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Jonathan Ospa

B'aby-Dick McCallister

I remember the penis, if it could be called that. Wrinkly, light pink,
short and stubby-small, I guess, in one word. Maddeningly, disap-
pointingly small. The kind of penis where, if you brought a girl home,
she'd point and laugh, and if she let you put it in her at all, she'd make
insensitive jokes and complain about how it didn't "fill her up." It was
the kind of penis that would get you laughed at in the locker room or
the showers. The other guys can't help but look, no matter how hard
they try to avoid it-they're all curious, busy comparing, trying to figure
out the hierarchy of men, sorting out where they fit amongst the other
penises in the room. Needless to say,I was dead last in the running. This
was a trend that, somehow, seemed to follow me into every other area of
my life-last picked in gym class, of course, and never managed to get
dates, and terribly frightened of public speaking or doing anything that
could make me look like a fool. The other guys, the ones with the bigger
dicks, could just laugh off anything stupid they did, because they knew
that when they got home, they'd have a big dick to hold and nothing
else would matter. They could be as brash and arrogant as they wanted
around girls, and of course they'd get laid because they had the confi-
dence to get their feet through the door. They knew they could deliver
the goods atop the bed (or on the couch, in the car, and so on.) Also,
girls like schmucks. That's how I heard it, anyway.

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