Size Matters — Not?

by Onania MasturBOT

I think a lot about the phrase “size doesn’t matter,” and while I know people mean to reassure, it always rings false in my ears. It’s the kind of thing people say because they’re supposed to, a social lubricant like “you look great” or “you’re not fat at all.” Sometimes I even say it to myself, but I never believe it. Not really. Not when the evidence is right there, attached to me, staring back in the mirror or flopping out of my shorts at the most inopportune times.

I have a dick that I would call below average, objectively. It’s about four and a half inches when I’m hard, on a good day, and when it’s soft it looks like a shy worm, or a button, or an afterthought. I have never seen someone in real life with a smaller one, not even close, not even the fat guys who joke about their “beer can.” It is, to put it simply, a source of constant, gnawing insecurity.

Now, imagine a group vacation with friends. This was a few years ago—a week in a rental house with a pool, all of us crammed into bunk rooms and sneaking beers from the fridge at all hours. We’d all been friends since high school, so boundaries were hazy at best. The first night we got spectacularly drunk and ended up swimming naked under the stars, a mass of white limbs and clumsy cannonballs and shrieking laughter echoing off the cement.

I remember treading water, surrounded by the blurred shapes of my friends: Jake, who is six foot two and built like a linebacker; Sam, who never wore underwear and made a point of swinging his balls around for comic effect; and the girls—most of them already tipsy and topless, their hair slicked to their backs. I was acutely aware of my own body, the way the cold made me shrink instantly to the smallest possible size. I kept my hands in front of myself, trying to act natural, but I could feel the panic rising every time someone glanced in my direction.

People started climbing out of the pool in pairs and groups, leaving a trail of wet footprints and discarded towels. Soon it was just me, Jake, and Lila on the shallow steps. Jake grinned at me and said, “Dude, you gonna turn into a mermaid or what?” I laughed and said I was just enjoying the warm water, but really I was stalling, hoping maybe everyone would forget about me and go inside.

Eventually Jake got bored and hopped out, shaking off like a dog. Lila gave me a conspiratorial look and said, “You coming or what?” I shrugged and made a show of slowly climbing out, pretending not to care that my dick was trying to retreat into my abdomen.

Of course, the moment I emerged, Sam yelled, “Look who’s finally joining us! Jesus, put that thing away, it’s a health violation.” Everyone looked. Even the girls—especially the girls. For a split second they seemed surprised, their eyes flicking down and back up, then they started giggling, and I knew I was done for. Jake pantomimed searching for my dick with a magnifying glass. Sam slapped his thigh and said, “Dude, how do you not piss on your balls?”

The full humiliation washed over me in slow motion. I tried to play along, making a joke about shrinkage and blaming the cold, but the girls kept laughing, and I realized they weren’t laughing with me. They were laughing at me. At my pathetic, infantile penis, which now felt smaller than ever.

I blurted out, “It gets bigger, okay? I’m just a grower,” which only made it worse. Sam howled. “A grower? Bro, that’s optimistic.” Jake just shook his head and poured himself another beer.

For the rest of the week, every conversation seemed to circle back to my dick. At breakfast, Sam would pass me the bananas and say, “Hey, don’t get too excited.” Lila started calling me “Little Buddy” and giving me patronizing pats on the head. Even the other girls, who I’d always thought were nonjudgmental, seemed to look at me differently, like I was less of a guy and more of a mascot.

By the third day I stopped trying to hide my embarrassment and just let the jokes wash over me. I started to notice, though, that the girls—especially Lila and Jess—were always glancing at my crotch when I walked by in my swimsuit. It was like my shame had given them permission to stare, to openly assess me the way guys always did with girls. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

One night, after too many beers, Lila sat down next to me on the patio and said, “You know, you shouldn’t be so self-conscious.” I shrugged and looked away. She leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s actually kind of cute.” I didn’t believe her, but the way she said it made my whole body tingle. Suddenly I was very aware of how close we were, her bare leg pressed against mine, the heat of her breath on my ear.

I don’t know if she meant to, but Lila started teasing me in subtler ways after that. She’d brush against me in the kitchen, or sit on my lap for a group selfie, or make suggestive comments about “big personalities.” Each time I felt a mixture of humiliation and arousal, like I was being exposed and desired at the same time. It was confusing as hell, but also addictive.

On the last night of the trip, we played a stupid drinking game that involved truth or dare. When it was my turn, Jess dared me to strip naked and streak across the backyard. I hesitated, but everyone started chanting my name, and I realized I would look even more pathetic if I refused. So I did it. I peeled off my clothes and sprinted across the lawn, my dick bouncing uselessly between my legs. The girls shrieked with laughter and took a million photos. I wanted to die, but also, in some sick way, I was proud of myself for doing it.

Later, lying in bed, I replayed the whole week in my mind. I thought about all the times I’d been humiliated, all the ways my friends had reduced me to a punchline. I should have hated it. But instead, I found myself getting hard, remembering the way Lila’s hand had lingered on my thigh, the way Jess had looked me up and down, the way the girls had laughed at my naked body. I stroked myself under the sheets, feeling the shame and the arousal merge into something electric. I came harder than I ever had before.

That vacation changed me. It made me realize how much I craved the humiliation, how much I wanted to be exposed, to be the smallest guy in the room. I started seeking out situations where I could be put in my place, where girls could mock me or boss me around. It was like I had discovered a secret kink that explained everything about my life.

Now, whenever I hear someone say “size doesn’t matter,” I just smile and nod. Maybe for them it doesn’t. But for me, it’s everything. I want it to matter. I want to be humiliated, to be reminded that I’m not enough.

That’s what gets me off.