Teensy-Weensy
An SPH Experience by MrSmallish.
We’d been texting on and off all day—her sending me updates about her week, me sending her back dumb memes and commentary. This was our rhythm. Had been for years. We could go for hours without talking and then pick up mid-thought as if no time had passed.
This particular conversation had started when she told me about a new guy. His name was Connor. She’d been seeing him for about two weeks, and she was in that phase—the giddy, can’t-stop-talking-about-him phase that Tessa only hit when things were genuinely good. She’d had plenty of guys she was lukewarm about, and those she’d summarize in a sentence or two. Connor was getting the full treatment.
Tessa: He’s ridiculous. Like actually ridiculous.
Me: Ridiculous how?
Tessa: In bed. Like… I forgot what it was like to be with someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
Me: Bold of you to admit you’ve been with people who didn’t
Tessa: LOL. We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Connor.
Me: So talk.
Tessa: Okay, so first of all, he’s tall. Like properly tall. Six-three maybe six-four.
Me: You and your tall guys
Tessa: It’s not about tall. It just happens to correlate. Stop interrupting.
Me: I’m literally texting you. How am I interrupting?
Tessa: With your words. Stop using them.
Me: …
Tessa: Thank you. Anyway. He’s tall, he’s fit, he’s got these hands that are just… you know when someone touches you, and you can tell they actually know what they’re doing?
Me: I do not know, but please continue
Tessa: And he’s BIG.
Me: Define big
Tessa: Matthew. BIG big. Like I actually said “oh my god” out loud when I saw it, and he laughed because he thought I was being dramatic and I was NOT being dramatic.
Me: How big are we talking
Tessa: I don’t know, I didn’t bring a ruler to bed. But big. Like… bigger than my vibrator big.
That stopped me. I set the phone down for a second, picked it up again, and reread the text.
Me: Wait. Bigger than your vibrator?
Tessa: Yeah.
Me: Tessa. Your vibrator is enormous. I’ve seen it. It’s like a weapon.
Tessa: I know. That’s why I’m telling you. This guy is legitimately huge.
Me: Bigger than the vibrator. The nine-inch one. The one that looks like it should come with a warning label.
Tessa: Yes. That one. Maybe not quite as long but definitely thicker. Close enough.
Me: I don’t believe you.
Tessa: Why not?
Me: Because that vibrator is like nine inches long and thick. That’s not a normal human penis. That’s a novelty item. You bought it as a joke.
Tessa, I didn’t buy it as a joke. I bought it because I like big dicks and I wanted something that felt like one. And now I have a real one. A real one that is comparable to it. And you’re sitting there telling me it’s unbelievable?
Me: Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. I’m expressing incredulity.
Tessa: Matthew, it’s not THAT unbelievable. You just have a teensy-weensy tiny penis.
—
I stared at my phone.
I read it again.
Matthew, it’s not THAT unbelievable. You just have a teensy-weensy tiny penis.
The words sat there on the screen, glowing in the dark room. I could hear Tessa’s voice in them—could hear the exact tone she’d use, the way she’d stretch out “teensy-weensy” like she was talking to a child. I could picture her face: the little smirk, the raised eyebrow, the absolute delight she took in delivering a line like that.
I didn’t type anything for a full thirty seconds. I was processing. Not because it hurt—Tessa and I had been through too much for something like this actually to hurt—but because it was so perfectly, devastatingly her. The precision of it. The casualness. The way she’d taken my skepticism about Connor’s size and turned it into a commentary on mine, all in a single sentence.
Me: I do not have a teensy-weensy tiny penis.
Tessa: You have a teensy-weensy tiny penis.
Me: I have a normal penis. Average. Statistically average.
Tessa: Statistically average for a guy who’s five-seven. You’re six-one. On you, average is tiny. It’s all about proportions, big guy.
Me: You’re not going to let the proportional thing go, are you?
Tessa: Never. It’s a core part of my worldview now. I’ve published a paper on it.
Me: You have not published a paper on it.
Tessa: I haven’t. But I would if I could. “Disproportionate Penile Size in Tall Males: A Case Study of My Friend Matthew.” It would be groundbreaking.
Me: I would sue you.
Tessa: On what grounds?
Me: Defamation. Libel. Emotional distress.
Tessa: It’s not libel if it’s true.
Me: It’s not TRUE. It’s not teensy-weensy. It’s five inches. That’s a real number. That’s a number that exists on the normal chart.
Tessa: Five inches is a real number. I’ll give you that. But “teensy-weensy” is a real description, and it’s the one that applies to you. On a six-one frame, five inches is teensy-weensy. It’s like putting a hamster in a mansion. There’s just… too much space around it.
Me: I’m going to block you.
Tessa: No, you’re not.
Me: I’m considering it.
Tessa: You’re smiling. I know you’re smiling.
I was. I hated that she knew that.
—
The thing about Tessa is that she never let a good line go to waste. “Teensy-weensy tiny penis” entered our vocabulary that night and never left. It became a weapon she could deploy at any moment, in any context, for any reason.
I’d text her about a workout.
Me: Hit a new PR on deadlifts today. Feeling good.
Tessa: Nice! Compensating for something? Because we both know what it is. It’s teensy-weensy.
I’d complain about a date.
Me: She didn’t call me back.
Tessa: Did she see the teensy-weensy? Because that would explain it.
Me: She did NOT see anything. We went to dinner.
Tessa: She probably just sensed it. Women have intuition about these things. We can smell the teensy-weensy.
I’d send her a photo of myself dressed up for an event.
Tessa: You look great! Very handsome. Very tall. Very… you know—Teensy-weensy underneath all that.
Me: You don’t even know if she got that far.
Tessa: I’m just saying. If she did, suppose she got to the moment. The reveal. She was probably like, “Oh. Oh no. That’s… teensy-weensy.”
Me: You’re the worst person alive.
Tessa: I’m the best person alive, and you know it. I’m just keeping you grounded. Someone has to. You’re six-one and good-looking. Without me, you’d have an ego the size of a building and a penis the size of a—well. You know.
Me: Finish that sentence.
Tessa: No. I think you can fill in the blank if you’ll pardon the expression. Given your size, “fill in” might be optimistic.
—
A few weeks later, she called me. I was at home, doing nothing in particular, and my phone buzzed with her name. I answered.
“Hey, big guy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you? Little guy? Teensy-weensy guy?”
“Matthew. My name is Matthew. You could call me Matthew.”
“Matthew. How are you?”
“Fine. What’s up?”
“Connor update.”
“Oh boy.”
“Shut up, you want to hear this.”
I did want to hear this. Despite everything, despite the relentless teasing, Tessa’s sex life updates were a genuine highlight of our friendship. She was funny, she was honest, and she had a way of describing things that made me laugh even when the content was mildly soul-crushing.
“So we were together last night,” she said. “And I’m not going to give you the full play-by-play because I have some boundaries—”
“Since when?”
“—but I will tell you that I actually said something out loud during.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘This is what a real dick feels like.'”
I was quiet for a second. “You said that to his face?”
“To his face, to his body, to the general vicinity. I said it to the universe.”
“And how did Connor respond?”
“He laughed. He thought it was funny. He said ‘what do you mean?’ and I said ‘nothing, just… this. This is what I mean.’ And he got it. He knew what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I meant that there’s a difference. A real, physical, tangible difference between a guy who’s proportional and a guy who’s… not.”
“You’re talking about me.”
“I’m talking in general terms.”
“You’re talking about me.”
“I’m talking about the concept of disproportionality, of which you are a prime example, yes.”
I leaned back on the couch. “You know, most friends would be supportive. Most friends would say ‘size doesn’t matter, it’s about the person.'”
“Size matters.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Matthew. It matters. It doesn’t matter most, but it matters. It’s like height. It’s like hair. It’s not the whole package, but it’s part of the package. And your part of the package is… teensy-weensy.”
“You’re using that word again.”
“I’m going to keep using that word until it loses all meaning. And then I’m going to use it some more.”
—
The thing is—and I’d never admit this to Tessa—there was something almost comfortable about it by then. Not the teasing itself, exactly, but the fact that she knew. That she’d seen me, that she’d named it, that she’d filed it away and brought it out whenever the moment called for it. There was no hiding from Tessa. No pretense. No performance. She’d seen the truth, and she’d decided it was funny, and that was that.
It was, in its own weird way, a kind of intimacy. Not sexual. Not romantic. Just… real. Raw. The kind of honesty you only get with someone who’s known you long enough to stop being polite.
And she was right about one thing: I did smile every time. Every single time. Even when I groaned. Even when I told her to shut up, even when she said “teensy-weensy” for the hundredth time and I wanted to throw my phone across the room.
I smiled because it was Tessa. Because she was my friend. Because she knew me better than almost anyone, and what she knew—the five inches, the disproportion, the baby boner she’d witnessed all those years ago—didn’t change anything between us.
It just gave her more material.
—
Months later, one night, she texted me a photo. It was her and Connor at a restaurant, both of them grinning, looking tanned and happy. She looked great. He looked like exactly the kind of guy she’d always described—tall, broad, confident.
Tessa: Look at us. Look at this couple. Look at this proportional, well-matched couple.
Me: You both look very nice.
Tessa: We are very nice. He’s nice. I’m nice. His dick is nice.
Me: I didn’t ask about his dick.
Tessa: You didn’t have to. I’m providing a public service. Education. Awareness. Someone needs to represent the proportional male, and Connor is doing his part.
Me: Good for him.
Tessa: Good for me, honestly. I’m the beneficiary here.
Me: I’m happy for you.
Tessa: I know you are. And you know what? Someday you’ll find someone happy with your teensy-weensy situation. Someone who doesn’t care that you’re a mansion with a hamster inside.
Me: That is the most backhanded encouragement I’ve ever received.
Tessa: I’m a backhanded kind of girl. You know this.
Me: I do know this.
Tessa: Hey, Matthew?
Me: Yeah?
Tessa: For what it’s worth—and I mean this sincerely—you’re the best guy I know. And I’ve seen a lot of guys. Many guys. Guys of all sizes. And you’re still the best one.
Me: Even with the teensy-weensy?
Tessa: Because of the teensy-weensy. It keeps you humble. It makes you try harder. It makes you better in every other way because you know you can’t coast on that one thing. Some guys—guys like Connor—they coast. They show up, and they’re big, and that’s enough. You’ve never had that luxury. You’ve had to be funny and kind and interesting and present. And you are. You’re all of those things. And your teensy-weensy tiny penis is the reason.
I stared at the text for a long time.
Me: That might be the nicest and most insulting thing anyone has ever said to me.
Tessa: It’s my specialty. I love you, big guy.
Me: I love you too, you absolute nightmare.
Tessa: Night night, teensy-weensy. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. And if they do, don’t worry—they won’t be intimidated by what they find under the covers.
Me: Goodnight, Tessa.
Tessa: Goodnight, small dick.
I put my phone down, shook my head, and laughed in the dark.
She was the worst. She was the best. She was mine.
The End.
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