The Communal Shower
A Fictional Story by Camwhore1.
I’d managed to time my showers, so I was usually alone. Not because I was shy—well, not only because I was shy—but because I knew what happened in communal showers. I’d heard the stories. I’d lived through one before, back in college, and I had no interest in repeating the experience.
But tonight, the gym was packed. A corporate fitness challenge had apparently signed up half the office buildings in the area, and by the time I hit the locker room, there were already four guys stripping down.
I hesitated at my locker, towel in hand.
“You waiting for an invitation?” a heavyset guy named Doug called out, grinning. He was already naked, his thick cock swinging heavily between his legs as he rummaged through his gym bag. Flaccid, he had to be five inches, thick around as a beer can, with a fat hooded head that peeked out from his foreskin. His balls hung low, swinging like two eggs in a sack.
“Just taking my time,” I muttered, pulling my shirt over my head.
There was a tall Black guy I recognized from the weight room—Terrence, I’d heard someone call him. He was already under the water, lathering up. Through the steam, I could see his body—lean, cut, every muscle defined. And between his legs, a cock that looked like it belonged on a different species. It hung down a good seven inches, soft, circumcised, the head plump and dark, resting against his thigh like a sleeping snake. His balls were shaved smooth, which only made them look bigger.
A younger guy named Pete was chatting with Doug while he undressed. Pete was short, stocky, covered in tattoos. When he dropped his shorts, I saw he was packing too—not as long as Terrence, maybe four and a half inches soft, but thick, with a prominent vein running along the top. He had a dense bush of red hair and freckles everywhere, even on his shaft.
The fourth guy was someone I didn’t recognize. Big guy, muscular, maybe thirty. He stripped efficiently and turned toward the showers, and I caught a glimpse—six inches soft, easy, with a set of balls that looked like they belonged on a bull. He walked past me without a word.
I took a breath and pushed my shorts down.
My cock, soft, was maybe two inches on a good day. In the warm locker room, after a workout, it was probably closer to an inch and a half, shriveled against my body. My balls were small too—barely the size of large grapes, pulled tight against my shaft. I kept my pubes trimmed short, which I’d always told myself was a hygiene choice, but really, it was because less hair made things look a little bigger. It didn’t help much.
I wrapped my towel around my waist and walked to the showers, taking the showerhead at the far end, away from the others.
For a few minutes, it was fine—steam, hot water, the sounds of everyone washing up. I kept my eyes on the tile, focused on lathering my chest, my arms, my legs—normal stuff.
Then Doug migrated my way.
“Mind if I squeeze in? The pressure’s better on this side.”
“Sure,” I said, stepping slightly to the left.
Doug took the showerhead next to mine, and suddenly I was standing next to a guy whose flaccid cock was bigger than mine was hard. I could feel my face heating up. I kept my eyes forward, scrubbing my stomach like it was the most important thing in the world.
“Good workout today?” Doug asked, running soap over his chest. His cock swayed with the movement, heavy and thick.
“Yeah, not bad,” I managed.
“Who’s the new guy?” Doug nodded toward the muscular stranger, who was washing his hair under the far showerhead.
“Don’t know,” I said.
Pete wandered over, cock bouncing as he walked. He planted himself under the showerhead on my other side, so now I was sandwiched between two guys who both had me outclassed by several inches.
“Man, that pump was insane today,” Pete said, shaking out his arms. Water ran down his tattooed chest, over his stomach, and through his red bush, dripping off the tip of his cock. “My triceps are wrecked.”
Doug laughed. “You’ll feel it tomorrow.”
I was trying very hard to be invisible. I washed my hair, letting the shampoo suds run down my face, hoping the water would hide the flush on my cheeks.
Then Terrence joined us, walking over from the other side of the shower area. He took the showerhead directly across from me, and suddenly I was looking at his cock at eye level. Seven soft inches, thick, with a head like a doorknob. He started washing, and his cock swung side to side with the motion of his hands.
“Hey, you’re the guy from the bench press, right?” Terrence said to me.
“Uh, yeah. I was on the incline press.”
“Thought so. I was watching your form—you’re arching your back too much.”
“Oh.” I forced a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to fix that.”
Pete leaned forward, looking past me at Doug. “Hey, Doug, you still doing that supplement thing?”
“Nah, I gave it up. Didn’t do shit.”
Terrence snorted. “Told you. Just eat more and lift heavy.”
The conversation continued, and I realized with growing horror that these guys were comfortable. They weren’t rushing. They were chatting, soaping up, taking their time. And I was standing among them, naked, with my tiny cock on display.
I tried to angle my body slightly, turning so my hip faced the group. It was a natural-enough pose, but I was doing it to hide. My cock, exposed to the warm water, had shrunk even more—barely a nub, my foreskin bunched up around the head like a wrinkled sleeve. My balls were pulled so tight they almost disappeared.
Pete noticed.
I saw his eyes flick down, then back up. A slight pause. Then he looked at Doug, and something passed between them—a look, a half-grin.
My stomach dropped.
“Hey, man,” Pete said, casual as anything. “You look cold. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice a little too high.
“Just checking. You look like you’re freezing up.” He glanced down again, and this time he didn’t look away. “Your boys are trying to escape.”
Doug laughed, a big belly laugh that echoed off the tiles. “Give him a break, Pete.”
“I’m just saying! Mine do the same thing when it’s cold.” Pete grabbed his own cock and lifted it, letting it flop back down. “See? Sympathy shrinkage.”
But Pete’s cock, even after he’d lifted and dropped it, was still four and a half inches of thick, veiny meat. Mine looked like a thumb sticking out of a sparse patch of trimmed hair.
Terrence looked over, and I saw his eyes move down. His expression didn’t change, but I caught the corner of his mouth twitch.
The new guy—the muscular stranger—had finished washing his hair and was watching from across the way. He had a clear view, and I saw his gaze drop to my crotch. He looked away quickly, but not before I caught something—amusement, maybe pity.
I wanted to die.
“You know what they say,” Pete continued, clearly enjoying himself now. “It’s not the size of the ship, it’s the motion of the ocean.”
“Christ, Pete,” Doug said, still chuckling. “Leave the guy alone.”
“I’m not being mean! I’m just—” Pete gestured vaguely at my crotch. “I mean, look at that. That’s like—what is that, an inch?”
“Can we not?” I said, my face burning.
“Hold on, hold on,” Pete said, holding up his hands. “I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m just curious. Seriously—how hard are you?”
“Pete,” Terrence said, his voice carrying a warning.
“What? It’s a fair question! We’re all guys here.”
The muscular stranger was openly watching now, his six-inch soft cock hanging heavy between his legs, arms crossed over his chest, a slight smirk on his face.
I should have walked away. I should have grabbed my towel and left. But something kept me rooted to the spot—some mix of embarrassment and morbid fascination. My cock was the smallest in the room by a wide margin, and everyone knew it. There was no hiding it now.
“Three and a half,” I said quietly.
Pete’s eyebrows went up. “Three and a half inches? Hard?”
“Yeah.”
Doug let out a low whistle. “Damn, man.”
“Three and a half,” Pete repeated, like he was savoring the number. He looked down at his own cock, then at mine. “So you’re telling me that little thing right there gets to maybe—” He held up his fingers, measuring off about three inches. “That?”
“Fuck off, Pete.”
“I’m just visualizing! Three and a half inches. That’s like—Doug, what’s your wife’s pinky finger?”
Doug held up his hand, extending his pinky. It was about three inches long.
“There you go,” Pete said. “That’s you, hard. That’s your full size.”
Terrence was shaking his head, but he was smiling. “Pete, you’re an asshole.”
“I’m not wrong, though.”
The muscular stranger spoke up for the first time. “What’s your name?” he asked me.
“Kevin,” I said.
“I’m Marcus.” He paused, looking me over—not just my cock, but my whole body. “You’re in good shape, man. Don’t sweat it.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, not feeling particularly grateful.
“Sweat what?” Pete jumped in. “I’m not saying he’s not in good shape. I’m saying his dick is tiny. Those are two separate things.”
“Pete,” Doug said, “you’re being a real piece of work tonight.”
Pete held up his hands again. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it.” He went back to washing himself, but I could see him fighting back a grin.
The shower fell into an uneasy silence. I focused on rinsing off, keeping my head down, willing the water to wash away the humiliation along with the soap. My cock had retreated so far it was basically a button, and my balls were invisible. I’d never felt so small in my life.
Then Pete, unable to help himself, broke the silence.
“You know what the worst part is?” he said, addressing no one in particular. “It’s that he keeps it trimmed. Look at that—he manscapes. He’s down there with the clippers, making it all neat, and it’s still that small. That’s effort, man. That’s dedication.”
Doug burst out laughing. Even Terrence cracked a grin, turning away to hide it.
“I trim because I like it,” I said, my voice tight.
“Sure you do, buddy,” Pete said, patting me on the shoulder. “Sure you do.”
Marcus shook his head, a small smile on his face. “Pete, you’re going to give the guy a complex.”
“He already has a complex,” Pete said. “His dick is three and a half inches.”
I turned off the water. “I’m done.”
“Aw, come on, Kevin—” Pete started.
“Enjoy your shower,” I said, grabbing my towel and wrapping it around my waist. My hands were shaking slightly as I tucked the edge in.
I walked out of the shower area, leaving them behind. I could hear Pete still talking—”I was just messing around, man! Kevin! Come on!”—but I didn’t look back.
In the locker room, I dressed quickly, my face still hot. My cock, tucked into my briefs, felt impossibly small. Three and a half inches. I’d said it out loud, in front of four strangers. Four guys who all had me beat by at least an inch soft.
I was shoving my gym bag into my locker when Pete appeared, a towel around his waist. His cock, even hidden, created a noticeable bulge in the terrycloth.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the locker next to mine. “I was just giving you shit. You know that, right?”
“Sure.”
“No, seriously. I’m a dick sometimes. Ask anyone. I don’t know when to stop.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” I lied.
“Come on. You’re a grown man. You know what you’re working with. I was just—”
“Being yourself,” I finished.
He grinned, and despite everything, I almost grinned back. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Doug walked by, fully dressed, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you, Kevin. Half the guys in here are packing less than they let on.”
“Thanks, Doug.”
Terrence passed without a word, just a nod. Marcus was already gone.
Pete watched them go, then turned back to me. “For what it’s worth,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’ve got a buddy who’s smaller than you. Like, significantly. He does just fine.”
“Great.”
“I mean it. Chicks don’t care as much as you think.”
“Okay, Pete.”
“Or dudes, if that’s your thing. No judgment.”
“Goodnight, Pete.”
He held up his hands one final time. “Goodnight, Kevin.”
I finished getting dressed and left the gym, stepping into the cool night air. My face was still warm—three and a half inches. I’d said it out loud, and four strangers now knew. Four guys who’d seen me naked, seen my tiny cock, and reacted exactly the way I’d always feared they would—with humor, with curiosity, with that particular brand of male camaraderie that doubles as cruelty.
I drove home, and in the quiet of my car, I felt my cock twitch in my pants. Just once. A small, pathetic little twitch.
I didn’t think about why.
The End.
*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.