The Boardwalk Bathroom
An SPH Experience by MicroGinger140.
It was mid-July, heat still radiating off the wooden planks even after the sun went down. Our group had claimed a table near the stage where a cover band was blasting through early 2000s hits. The singer was decent, the crowd was into it, and I’d been nursing beers for about two hours. The alcohol had me relaxed, loose, laughing at stupid jokes. But it also had me thinking about other things—hot girls in bikinis I’d seen earlier, the way the bartender’s tits looked in that low-cut top—typical stuff.
And when blood starts flowing there instead of to your brain, well. That’s when things get complicated for a guy like me.
I’m what you’d call a grower, not a shower. And even then, “grow” is being generous. Hard, I’m maybe three inches. Soft? Depends on the situation. That night, with a few drinks in me and my mind wandering to every half-naked woman I’d seen that day, I was sitting at maybe an inch. Maybe less. Just a nub, barely poking out from my pubic hair.
I realized I needed to piss pretty badly. The bathroom line wasn’t too bad, which was a miracle for a place like this. I weaved through the crowd, passed a group of girls doing shots at the bar, and pushed through the men’s room door.
The place smelled like cheap beer and piss—the standard boardwalk bar experience. Two urinals jammed against the wall, one stall with a door that looked like someone had tried to kick it in. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that unflattering yellow glow.
A guy was already at the urinal on the right. Tall, broad shoulders, wearing a tank top that showed off muscular arms. He was hunched forward slightly, both hands on his phone, thumbs flying across the screen, probably texting some girl.
I stepped up to the urinal on the left, leaving the appropriate amount of space between us—standard guy code. You don’t look. You don’t talk. You just do your business and get out.
But as I got close, I couldn’t help but notice.
He wasn’t holding himself. Both hands were on his phone, which meant his cock was just… hanging there. Pissing hands-free. And it was big. Even soft, it hung down a good six inches, maybe more. Thick, too—not just long but substantial, with a heavy head that looked like it belonged on a different species entirely. The stream arced out steadily, no effort required.
I looked away quickly, staring at the graffiti on the wall above the urinal. Some crude drawing of a penis, a phone number with “call for a good time” underneath—standard stuff.
I reached down and fumbled with my zipper, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. My fingers found my nub—barely there, tucked in tight against my body. I had to pinch it just to get a grip, had to really work to aim. The whole time, I was hyper-aware of the guy next to me, of how effortless it all was for him.
I started pissing, the stream weak compared to his. I just wanted to finish and get out of there before—
“Oh, damn.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d seen. But some morbid curiosity made me turn my head.
He was looking down at my crotch, phone forgotten in his hands. His expression wasn’t cruel, exactly—more like surprised amusement, as if he’d seen something unexpected and couldn’t help but comment on it.
Our eyes met. He didn’t look away, didn’t pretend he hadn’t been staring.
“Sorry, bro,” he said, voice casual but with a smirk underneath. “Sucks to be you.”
Then he looked down at his own cock—still pissing, still impressive—and gave it a little jiggle. Just a small movement, but enough to make it sway. A display. A reminder of what he had and what I didn’t.
He tucked himself back into his shorts, zipped up, and walked to the sink without another word. I stood there, frozen, my face burning hot enough to match the July heat outside.
I finished pissing and got out of there as fast as I could, skipping the sink because I couldn’t bear to stand next to him again.
Back at the table, I tried to focus on the band, the conversation, anything else. But my mind kept replaying that moment. The way he’d looked. The casual dismissal in his voice. Sucks to be you.
We crossed paths three more times that night.
The first time, I was waiting at the bar for a round of shots. He slid up next to me to order, and I felt his presence before I saw him. When I glanced over, he was already looking at me with that same smirk. He didn’t say anything—just raised an eyebrow, gave a small nod, and turned back to the bartender.
The second time, I was dancing with our group. The band had launched into some high-energy song, and everyone was jumping around. I caught sight of him near the edge of the dance floor, talking to a pretty blonde in a sundress. His hand rested on her hip, possessive and confident. As I moved past, his eyes found mine. The smirk was still there. He tilted his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment.
The third time was near the end of the night. I was heading outside for some air, and he was leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette. Our eyes met again. This time, he held my gaze for a long moment. Then he exhaled a stream of smoke, pushed off the railing, and disappeared into the crowd.
I never talked to him. Never got his name. But I thought about that encounter for weeks afterward.
I keep wondering what goes through a hung guy’s head when he sees someone like me. Is it pity? Amusement? Does he feel superior, or is it just a passing observation—like noticing someone’s short or balding? Does he tell his friends later, laughing about the tiny dick he saw in the bathroom? Does he mention it to the blonde in the sundress, using me as a punchline to make himself look even bigger by comparison?
Or does he forget about it entirely, moving on with his life while I’m still thinking about it months later?
I think that’s the part that gets to me the most. For him, it was probably nothing: a throwaway comment, a moment of amusement. For me, it’s a memory I keep replaying, analyzing every detail. The weight of his cock. The ease with which he handled it. The casual cruelty of sucks to be you.
He wasn’t wrong.
The End.
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