my wet trunks, and no one knew how small it was and no one was going to know because that was the deal I’d made with the universe: I’ll keep it hidden, and no one has to know, and I can pretend that I’m normal.
The universe broke that deal in about ten minutes.
—
I got out of the pool. I climbed the ladder, water streaming off my body, and I felt the cold hit me harder in the air—the breeze, the evaporation, the sudden absence of the pool’s relative warmth. My skin prickled. My nipples hardened. My dick, already tiny from the cold, pulled in even further, retreating so far that I could feel it pressed against my body, a small, cold, barely-there nub that was doing its best to disappear entirely.
My trunks were wet and loose. They didn’t have a mesh lining—I’d cut it out months ago because the mesh irritated my skin, a decision that had seemed practical at the time and that was about to become catastrophic—and without the mesh, there was nothing holding anything in place. The wet fabric hung off my hips and draped in the front and the back, and in the front, where a penis should have been creating some kind of outline, some kind of presence, some kind of evidence of its existence, there was nothing. Flat. Empty. The fabric hung straight down, unbroken by any bulge, untroubled by any protrusion, as smooth and flat as the front of a Ken doll.
I didn’t notice. Or I did notice, in the vague, background way that you notice things you don’t want to think about, and I chose not to think about it. I grabbed a towel from the pile by the pool, wrapped it around my shoulders, and started walking toward the house, toward the bathroom inside, because I needed to pee, warm up, and not be cold and wet anymore.
I walked through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. The house was cool—air conditioning—and the temperature change made me shiver. My trunks were dripping on the tile. I could hear people in the backyard, laughing, splashing, talking. I could hear music—someone had a speaker by the pool, something with a heavy bass that thumped through the walls.
I was halfway through the kitchen when it happened.
—
Her name doesn’t matter. What matters is that she was older—twenty, maybe twenty-one—and she was what you’d call a “friend” in the loosest, most generous sense of the word. She was someone I’d known for a couple of years, someone who ran in the same social circle, someone who was loud and brash and thought she was funnier than she was and who had a habit of doing things that she called “jokes” and that everyone else called “too far.” She was the kind of person who pantsed people. She’d done it before—at school, at other parties, always to guys, always as a “joke,” always with the expectation that everyone would laugh, the victim would laugh too, and it would be a story they told later, a funny anecdote, a moment of harmless comedy.
She was behind me. I didn’t know she was behind me. I was walking through the kitchen, dripping, cold, heading for the bathroom, and she was behind me, quiet, fast, and she grabbed the waistband of my trunks and yanked.
The fabric came down. It came down fast, and it came down far—past my hips, past my thighs, down to my knees in one violent, sudden, practiced motion that exposed everything below my waist to the kitchen and the backyard and the world. My wet trunks bunched around my knees and my lower body was naked—completely naked, suddenly, violently, without warning—and my dick was there. My dick was right there. Out. Exposed. Visible. One inch of cold-shriveled, retracted, tiny penis, poking out from my body like a thumb, like a pinky finger, like something that was not a penis but was pretending to be one, surrounded by my small, tight, cold-pulled balls that were barely visible beneath it, and the whole package was so small, so clearly, obviously, undeniably small, that the first reaction of everyone who saw it wasn’t laughter but confusion. A pause. A beat. The brain trying to process what the eyes were reporting, because the eyes were reporting something that didn’t match the expected input, something that was smaller than it should be, something that was wrong.
The world paused. That’s the only way to describe it. The world paused. The laughter from the backyard continued for a second, then cut off. The music played. Someone said, “Oh shit.” Someone else said, “Wait—” And then the laughter started, but it was a different laughter—not the ambient, comfortable laughter of a pool party but the sharp, surprised, delighted laughter of people who’ve just seen something unexpected and funny and a little bit cruel.
I stood there. I stood there for what felt like an hour but was probably two seconds, maybe three, and in those two or three seconds, I looked at the people who were looking at me. My classmates. My friends. People I’d known for years. People I’d see every day at school. They were looking at my dick. They were looking at my small, cold, shriveled, one-inch dick, and their faces were doing the thing that faces do when they see something small where something big should be—the widening eyes, the open mouth, the glance at the person next to them, the shared look that says “did you see that?” without saying it.
And then I looked at my crush.
She was standing by the sliding glass door, still in her pink bikini, still wet from the pool, with a drink in her hand. Her mom—the soft one, the red-haired one, the one with the enormous breasts—was standing next to her, also in her two-piece, also wet, also with a drink. They were side by side, mother and daughter, both in bikinis, both looking at me, both looking at my exposed, tiny, cold-shriveled dick.
My crush’s face. I’ll never forget her face. The blank stare came first—just a blank, empty, processing stare, the kind of look you give a math problem you don’t understand, the kind of look that says “I’m trying to figure out what I’m seeing.” It lasted maybe a second—maybe less. And then the blank stare changed—her eyebrows went up, her mouth opened, and she laughed. Not a polite laugh. Not a sympathetic laugh. A real laugh. A full, genuine, head-tilted-back, shoulders-shaking laugh that made her big tits bounce in her bikini top and that made her mom look at her and then look back at me and then—then—her mom’s face did something too.
Her mom looked at my dick. She looked at it directly, without the pretense of looking away, without the politeness of pretending not to see. She looked down at my crotch—at my one-inch, cold, shriveled, barely-there penis—and her face went through a sequence that I watched with the clarity of someone who’s about to be traumatized. First: the blank assessment. Second: the recognition. Third: something that wasn’t quite pity and wasn’t quite amusement but was somewhere in between—the expression of a woman who has just seen a penis that is significantly smaller than any she’s encountered in her adult life and is processing that information in real time.
She didn’t laugh. Not at first. She just looked. And then her daughter—my crush—was laughing, and the laughter was contagious, and the mom’s mouth twitched, and she looked away, and she put her hand over her mouth, and I could see her shoulders shaking, and she was laughing too. She was laughing at my small dick. My crush’s mom—my crush’s MILF mom with the enormous breasts and the freckles and the soft, round body—was laughing at my small dick. My crush was laughing at my small dick, and everyone in the kitchen was laughing at my small dick, and I was standing there with my trunks around my knees and my one-inch penis exposed and the world had paused, and then the world had started again, and the world was laughing.
I bolted. I didn’t pull my trunks up. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t do the thing that a confident man would do—laugh it off, pull up my trunks, make a joke, own it. I couldn’t own it. You can’t own something that small. You can’t own a one-inch, cold-shriveled penis in front of a woman you want to fuck and her mom who you want to fuck even more. You can’t own that. You can only run.
I ran. I pulled my trunks up as I ran—yanking them to my hips, not even caring if they were straight, just needing to be covered, needing to be hidden, needing to be anywhere but in that kitchen with those eyes on my dick. I ran through the living room, past the couch, past the TV, past the stairs, and then up the stairs—taking them two at a time, bare feet slapping the wood, wet trunks clinging to my legs, my face on fire, my chest tight, my vision blurred with something that might have been tears but that I told myself was just pool water.
I ran to my crush’s room. I’d been there before—we hung out there sometimes, the group of us, sitting on her bed, watching videos on her laptop, the casual intimacy of teenagers who don’t know yet that the world is going to hurt them. The door was open. I went in. I closed it behind me. I leaned against it, breathing hard, dripping pool water onto the carpet, and I pressed my forehead against the door, and I tried to disappear.
—
I stood there for a long time. A minute. Maybe two. I could hear the party below—muffled laughter, the thump of music, the splash of someone diving into the pool. The party was continuing. The world was going on. The fact that my small dick had been exposed to twenty people, including my crush and her mom, was, to the world, a minor event, a momentary entertainment, a “you had to be there” story that would be told and retold and that would get funnier with each telling.
I pushed off the door, walked to her bed, and sat down. I was wet and cold and shaking—not from the cold anymore, but from the adrenaline, from the humiliation, from the most intense, overwhelming embarrassment I’d ever felt in my eighteen years of life. My trunks were still wet and loose and empty in the front, and I could feel my dick—my tiny, cold, shriveled dick—pressed against my body, trying to disappear, trying to become nothing, trying to do the thing I wished I could do, which is not to exist.
I sat there. I breathed. I tried to think about what to do—go back down? Leave entirely? Call someone to pick me up? Walk out the front door and never speak to any of these people again? Every option felt impossible. Going back down meant facing them—the laughter, the looks, the comments. Leaving meant walking through the house, past the kitchen, past the scene of the crime. Calling someone meant explaining why I needed to be picked up from a pool party at three in the afternoon. Every option was a variation of the same problem, which was that my small dick had been seen and I couldn’t unsee it and neither could they.
And then I noticed.
I noticed that my dick was hard.
I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know if it happened in the kitchen, during the exposure, during the laughter, or if it happened on the stairs, or if it happened just now, sitting on my crush’s bed, smelling her perfume on the sheets, thinking about her in her pink bikini and her mom in her two-piece and the way they’d both looked at my dick and laughed. But it was hard. Three inches—my full, maximum, as-big-as-it-gets erection—straining against the wet fabric of my trunks, tenting them slightly, the way three inches tents fabric, which is to say: barely. A small tent. A tiny tent. A tent that would be invisible on a man with a bigger dick but that was, for me, the full extent of my arousal, the maximum expression of my sexual excitement, three inches of thin, rigid, circumcised penis throbbing in my wet trunks because I’d been humiliated.
Because I’d been humiliated, that was the part I didn’t want to think about, the part I couldn’t think about, the part that my brain was trying to process and my dick was already answering. I’d been pantsed. Exposed. My small dick had been seen by everyone—by my friends, by my classmates, by my crush, by her mom—and they’d laughed. They’d laughed at how small I was. My crush had laughed. Her mom had laughed. The two women I wanted, the two women I’d been staring at all day in their bikinis, had looked at my penis and laughed at it, and my dick was hard.
My dick was hard because they’d laughed at it.
I didn’t understand that. I was eighteen. I didn’t have the vocabulary, self-awareness, or psychological framework to understand what was happening. All I knew was: I’d been humiliated, my dick was hard, and the thing I wanted to do—the thing my body was telling me to do—was to stroke it.
So I did.
I pulled my trunks down. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t deliberate. I pulled them down—wet, heavy, dragging against my thighs—and my dick popped out, three inches of hard, thin, desperate erection, jutting up from my body at a slight angle, the head flushed and shiny, the shaft thin and rigid and small. Three inches. That’s all I had. Three inches of penis that had just been laughed at by twenty people, three inches that had been cold and shriveled and one inch in the kitchen and that were now, in the warmth of my crush’s bedroom, surrounded by the smell of her, at full attention.
I wrapped my hand around it. My hand closed easily—too easily, the way it always did, my fingers overlapping, my thumb touching my fingers, the grip loose and complete because there was nothing to strain against, nothing to fill the space, nothing to make my hand work. I held my three-inch dick the way you’d hold a thick crayon, and I started to stroke.
I thought about her. My crush. Her pink bikini. Her big tits bouncing when she laughed. The way the water ran down her body when she climbed out of the pool—the curve of her ass in her bikini bottoms. I thought about her face—the blank stare, the confusion, the laughter—and I stroked faster.
I thought about her mom. The red-haired mom. The soft one. The one with the enormous breasts and the freckles and the wide hips and the round belly. The two-piece that struggled to contain her. The way she’d looked at my dick—directly, openly, without pretense—and the sequence of her face: assessment, recognition, pity-amusement, laughter. I thought about her tits in that bikini top, the way they’d moved when she laughed, the way the straps dug into her shoulders, the way the cups overflowed with soft, pale, freckled flesh. I thought about putting my face between them. I thought about what it would be like to fuck her—to try to fuck her—with my three inches, to push into her and feel nothing, to cum in seven strokes, to give her nothing.
I stroked. I stroked, and I thought about the laughter and the staring and the exposure and the humiliation and the two women in their bikinis and the way they’d looked at me and the way they’d laughed. I felt it building—the pressure, the heat, the unstoppable, premature, humiliating rush toward orgasm that my small dick was always, always, always prone to.
It didn’t take long. It never takes long. Three inches of small, sensitive, overstimulated dick in a tight hand, thinking about the two women who’d just laughed at it—that was enough. That was more than enough. I felt my balls tighten—my small balls, the ones I’d later learn were proportionally small, the ones that produced small loads—and I felt the orgasm hit.
I came. I came over my belly and my dick—over my “weiner,” as her mom would later call it, a word that would lodge in my brain like a splinter—and the cum was what it always was: weak, thin, small. A few spurts that didn’t shoot but dribbled, that didn’t arc but pooled, that landed on my stomach and the base of my dick in a small, unimpressive puddle that was the physical manifestation of my sexual inadequacy. A small load from a small dick. A few drops. The kind of ejaculation that a woman would barely feel, the kind that a woman would have to look for to confirm, the kind that said, more clearly than words, “this is all I have.”
I lay there. On my crush’s bed, in my crush’s room, with my trunks around my thighs and my small dick softening in a puddle of my own cum, and I stared at the ceiling, and I tried to understand what had just happened. I’d been pantsed. Exposed and laughed at. I’d run to my crush’s room. I’d gotten hard. I’d stroked. I’d cum in—what, a minute? Less? I’d cum thinking about the women who’d laughed at my dick. I’d cum because they’d laughed at my dick. The humiliation had made me hard. The humiliation had made me cum. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know what that made me. I just lay there and felt the cum cooling on my belly and the shame settling over me like a blanket.
—
The door opened.
I didn’t hear the footsteps. I didn’t hear the knob turn. I was lying on the bed with my eyes closed and my dick out and cum on my belly and my trunks around my thighs, and the door opened, and I heard it, and I opened my eyes, and she was there.
The mom. The red-haired mom. My crush’s mom. The MILF. The one with the enormous breasts and the freckles and the soft, round body and the two-piece that struggled to contain her. She was standing in the doorway, holding something—my shorts, I realized later, a pair of shorts that someone had grabbed from my bag, that she’d been sent to bring to me because I was upstairs without my clothes and someone, somewhere, had decided that the humane thing to do was to give me something to wear.
She was standing in the doorway, and I was lying on the bed with my small, cum-covered dick exposed and my trunks around my thighs and the evidence of what I’d done visible on my belly, and she was looking at me.
She reacted fast. She held her hand up—arm extended, palm out, the universal gesture of “I’m not looking, I’m not seeing this, I’m pretending that what I’m seeing isn’t what I’m seeing”—and she turned her head slightly, so she was looking at the wall instead of the bed. But I’d seen her eyes. Before the hand went up, before the head turned, I’d seen her eyes land on me—on my belly, on my dick, on the cum—and I’d seen the flash of recognition. She’d seen it. She’d seen my small dick, still half-hard, glistening with cum, and she’d seen the puddle on my stomach, and she’d known. She’d known what I’d done. She’d known that I’d been upstairs, in her daughter’s room, stroking my small dick after being pantsed at the pool party, and the knowing was on her face for half a second before she hid it behind her hand.
“Hey,” she said. “I brought you some shorts.”
“Thanks,” I said, and my voice cracked, and I reached for the blanket—my crush’s blanket, the one that smelled like her perfume—and I pulled it over my lap, over my dick, over the cum, and I tried to act like I hadn’t just been doing what I’d been doing.
She stood in the doorway with her hand up, and her head turned, and she talked to me, and the talking was worse than the silence, because the talking was kind. She was being kind. She was the kind of mom who talked to a humiliated teenager with gentleness and understanding. That gentleness was worse than cruelty because it confirmed that I was someone who needed gentleness, someone whose situation was so pitiful that it required a mother’s compassion.
“There’s nothing wrong with your wiener,” she said.
Wiener. She said wiener. Not penis. Not dick. Not cock. Wiener. The word you’d use for a child. The word you’d use for a little boy who’s embarrassed about his body. The word that strips away any pretense of adulthood, any pretense of masculinity, any pretense that I was an eighteen-year-old man with a man’s body and a man’s sexuality. Wiener. A child’s word for a child’s penis. She looked at my dick, and her brain had said “wiener” because “penis” was too generous, because “penis” implied something that functioned as a sexual organ, and what she’d seen in the kitchen—the one-inch, cold-shriveled nub—had not registered as a sexual organ. It had registered as a wiener. A little wiener on a little guy who needed to be told that there was nothing wrong with it.
The word hurt. It hurt in a way that I didn’t expect and couldn’t articulate at eighteen, a way that I can articulate now because I’ve had years to think about it. It hurt because it was accurate. It hurt because she’d seen my dick and the word she’d chosen was “wiener,” and “wiener” was the right word for what she’d seen, and the rightness of it was the worst part. She wasn’t being cruel. She wasn’t being dismissive. She was being honest. She’d seen my penis and the honest word for it was “wiener,” the kind of penis that you talk about the way you talk to a child, because it was the kind of penis that a child would have.
“I—” I started, and I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say to a woman who’d just called your dick a wiener. “Thanks. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said, still looking at the wall, hand still up. “It’s fine. These things happen. It was just a joke. She didn’t mean to—”
“It’s small,” I said. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I offered that information, why I confirmed what she’d already seen, why I said out loud the thing that she was trying to make me feel better about. Maybe I needed her to know that I knew. Maybe I needed to hear myself say it. Maybe I needed the humiliation to be spoken, not just experienced, because spoken humiliation is real in a way that silent humiliation isn’t.
She paused. Her hand stayed up. Her head stayed turned. But I saw her shoulders shift—a small, subtle movement, the kind of body language that happens when someone is deciding what to say.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said again, and this time the words were softer, more careful, the words of someone who knows that what they’re saying isn’t true but is saying it anyway because the alternative is to say “yes, it is small, and that is a problem,” and she’s a mom, and moms don’t say that. “Everyone’s different. You’re still growing.”
I wasn’t still growing. I was eighteen. I’d been the same size since I was thirteen, since the first time I’d measured it and gotten 3.5 inches, and hoped it was a starting point, not a final destination. I wasn’t still growing. She knew I wasn’t still growing. She was saying it because it’s what you say. After all, it’s the script. After all, when a teenager has a small dick and gets pantsed at a pool party, you tell him there’s nothing wrong with it and that he’s still growing, and you hope he believes you, even though you both know it’s a lie.
I was staring at her chest. I couldn’t help it. She was standing in the doorway in her two-piece, her arm up, her head turned, and her breasts were right there—huge, soft, overflowing, the freckled flesh of them visible above the cups of her bikini top, and they were moving slightly with her breathing. I was looking at them, and my dick was getting hard again. Under the blanket, under the cum, my three-inch dick was getting hard again, because I was looking at the breasts of the woman who’d just called my penis a wiener. The combination of her body and her words and the humiliation and the kindness was doing something to me that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.
She threw the shorts at me. A quick underhand toss—they landed on the bed near my feet—and in the motion of throwing, her arm came down, and her head turned, and for a split second, she looked. She looked at me. At the blanket. At my lap. At the place where my dick was, where she could see the outline of my new erection under the fabric—a small outline, a tiny tent, barely perceptible, but there, definitely there, the visible evidence of an erection that was happening because of her.
And in that split second, I saw her face. I saw the expression that crossed her features in the moment between looking and looking away: grossed out. Upset. Not angry, not disgusted in the way that means “I’m repulsed by you as a human being,” but disgusted in the way that means “I just saw something I didn’t want to see and I wish I hadn’t seen it.” She looked at my lap—at the small tent, at the outline of my hard-on, at the evidence that I was aroused—and her face went blank. Staring. The blank stare of someone processing something unpleasant. She’d seen the cum. She’d seen the small dick. She’d seen the erection. She’d put it together—the pantsing, the running upstairs, the small dick, the cum on the belly, the new hard-on—and she knew. She knew I’d been stroking. She knew I’d cum. She knew that her being in the room was making me hard again. She knew all of it, and her face said “I know all of it,” and the knowing was written in the blank, upset, slightly grossed-out expression she wore for two seconds before she turned, walked out of the room, and closed the door behind her.
I sat there. I held the shorts. I listened to her footsteps going down the stairs. I felt my hard-on throbbing under the blanket—three inches, full, straining, as big as it gets, which is not big—and I felt the cum drying on my belly and the shame settling in my chest and the confusion swirling in my head and the one word echoing in my ears.
Wiener. She’d called it a wiener. My crush’s mom had seen my dick and called it a wiener and then caught me with cum on my belly and a new hard-on and looked grossed out, and I was sitting in my crush’s bed with her blanket over my lap and her mom’s word in my head and my small dick still hard, and I didn’t know what to do with any of it.
I put the shorts on. I wiped the cum off my belly with the blanket—sorry, crush—and I went downstairs, and I went to the bathroom, and I washed my hands and my face. I went back out to the pool party, sat in a chair, didn’t get in the water again, didn’t talk to my crush, didn’t look at her mom, waited until it was socially acceptable to leave, and then left.
—
I think about that day a lot. I think about it more now than I did then because I was eighteen and didn’t have the framework to understand what had happened, and now I do. Now I understand that the day was the beginning of something—the beginning of the thing that defines my sexuality, the thing that I’ve tried to explain to partners and therapists and myself, the thing that I keep coming back to because it’s the only thing that works.
I love SPH. I love small penis humiliation. I love having an inferior loser dick that can be bullied. I love it. I love the way it feels—the shame, the exposure, the laughter, the words. I love the way women look at it and react—the pause, the assessment, the recalibration, the moment when they realize it’s small, and their faces change. I love the way they talk about it—the careful, kind, patronizing words of a woman who’s trying not to hurt you, or the blunt, honest, devastating words of a woman who isn’t. I love the way it makes me hard. I love the way it makes me cum—fast, weak, small, the physical expression of my inadequacy, the body’s confirmation of what the mind already knows.
I love having a wiener. Not a penis. Not a cock. A wiener. A small, thin, three-inch, small-balled, premature-ejaculating, dribble-cumming wiener that got pantsed at a pool party and exposed to twenty people and laughed at by my crush and her mom and that made me hard and made me cum and made me the thing I am.
That day was the beginning. The pool, the cold, the pantsing, the exposure, the laughter, the running, the stroking, the cum, the mom, the word, the look. All of it. The beginning of the thing that I live with and deal with and love and hate and need, the thing that my small dick responds to, the thing that gets me hard, the thing that makes me cum.
An inferior loser dick that can be bullied. That’s what I have. That’s what I am. And I love it.
The End.
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