The Guy with The Smallest Penis Ever to be Seen, Part 2

We went back to my place and the hook up was normal enough until Adam exposed himself and I realized he wasn’t joking about his size. I reacted like most girls wouldn’t: Ever the sexual opportunist, I was thrilled! One of the main reasons I was so disappointed when Josh internet dumped me (i.e., cancelled our almost exclusively online friendship) is that I was trying to figure out how to ask him to fuck me up the ass without insulting him and embarrassing myself. When he cut me off for internet mocking his small penis, I felt like I had missed out on a rare commodity. A novelty. And I felt sooo self-indulgently misunderstood.

I wanted to scream, “But wait! I loved how you could fuck me hard and it didn’t hurt, how your balls smacked against my asshole with each thrust as you were more than balls-deep, and I was waiting for the ass-fucking services that only a small penis could provide!” The swift break (public snub?) left me so tantalized. And I was infuriated: What kind of narcissist takes attention as an actual insult? Seldom have I spent so much time contemplating the prospects of a single penis. But mostly I was left wondering: Do all girls eventually ask him for anal? Is that the natural inclination? Or am a uniquely adept at sexual scheming?

Alec: I thought you didn’t like getting fucked in the ass?
me: no, i’ve always been interested in anal most penises are just too big
Alec: Psh, now you’ve got me jealous of a guy with a tiny dick.
Alec: I’ve always wanted to do anal with someone. no one has ever seemed willing.
me: yeah, sorry dude
you will have to find a girl with a more gapey asshole
Alec: uh, thank you?

I’ve always been interested in anal, but most penises are just too big. I like fingers. Usually I am too self-conscious to request that myself if no conversation has been had beforehand. Adam was a stranger, so who gives a shit. He didn’t even live in New York—was visiting from Boston for the weekend. Some people know how to make lemonade out of lemons, and I know how to make anal out of midgets.

Adam’s penis smallness was consistent with his almost-midget status, and his balls were proportionate, too. Usually I’m not into licking or sucking balls. But you know that stupid anti-pot ad where someone tries to stick their fist in their mouth and obviously fails? I stuck his balls in my mouth—successfully—just to see if I could. Does that make me stupider than the idiot in the commercial? If I were a fat chick, I could probably suck his balls and dick at the same time. As with Josh, there was no gag factor: He could face fuck me all he wanted. Kind of magical (the lack of gag factor, not the face fucking). Luckily for him, he was somewhat hairy so he didn’t look like a 5-year-old. Looking like a 5-year-old could instantly ruin the putting-something-up-your-butt allure. Because it would make inserting a crayon into your ear seem like a more age-appropriate option.

Besides having the opportunity to bank on something I had been wanting forever, I felt as if anal were obligatory because he was so small I could barely feel him. Once he got it in, he kept slipping out—and I ain’t got no loose asshole! Granted, it was drunken, uncoordinated sex, but still! Excessive slipping out meant we committed the cardinal sin of anal sex: back to front action. I didn’t realize he was going to throw it back in the front, and once it was already there, it was there. Until it slipped out again. At which point I sort of threw my hands up in surrender and staved off the concerns about transferring bacteria until the post-sex portion of the evening. Whichever hole he had it in, I felt like I had to put some fingers in the other one to “accommodate,” “compensate,” or act as “filler.” However you’d like to think of it. For me, there was not much thinking involved at all. Between the constant slippage, hole transferring, and finger plugging, I could barely keep my ass and my vagina straight. Finally, an instance in which, “Babe, I thought it was the other hole,” could have been construed as a viable excuse.

Most miraculous: I got my first rim job. Without requesting it. And it was exactly how I’d expect a rim job to be: amazing. How could anything so disgusting that is in fairly common practice be anything but an absolute delight? Previously I had contemplated what I would do if someone offered me a rim job (in a totally hypothetical way, like what I would do if someone asked me to piss on them). I figured I would be so grossed out—imagining what it must be like for them, in real time—that I would be unable to properly enjoy it. After all, it isn’t like I’d lick my own asshole. As an encounter with my asshole would be unpleasant at best, I was unsure I’d want anyone to have that privileged, sensory knowledge about me.

When the moment came, there was no self-consciousness. My asshole can’t be worse than anyone else’s, and evidently this guy is indiscriminate. Who licks a STRANGER’S asshole!? God it was so good. It wasn’t even unnatural or sequestered in any way. A rim job is just oral sex extended to other, more sensitive areas. I loved being on my hands and knees not knowing exactly where he was going to put his tongue. Mostly, I loved feeling it roll blithely over the nerve endings. It isn’t like he tried to slip it in my mouth afterwards. At that point, it was an ass exclusive.

As long as we were being so friendly, I thought I might as well command him to cum on my face. Not normally into facials, but with small penises it is absolutely perfect. I discovered this much with Andy. Having him straddle my face and jerk off over me.

We both came twice and I came all over my bed. Lying together post-coitally, I asked Adam if girls usually asked him for anal. He sheepishly replied, “sometimes.” I followed up with, “You’re the perfect size for that.” He didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult, but took it well either way. I assured him that I was rarely met with such an opportunity so I was pretty excited.

Excited, indeed. What a disaster area my bedroom was. I could barely move when it was time to put new sheets on my bed. After two anal fuckings, two facials, and two orgasms of my own, I was spent. He told me he had to wake up to catch his train back to Boston, and I set my cell phone alarm for him. With dread and anticipation, I knew that when it went off four hours later, I’d still be drunk.

I woke up to the alarm I set for him and an empty bed. Initially I was confused: Was he in the bathroom? Gathering his stuff to leave? It seemed too bizarre to be true. In my long and lucrative (illustrious?) career as a slut, never have I ever had a guy disappear before dawn—leave without saying “goodbye.” In retrospect, the reality of the situation must be that I am a very, very light sleeper and no one previously had been successful at a surreptitious escape, but recently I began wearing earplugs to sleep. Which apparently benefits both me and the sneaky fuckers I fuck. Do I need to sleep with one eye open? My cat sometimes does.
After the reality set in and I realized that I was drunk, sticky (ha ha, no I had showered), and alone, I was deluged by one frantic thought: I didn’t get his last name! Out of all of the guys I’ve fucked, and there are many, there is only one whose last name I don’t know. He is captured by the title “Jonathan from Georgia” and stinted by the only other piece of information I know about him: where he lived four years ago. Last time I had a one-night stand (Hipster Dave), we exchanged informations on the way out. It felt substantial.

Maybe this isn’t the first thing that would occur to most people when waking up to a blaring alarm, a mixture between drunkenness and a hangover, and an immeasurable sense of shock; once I see someone’s penis, I like proof that they are an actual person. That if I looked them up, they would exist in the real world—i.e., on the interwebs—outside of the very fake, privileged world of my yuppie bedroom that my parents pay for and sleep pretty damn close to. In the world that exists beyond rumors and gossip, most of which I perpetuate myself—because once you are an aspiring adult, an adult in training, you can fuck whomever you please, and as long as they didn’t go to NYC private school or an elite college, no one has to know. Even if they did, well, let’s just say I’ve been in situations where friends of friends denied conspicuously sleeping with me after the fact. But situations with strangers that happen in my glittery bedroom in my fake life of anal sex and no consequence, they are not manifest until I get a label for the person. I should get a label maker and make it for realz. Specimen number one. Exhibit A. Ha.

My fixation on the situation did not end there: I realized there was a certain inequality with respect to how much information we knew about each other. I had pill bottles lying around and stuff. He knew where I lived. I lent him my 1994 NBA Finals Eastern Conference Champs Shirt to sleep in. It had my name in it; I took it to sleepaway camp. Back in the day when I slept in “night shirts,” boxers, and a scrunchie; the Knicks were a good basketball team (I knew what constituted a good basketball team!); and you could still use tokens on the subway and scan school bus passes if you were awfully clever and technologically advanced. The very fact that I had a possession readily available in my apartment that I had owned since 1994 (okay, truth be told, I got it used at a school sale in 1995), verifies the fact that I am a real fucking person with a shiny, fake life of luxury.

How could I live without knowing who had stuck his tongue up my ass?! This very thought ran through my mind over and over. I mean, the prospect is just weird. It would be like if someone had touched me before I had ever touched myself. It’s my body and I want to know what goes on with it. One minute someone’s tongue can be up your ass with their nose wedged between your ass crack, and the next minute they can be gone forever without more of a trace than body fluids. DNA. Not to get sentimental about it, or anything.

He did leave his phone number, accidentally, upon calling me the night before so I could find my phone to set its alarm. For him. I contemplated condescendingly chiding him with a pithy, little text message, seizing the moral high ground while remaining ridiculous: “In my entire career as a slut, never have I ever had someone disappear in the middle of the night.”

I should have known. The fleeing did not go without foreshadowing so obvious scenarios like this can only be written in novels. The previous night I asked my now-ex friend if he would be upset if I left after our post/during-sex fight. He questioned whether I was leaving because I was mad at him or because he couldn’t give me what I wanted, to which I vehemently and venomously exclaimed, “Both! You only gave me half the sex and half the drugs I wanted!” As I gathered my stuff and polished off his beer, he wistfully disclosed that I was the only girl who had ever left after sex. I thought he was referring to those who had left acrimoniously. He meant, simply, that no girl had ever opted out of spending the night with him. Impossible, I contended! I didn’t always spend the night at guys’ places and they certainly didn’t feel obligated to stay at mine. He revised his statement: Some girls had woken up a few hours later then left. We agreed on this much: No one had ever disappeared without saying goodbye. And then we giggled like little girls at a pizza party.
I spent the next day fearing for my vagina. All of these years I had been so good: I always peed before and after sex, avoiding acquiring a pesky and painful UTI. Would I get some horrible kind of infection. Like waking up pregnant and not knowing the father of your fetus. Oh well, I guess they aren’t comparable situations. I would know the origin of my infection: my very own ass—and idiocy. There was nothing I could do at that point except wait it out.

And I was fine. Thank the ass Gods. Wait, am I going to hell? At least I got my asshole licked first. Now for threesomes and fucking people with strap-ons. Fingering guys’ assholes. It’s actually beyond absurd that I had gone all of these years only having had anal sex once. As is my limited experience with girls. God, I’m twenty-six. I need grown up. I wonder what Adam would think if he knew his penis was one of only two that had been up my ass. What would Jesus do?

My other activity of the day after: reconstructing his dick size with my fingers. My initial impression was four girl fingers or three guy fingers, but then I stuck my combined fingers in my mouth and realized I was being too generous. Final determination: three girl fingers in girth, a guy finger in length.

Temporary alliances were formed to tickle nerve endings, new territory was treaded with reckless abandon, and I learned the exact demarcation between small and too small—somewhere in between Josh and Adam. Imagine becoming the new index of a standard—the anchor point

A night of firsts: Never had I ever gotten fucked up the ass by a stranger. Never had I ever gotten a rim job. Never had I ever put balls in my mouth other than just licking. And never had someone ever left in the middle of the night without saying bye before. Obviously, the ultimate goal in life is to win Never Have I Ever, so I’m well on my way.

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