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| There are those moments when, for some unknown reason, my penis seems to look much larger in its flaccid state than it normally does. This isn’t something that happens very often, and I’ve had other men tell me that they have the same thing happen to them sometimes; so, it isn’t unique to me. It’s as if Junior is filled with blood, though stays floppy. There’s a certain amount of pride that comes with looking down at your limp penis and seeing that it is the size that it would normally be only while erect. He-he, pride indeed! At any rate, I was out and about today, and I visited a public restroom. I could feel that I was “hanging well” before entering the restroom, but I hadn’t realized how well I was hanging. I decided to take advantage of this rare occasion. I stood about a foot from the urinal, placed my hands at my hips, and maneuvered my body in a way that allowed me to piss on the sad little clump of freshener—forever failing at its job—hoping that another guy would walk in and see the meat I was sporting. I waited. Pissed. Waited. No one came. After realizing that I was going to be the only spectator of this most magnificent penile anomaly, I decided to bag up my unusually large luggage and leave the facilities—feeling the loss of not being able to win that secret contest that is constantly going on in public restrooms everywhere. Feeling the loss of not having it recognized that I have the biggest dick in the bathroom. Of course, the penile anomaly was giving a false impression—I’m definitely not hung—but an impression I would’ve had no problems with sharing with others. Leaving the restroom, bereft of the moment, I started to leave the building (I had been walking around in the building for quite some time before entering the restroom looking for a poster or sign to give me some direction or information about something I was needing to know about). A few steps out of the restroom, I realized that my fly was down. I stopped where I was and zipped up. I noticed a small group of people standing a few feet away, two females and one or two females, all black. They all saw me zipping up my fly. Not wanting to waste the opportunity of showing off, I gave my pack a good grab, readjusting my willy wonka, pulling it away from the chocolate factory and leaving it at rest 9:00, as if to underline my right front pocket. I thought to myself: Did they notice? The answer to that thought came quickly. As I turned left to head down the corridor, I heard one of the women say (loud enough that I think she wanted me to hear), “Damn, white boy packin!” Elated, I pulled up one of my pant legs and began to walk with a limp. Okay, I didn’t really do that. But I did walk with an air of added confidence . . . until I got to the door that would lead me out of the building. Out of the warm building and into the fucking freezing snowy outside. Yes, yes . . . it was cold—very cold. Men, my fellow males, you and I know what happens to our Patriot Missile when it gets cold. It transforms into a blue headed turtle.* That is, it shrivels. Well, I’m the kind of person that suffers from significant shrinkage. It can be extreme. Facing that extreme shrinkage, I felt a tear well up in my left eye. As I opened the door and I felt it shrink (boy did it shrink), that tear spilled over the edge of my lid and began its lonely trek down my cheek, until it became forever lost in a plume of coarse hair on my chin. Accepting things as they were, I decided to face the day with my chin up and my chest out. I marched my way through the freezing wind and little pelting balls of ice. Chin up, chest out, testicles snug in a tight wrapping of shriveled ball-sack flesh, and my frozen one and a half-incher huddled in a flap of loose, wrinkly skin—almost vanishing into a forest of pubic hair. I did not let the transformation of my big floppy dick into a baby-peewee ruin my day, oh no. Never! *sometimes the turtle has a white-ish head. |