SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

I was twenty-four that summer, and my parents had done me the single greatest favor parents can do for a twenty-four-year-old: they’d left town for the weekend and trusted me not to burn the house down. So naturally, I invited Anna over, because that’s what Anna and I did. She was my best friend, had been since sophomore year of college, and in all that time nothing had ever happened between us. Not a kiss, not a drunken grope, nothing. Anna was strictly off-limits by unspoken mutual agreement, which was probably for the best, because Anna was the kind of girl you couldn’t look at casually. Brown hair that fell past her shoulders, a figure she pretended not to be proud of, B-cup boobs that she somehow made look like the whole point of every shirt she owned. She’d laugh if you told her that. She’d also absolutely use it.

We were sprawled across my parents’ living room that Saturday night, three beers deep each and working on a fourth, watching some movie neither of us was really watching. It was a brutally hot evening, the kind where the air sits on you like a wet towel, and the ceiling fan was doing absolutely nothing about it. I remember Anna had her feet tucked under herself on the couch, hair sticking to her forehead, and she suddenly blurted it out like she’d been thinking about it for an hour.

“We should go swimming.”

My parents had a pool. It was the one good thing about the house. I shrugged, said sure, and then—because I was tipsy and comfortable and genuinely not thinking—stood up right there in the living room and started stripping. Shirt over my head, tossed at the couch—belt off. I was working my shorts down before it occurred to me that maybe I should’ve done this in another room. Anna let out a surprised little giggle, the kind of sound that was half “what are you doing” and half “okay, this is funny.”

I looked at her standing there in her shorts and tank top and shrugged. “Come on, just swim in your underwear. It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t basically seen before.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was drunk enough that the eye-roll was really a yes. She peeled her shirt off over her head, and I made a point of looking at the TV like a gentleman, mostly because looking anywhere else would’ve been dangerous. She had on some simple white bra and her everyday panties, and somehow that was more distracting than actual lingerie would’ve been. I turned back to finish stepping out of my shorts, and that’s when the night started to get away from me.

I wasn’t paying attention. That’s my only defense. I was drunk, I was laughing at something she said, and I stepped out of my shorts without a single thought about the state of my boxers. The pee hole—the little button flap in the front—was unbuttoned. Had been all day, apparently. And the tip of my dick was poking through it, just sitting there, out in the open air as it belonged there.

“OMG, your thingy is showing!”

Anna’s voice cracked halfway through the sentence; she was laughing so hard. I looked down, saw the situation, and felt absolutely nothing in the way of shame at that particular moment, because the beer had deleted my shame somewhere around bottle three.

“Oops,” I said, and tucked it back in like I’d dropped a chip. We both lost it laughing and headed for the back door.

The pool water was warm on top and cold underneath, and we swam around like idiots for a while—splashing, dunking, the usual. Somewhere in there, my drunk brain decided it would be hilarious to escalate. So while Anna had her back to me, treading water and complaining about how her makeup was probably running, I slipped my boxers off underwater. I balled them up, waited for my moment, and then whipped them through the air like a wet towel. They landed directly on her head.

She shrieked. Actually shrieked, loud enough that I was glad the neighbors were old and deaf. She grabbed the fabric off her head, and I watched the exact moment her brain processed what she was holding—my boxers, dripping pool water into her hair, while I was somewhere below the surface, completely naked.

“WTF,” she said, laughing. Then she went quiet for a second, and her eyes got kind of big in this way I should have recognized as a warning. “Hmmmm. I don’t know if that was a wise move.”

She swam for the pool edge fast, hauled herself out—panties plastered to her, water running down her legs, and I registered all of it even through the chlorine in my eyes—and stood there holding my boxers like a trophy.

“Now what are you gonna do?”

“Come on, give them back.”

“Nope.” She was grinning like a villain. “You threw them, and now you gotta go get them.”

And then she wound up and threw them. Over the fence. Into the Hendersons’ yard next door.

“WTF, Anna!”

“Now what are you gonna do?” she repeated, absolutely delighted with herself, arms crossed, standing there in her soaked bra and panties with my only clothing like fifteen feet away on the other side of a fence.

I did the math. The fence was too high to grab them from this side. I’d have to go out the side gate, walk around the Hendersons’ house, hop their fence, retrieve my boxers from whatever bush they’d landed in, and come back. Or. Or I could just walk out and get my shorts from inside the house first, like a sane person.

But I was drunk, and drunk me had a plan, and the plan was: get another beer first.

I swam to the pool steps and started walking out, and here’s where I have to be honest about the state of things. The water was warm on top, but I’d been in and out of the cold layer plenty, and I’m a grower—always have been. Flaccid, I can be as small as half an inch. Half an inch. Cold water, drunk, midnight air hitting me as I climbed out—I was working with maybe an inch, an inch and a half, and that’s being generous. It’s the kind of size that looks like it’s trying to hide inside my body. I cupped it in my hand as I walked out, keeping my back to Anna, mostly on autopilot.

I walked over to the patio table where our beers were sitting, still cupping myself, and announced, “Well, I want another beer before I hop the fence.”

Anna stared at me. “You’re gonna hop the fence naked?”

“Yup!” I said, with the full confidence of a drunk man. And then—this is the part I still can’t believe when I replay it—I immediately forgot I was covering myself at all. The beer was right there. I reached for it with both hands. Both hands. My cupping hand and everything.

I stood there, six-foot-four, dripping wet, completely naked under the patio lights, holding a beer, with my one-inch, cold-shrunk, shaved-smooth dick on full display for my best friend.

Anna shrieked. “OMG! Why is it so tiny!!!”

And I want to be precise about how she said it, because I’ve replayed it a thousand times since. It wasn’t cruel. It was pure, delighted shock. The voice you’d use if you saw a dog walking on its hind legs. She actually pointed. Her finger came up, and she pointed right at it, and she said it again—”Why is it so tiny!”—like the first time hadn’t fully expressed her feelings.

I laughed, because what else do you do? “Well, the water isn’t exactly warm.”

“And you shave it?” She stepped closer, squinting, genuinely studying it as if it were a museum exhibit. “I’ve never seen a bald one. And it’s so little.”

“Anna. It’s called a grower. It gets bigger. Obviously.”

“Sure it does,” she said, in the exact tone you’d use to humor a child who just told you he could beat up his dad.

And then she said the line. The line that I would end up thinking about for years.

She laughed and said, “I think you should cover the little guy.”

The little guy. She said it as you’d talk about a hamster. I huffed, sarcastically, dramatically, like this whole thing was an outrageous imposition on me, and said “fine,” and went inside to get my shorts, and that was more or less the end of it. We swam a while longer; she gave my boxers back the next morning after retrieving them herself because she’s a monster, and nothing else came of it. We stayed friends. Strictly friends. It never got weird.

Except.

Except that when I climbed the fence that night, drunk, naked, boxers in hand, and when I came back inside, and Anna left around one in the morning, I lay in my bed and realized something was happening to me. I was hard. Fully hard. And not just hard—my whole body was buzzing, heart pounding, skin tight, the kind of arousal that almost hurts. I hadn’t felt it in the moment. In the moment I’d been too drunk, too busy laughing. But lying there in the dark, my brain decided to replay the whole night in high definition.

Why is it so tiny!!!

Her finger pointing at it. Her stepping closer. I’ve never seen a bald one, and it’s so little. The way she’d looked at it—actually looked, studied it, appraised it, and found it hilarious. My best friend, the girl I’d never let myself think about that way because we were strictly friends, had stared directly at my dick when it was at its absolute smallest, and she had laughed.

I wrapped my hand around myself, and I was so hard it ached. All four and three-quarters inches of me, which suddenly felt like proof of something. It gets bigger, obviously. I wanted her to see it. That was the thought that came out of nowhere and hit me like a truck—I wanted her to see it like this, hard, so I could show her the difference so that I could watch her face change, and somewhere underneath that, deeper and more honest, I wanted her to see it tiny again. I wanted the pointing. The laughing. The little guy.

I jerked off to the memory of her voice. To the shriek. To the finger. To “now what are you gonna do?” and “I think you should cover the little guy.” I came embarrassingly fast, harder than I had in months, and I lay there afterward staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened to me.

Because here’s the thing I figured out that night, the thing that night taught me about myself: it wasn’t the nudity. It wasn’t even Anna, not really, though God knows she didn’t help. It was the seeing. It was a girl looking at my dick when it was tiny and reacting—honestly, loudly, without sparing me. Every guy fears that moment. I’d spent my whole life fearing it, actually—careful towel changes, quick exits from pools, the works. And then it happened, out of nowhere, under patio lights with a beer in my hand, and instead of dying of shame, I got the hardest erection of my life.

I texted her the next day like nothing happened. “Fun night.” She sent back a crying-laughing emoji and the words “little guy,” and I stared at that text for ten full minutes, and I’m not going to tell you what I did after that, except that I did it twice.

We’re still best friends. Still strictly friends. She still brings it up when she wants to win an argument—”okay, little guy” — and I groan and roll my eyes like it’s torture.

It’s not torture. She has no idea it’s not torture. And she has no idea that somewhere out there in the Hendersons’ yard, my boxers spent a night on a bush, and that was the night I found out exactly what I am.

 

The End.

 

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