All phrases I suspect were coined by men cursed with substandard penises.
Today I am in a better headspace regarding my endowment. If anyone were to ask, I would answer with, "Six inches even, and not particularly girthy, either." But back then I was embarrassed about it — and when I was embarrassed, I lied.
R.'s eyes did a funny thing when I said eight inches: they lit up, as though a tiny fire had been kindled in each iris. I wondered if I was in the presence of a size queen.
It seemed unlikely. I'd always felt certain I'd be able to spot a size queen: she'd be the rapacious, wild-eyed minx with blood-red lipstick and long harlequin fingernails. But maybe size queens took on the most innocuous guises — such as the pretty young woman sitting across from me. And who but a size queen would so boldly inquire as to a man's penis size in the first place?
The evening progressed, as did our drunkenness. We ended up at her place. R. fixed some drinks and we drank them and found ourselves making out on the sofa.
I realized my mistake: I'd told a lie that, if events advanced down their natural line, stood a 100% chance of discovery. It was like telling a podiatrist I had twelve toes before taking my socks off — an expectation I could not possibly fulfill.
My primal desires were in direct conflict with the desire not to expose my fraudulent diameters. I weighed the pros and cons and elected to continue forward with the following goals:
1. Get us into the bedroom with the lights off. If R. were to glimpse my unit in stark light, its shortcomings would be deathly apparent. But if she could only feel it . . .
2. Make sure I was as fully erect, as priapically tumescent as possible when she first laid hands upon me.With favorable lighting and obscure angles, I might temporarily pass for what I was not — like a dwarf with lifts in his shoes.
When I suggested we move things into the bedroom, she agreed. When I suggested we leave the lights off, she acquiesced. Unfortunately, her bedroom window bordered the street; a streetlamp glowed not twenty feet away. Fearful
She really was a size queen — and I was to be her latest conquest!
that she'd think me a prude or a predator if I insisted upon drawing the curtains, my only option was to deal with the unwelcome visibility.
"Let's get those pants off," R. growled, snatching at my trouser button.
She really was a size queen — and I was to be her latest conquest!
A bizarre vision sprung into my head: R sitting on an overstuffed leather chair in a dim oak-paneled room, bearskin rug on the floor and a roaring fire in the grate. A hunter's trophy chamber. R with a monocle socked over one eye, extolling her conquests to a young acolyte.
R: [pointing to a large plaster-of-paris penis mounted on a wall plaque] Now, my dear, that one was a wily devil. He led me on a merry chase, I don't mind telling you! But in the end I tamed him — he was no match for a Size Queen of my abilities. [pointing to my own penis, much smaller than the others] Sometimes the hunt isn't worth the bounty. You have to take your quarry at his word, but I'm afraid some men are frightful liars. That one I took purely for spite.
Then my pants were off, boxer shorts tugged down, and I was exposed. I performed the most vigorous Kegel of my life, pumping the silly thing full of as much blood as it could bear.
R. laid her hands upon me delicately, running her index finger from the base of my penis up over the head. And if her finger's journey was shorter than she'd been expecting, if she felt like a mountaineer who'd geared up to scale K2 only to find herself at the foot of a sand dune, well, her face did not register the disappointment. For which I was grateful.
The sex was good. By which I mean to say, good for me. Sex is always good for me, due to the simple fact it is sex, and I am having it. Sex with R. was doubly enjoyable, as my head was bobbing with twin euphorias: the euphoria at breaking my pitiful celibate streak paired with the compulsive liar's euphoria of getting away with one.
Or I should say, the sex was good up to a point.
The exact moment where things soured was after I'd fumbled myself into a condom — my back to R., in a pocket of shadow at the edge of the bed — and was attempting the awkward next step. A degree of finesse is required, especially the first time between two people; evidently I made a misstep because R. gritted her teeth and sucked air through them.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"It's just that . . . you're so big."
"I feel like I'm being probed by E.T.'s glowing finger. Except not as big."
Have you ever been to dinner at a friend's house and they've served something that you didn't fancy but ate out of courtesy? When asked how it tasted, you said, "Oh, really . . . good."
R's pause told me everything I needed to know. That pause was the moment when she considered telling me the truth before opting to spare my feelings.
I knew that pause. I used that pause all the time.
Things went downhill. My mind kept coming up with alternate endings to R.'s sentence:
"It's just that . . . it's like getting poked with a darning needle."
"It's just that . . . you're hung like a guitar string."
"It's just that . . . it's like a giant mosquito proboscis sucking all the vigor out of me."
"It's just that . . . I feel like I'm being probed by E.T.'s glowing finger. Except not as big."
Then, as with the majority of my sexual dalliances, it just . . . ended. We lay in bed together awhile, then I made an excuse about having to get up early the next morning. We saw each other a few more times before things fizzled, mainly due to my own apathy and shame. We resolved to be friends, though we've hardly spoken to one another since.
Of course, it's entirely my fault. I lost a good friend, and why? Because I fibbed about the length of my penis. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I am working to change. This admission is a baby step forward, but there are many more to be made. It's a slippery slope for the compulsive liar, but I am doing my best.
My name is Craig Davidson. I have a six-inch penis. And not particularly girthy, either.
But I do enjoy cuddling.
Actually, in all truth, I do not enjoy cuddling. At all. I'd rather just go to bed.
Kinda sucks being honest. n°
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Craig Davidson's stories have been published in The Fiddlehead, Event, Prairie Fire and SubTerrain. He also writes horror fiction under a pseudonym. Rust and Bone, his first book, was published this month. He lives in Calgary.
