The Small Dick Club: SPH-THEMED STORIES

I turned 19 last semester, and college life was supposed to be this explosion of freedom—parties, hookups, figuring out who I was. But for me, it was mostly hiding in my dorm, dodging locker room glances, and nursing a crush on Emily from my psych class. She was stunning: curly red hair that bounced when she laughed, green eyes that sparkled during lectures, and a body that filled out her crop tops just right. We’d chatted a few times after class, nothing deep, but enough to make my heart race.

My secret weighed on me, though. My dick. It’s pathetically small, 3.9 inches hard, a soft pinkie finger when flaccid, that I’ve always kept tucked away. Showers were nightmares; I’d wait till everyone left. No girlfriend in high school, no action at all. But Emily? She seemed kind. Maybe she’d overlook it.

I’d rehearsed the ask a hundred times in the mirror, forcing a confident smile despite the knot in my gut. It was Friday afternoon, campus buzzing with weekend energy. I spotted her outside the library, scrolling through her phone on a bench, legs crossed in those short denim shorts. My palms sweated as I approached, backpack slung over one shoulder like a shield.

“Hey, Emily,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.

She looked up, smiling that effortless way that made my stomach flip. “What’s up, Alex?”

I swallowed hard, shoving my hands in my pockets to hide the tremble. “So, uh, I’ve been wanting to ask… Would you like to grab coffee or something this weekend? Like a date?

Her smile faltered, eyebrows knitting together. She set her phone down, tilting her head. “Oh. Um, no thanks, Alex. I’m flattered, but… nah.”

The word hit like a punch. I had always felt we got along in everyday social interactions, so this surprised me. My face heated, but I pressed on, desperate for answers. “Why not? Did I say something wrong? Or… is it someone else?”

She bit her lip, glancing around like she was debating, then met my eyes with a mix of pity and amusement. “Look, it’s not you personally. You’re sweet, and all, and I do like you. But word around campus is… You know… About your junk. They say it’s really tiny. Like, micropenis tiny. Girls talk, guys too. I heard it from my roommate, who dated your buddy last year. She said he joked about seeing it in the dorm showers—called it a little button or something. I’m sorry, but I’m not into that. I need a guy who can actually deliver, not poke around with a nub.”

My blood ran cold, then boiled. Rumors? From showers I’d tried to avoid? My mind reeled, picturing whispers in hallways, laughs behind my back. “That’s… Th-That’s bullshit,” I stammered, voice cracking. “You don’t even know—”

Emily cut me off with a snort, her hand flying to her mouth as laughter bubbled out. It started soft, then built into full-on giggles, her shoulders shaking. “Oh God, your face! It’s true, though, isn’t it? Come on, admit it. How small are we talking? An inch? Less? I bet it doesn’t even poke out when you’re hard. Poor thing, asking me out like that. What were you planning? Coffee and then what, a quick fumble where I pretend not to notice your babydick poking me uselessly?”

She doubled over, laughing harder, drawing stares from passing students. One guy nearby chuckled too, like it was public entertainment. Humiliation crashed over me, my cheeks burning, throat tight. I wanted to vanish, my tiny dick shrinking even smaller in my jeans from the exposure.

“Stop,” I muttered, turning away, but she grabbed my arm lightly, still wheezing.

“Wait, don’t go all butt-hurt. It’s kinda cute, in a sad way. But seriously, Alex, find someone who doesn’t mind training wheels down there. Most girls want to feel filled, stretched, fucked properly, not tickled by a clit. Ha! Your dick’s probably smaller than my pinky.” Her eyes watered from laughing, and she waved me off like I was a bad joke.

I bolted, legs carrying me across the quad, her cackles echoing in my ears.

Back in my dorm, I collapsed on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The rumors were out there, branding me before I even had a chance. Emily’s mockery replayed: babydick, useless poker, clit. My hand drifted down, unzipping to confirm the truth—soft, insignificant, barely there. No wonder rejection stung so deep. At 19, I was already the campus punchline, my crush shattered, manhood a joke. How do you rebuild from that? I didn’t know, but the shame settled in my bones, heavy and unrelenting.

 

The End.

 

 

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