“So…do you want to get a condom?” he hissed in my ear, as my hand fiddled with the waistband of his pants.
My response was right there at the tip of my tongue. Yes. *Hell* yes. Jeff was hot, with the twin face of Ryan Gosling and the abs to prove it. We had been hanging out for a few weeks, getting drunk on the beach with our friends and making out in the sand when everyone went their separate ways. After two sleepovers at his house, three times of him going down on me (bless), and many not-so-subtle hints at wanting to go further, here I was. In my older sister’s childhood bedroom as the party I threw at my house finally grew quiet. We were snuggled together on the twin bed, my clothes and his shirt crumpled on the floor.
So how was it that I managed to snag a guy who was older (25 to my 20) way, way out of my league, had a real job, and did things like pay for my food and text me back? The answer was simple: Jeff was a virgin.
I met him through a mutual friend, and she assured me he was “pretty normal” (not a promising start), and that he just hadn’t met the right girl. So one night I built up the courage (thanks, vodka) to interrogate him. He confirmed that while he dated girls, none of them were ever “right.” So after waiting so long, he wanted to be sure she was great before gracing her with his penis. Weird, but plausible right? Wrong. But whatever, he was hot and I was lonely so I figured I’d let the weirdness go and be on my best behavior.
But that night, after getting into a whipped cream fight and consuming a disgusting amount of tequila — it seemed like he was ready. It seemed like his penis, which I hadn’t even met yet, was ready. Because remember all of the subtle hints about wanting to go further? Those were made by me. But finally, that night, he uttered the cliché, “you’re not like other girls” line, and I knew that meant one thing and one thing only:
Momma was gonna get laid.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked, feeling like an idiot as my hand hovered on the edge of his pants, just waiting to take the plunge.
“Yeah. Yes, I want you to be my first,” he moaned as my fingers slithered down into unchartered territory.
And then, I felt it. As I passed his abs and those “v” muscles I knew he worked so hard on, the (gag) pubic hairs that were courteously trimmed and kept clean, I felt it. It. My hand froze as I tried to comprehend what my fingers just grazed. A wave of nausea passed over me, but I wasn’t sure whether it was because of my high BAC, the horrible sentence he just uttered (nothing is less sexy than a guy saying “I want you to be my first”) or because I just felt the skinniest penis of all time.
My fingers slid along his fully erect penis (it was fully erect, right?) and I felt my world crash around me. As I tried to gauge the girth, debating between a pencil, a milkshake straw, and a few fingers, realization dawned on me: he wasn’t a virgin because he hadn’t met the right girl. He was a virgin because his penis was the thickness of a tampon.
“So, the condom?” He asked out of the darkness, as I remained frozen on the bed, my hand still in his pants, my look of horror invisible thanks to the lack of lighting.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. I’ll uh…I’ll be right back,” I grabbed his t-shirt from the pile of clothes and darted out of the room, slamming the door behind me.
I stood with my back pressed against the cold wood, trying to make my heart calm down. What just happened in there? Flashbacks of the dick I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with raced through my mind. What should I do? Here was this absolutely perfect guy who was hot, treated me well, got along with my friends, paid for everything, and would totally be down to date me. On paper, he was perfect. But he hadn’t mentioned the fine print. The very fine print.
I paced up and down the hallway, trying to figure out my next move. First of all, my condoms were in my bedroom, and the couple who was in there was probably destroying my sheets right now. Second of all, did I even want to have sex with him? It didn’t seem fair to turn a guy I liked down just because his penis was a little on the skinny side. If a guy turned me down because my legs were a little on the thick side or my boobs were a little on the not-so-huge side, I would be furious. I would call him a sexist pig and make him go viral on the internet for being a horrible person.
Buuuuuuuuut. The thought of having sex with him repulsed me. As I imagined putting the tiny schlong inside of me, and seeing his face as he lost his virginity, I felt the alcohol from the night make its way up my esophagus. And as I sat next to the toilet in my childhood house, I realized — no matter how much I liked the guy, I would never be able to get over his lack of girth. Call me cruel. Call me a tease. But you will not be able to call me the girl who took his virginity with a pity fuck.
After swishing some mouthwash around I tiptoed back into the bedroom, praying that he already passed out.
“Hey baby, you got it?”
Shit, no luck. I crawled into bed next to him and tried to ignore the gaze of his I felt permeating my soul.
“Uh…” I stared, not knowing how to explain my reasoning for not having a condom. “No. I uh. I don’t feel well,” I sputtered lamely, laying on my back, frozen in embarrassment. I felt him stiffen next to me.
“…what?” He uttered, turning towards me in hopes of an explanation. “Is everything okay?”
My heart broke a little bit as I turned away from him and muttered something about needing to go to sleep. As I felt my eyes grow heavy and visions of bigger penises danced in my head, I’m pretty sure I heard him mutter “fuck” before proceeding to jerk himself off while laying next to me in the teeny tiny bed. Sad? Yes. But also, strangly poetic, in a tragic sort of way.
Jeff and I stopped seeing each other after that. It wasn’t so much of a breakup — more like a mutual ghosting. I didn’t text him after he left that morning, and he didn’t text me the day after that. Eventually, weeks went by without us talking and I started hooking up with a different, more-endowed guy. Things would have been fine if we just never saw each other again. We could have left it at we almost had sex, but I was tired and that was that. But as fate would have it, things got much, much messier.
A month or so after the incident, I arrived at a party to find Jeff there with my friends. I considered running away, buying a plane ticket, and never returning, but I figured what the hell? Things weren’t that weird between us, where they? Upon walking up to the group, however, I could sense a sudden shift in the air. As Jeff eyed me with disdain, my friends quietly sipped their drinks before finding excuses to leave the circle. It wasn’t until the last friend ambled away to talk to some imaginary greeter that Jeff opened his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, a steely look in his eyes.
“I was invited,” I said, taken aback by his tone. “These are my friends too,” I explained, gesturing at the people who had just left us to indicate how popular I was.
“I’m surprised you didn’t just say you were going to come and then bail at the last minute,” he fired back, an infuriating smirk on his face. I could feel the blood rush to my head as the anger pulsed through my veins faster than the alcohol.
“I’m sorry,” I started, willing myself to stay calm, “but what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
It means,” he said, slamming his drink down on a sticky table beside us, “that I can’t believe you’re such a tease. First, you give me blue balls, then I find out you’re fucking some guy days after we stopped talking.”
I stood there gaping at him, not sure what to say. On one hand, it’s true. I did start sleeping with the other guy right after we stopped talking. But what was I supposed to do? Mourn the almost-relationship of the dick I was glad got away? Still, I could see the hurt behind his eyes. I was mature. I was understanding. And I get how that would be upsetting in a twisted, “I have a penis that has never been inside of a girl and I had a naked girl in bed who was willing to have sex with me then bowed out at the last minute” kind of way. As I put myself in his situation, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Until —
“Slut,” he murmured, casting a disgusted look at me.
Nope. Before I could stop it, before I could think clearly, the truth came spilling out of me.
“Slut?! How am I a slut for not fucking you? Sorry I didn’t want to have sex with you. Maybe if your dick wasn’t so skinny and disgusting I wouldn’t have given you blue balls, asshole.” And with that, I turned on my heel, bought that plane ticket, changed my name, and moved away.
No. I wish I would have done that. Instead, I had to live with the guilt that calling a guy’s penis “disgusting” probably wasn’t the most mature thing to do. We saw each other a few times after that, but we managed to avoid eye contact and conversation. After recently stalking his social media, I noticed that he is still single. Whether it’s because of his needle dick or his shitty personality, I’ll never know (but I’m guessing it’s the first one). I know it’s wrong to judge a man based on his girth, but I never said I was right.
I’m just a girl. Living in this world. Looking for a big dick to love her. And just know, whether his downfall is the size of his brain, his heart, or his penis, there are plenty of other dicks in me. I mean, the sea. There are plenty of other dicks in the sea..
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