Frank Greasestain

Just Me and My Micropenis

“You know, before I get started with girls, I ask them, ‘you like it with skin on or skin off?’”

Roy started cracking up at his own joke; dude could barely breathe. Meanwhile, I just sat there in utter incomprehension.

He noticed the blank look on my face and asked, “What, you don’t get it?”

“No, I get it,” I said with no confidence in my voice whatsoever.

“You don’t get it! It’s because I’m an anteater, haha!”

“Ohhhhh,” I said, doing my best to fake ‘getting it.’

“I’m not circumcised.”

“Oh!” I said, finally actually getting it.

My eyes fell swiftly to the floor. I couldn’t even tell if I was circumcised or uncircumcised… I was born with a micropenis.

Doctors usually give parents the option of keeping a perpetually virginal boy or constructing a fake vagina.

Men usually don’t care about the size of vaginas. They’re just happy to be invited in. You can’t even get your foot in the door with a micropenis.

My parents were fundamentalists and of course it was God’s will for me to have nothing but a slightly oversized clit hanging (Ha! If only it were big enough to hang!) above my normal-sized nutsack.

I was made from mud. It was meant to be. Goddamn you, God.

Whenever I get embarrassed, like I was discussing Roy’s sexual exploits, my penis shrinks even further up into my body. Sometimes I worry it’ll never come back out again. This was one of those times. I had a slight panic attack in my mind but no one could ever tell. My palms were sweating.

“You alright, Mike?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

Fine? I couldn’t even masturbate.

“You’re not fine, bro. What’s wrong?”

For some stupid reason, I felt like telling the truth.

“I’ve never had sex. I’ve never even masturbated.”

“What?? You gay, dude?”

“No, I just physically can’t. Never mind. It’s not a big deal…”

It truly was no big deal. Language has a way of hanging us.

“What, Mike, you got a little Vienna Sausage or something? So long as it can crack the curtains, it can jump through the window if you know what I mean!”

He slapped me on the back, seeking my approval of his joke. A Vienna Sausage would be great, but I could hardly claim a Little Smokey.

I’d neglected to mention we were at McDonald’s. After we’d finished our large Cokes, we both had to piss, so we went to the bathroom together.

I’ll bet you can guess where this is going.

I can’t piss directly next to anyone when there are no dividers between the urinals. I’m always worried they’re sizing me up in comparison to theirs. It really, really bothers me.

But there we were. Some fat ass was in the only stall. If I didn’t piss, it’d raise suspicion, and so I took the only free urinal next to Roy. Figuring I could fake it if nothing else, I unzipped and pinched my ‘Johnson’ (what’s diminutive for Johnson?) out of my drawers.

But before I could squeeze anything out, I heard the loud, heavy stream pounding down on Roy’s urinal cake. Now I knew I definitely wouldn’t piss.

“Ain’t you gonna piss, man?” Roy asked, turning to look right at me.

“Not when you’re staring at me,” I said.

“What, you got a shy bladder?”

I ignored the question.

“Holy shit, man! You call THAT a penis?”

At Roy’s urging, my already tiny penis tried to escape back into my body once again, making my present pissing situation all the more impossible. I quickly zipped up with no fear of getting caught and stormed out of the bathroom.

Ditching Roy at McDonald’s (because fuck him), I drove to a nearby park, sitting on a bench by myself. There were some high school kids making out as they strolled past, backpacks slung across their fronts to hide their boners. A trick I knew of but never had to use myself.

It was then that Roy texted me, suggesting that I tie a string around my dick and weigh it down with something.

“It’s sure to stretch,” he wrote, trying (and failing) to be helpful. “I read it on the internet!”

He obviously had no idea how hard it was to tie a knot around a micropenis. Almost impossible. I’ve tried. I’d even thought about cutting off the blood supply with a string like some people do with warts and skin tags, just letting my pathetic little excuse for a dick shrivel up and die.

I had no hope. It was useless.

When I got home, my mom was cooking breakfast for dinner. I loved having breakfast for dinner.

“We’re making bacon!” she said, smiling as I entered the door.

“Fuck you!” I yelled at her and stomped off to my room.

“This is my house! Don’t you dare speak to me like that!”

“You ruined my life!”

“I gave you life!”

“Thanks a lot!”

I slammed the door behind me and lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling until I fell asleep.

I dreamed I was walking down a long hall with brown carpeting, white walls, and kitsch paintings of flowers placed at regular intervals. The hall only got longer as I kept walking. My tiny little penis began to elongate like one of Stretch Armstrong’s limbs, stretching out like a wad of taffy behind me. I could feel bugs crawling all over it, lint and dust clinging to it as it began to drag along the floor. I kept thinking rats were going to attack it next. It was terrifying.

I woke up grabbing for the cursed appendage (if you could call it that) between my legs. Sure enough, it was still there.

Meanwhile, the smell of delicious bacon had begun to waft through the air in my room. I got up, went downstairs, and made my way to the kitchen.

“Sorry, mom,” I said, grabbing for some bacon. She never made sausage. Or hot dogs. All things considered, she was a considerate woman.

“It’s okay.”

“Why couldn’t you guys just agree to give me a pussy? I would have never known the damn difference.”

“You’re just as God made you.”

“Yeah, miserable…”

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