I once dated a guy with a tiny penis*. He had a cute face and drove a BMW, so he wasn’t totally unfortunate. As one would expect of a tiny-penised man, his personality was rather dull. However, he called me “Babe” and I liked that.
The first time I saw the tiny penis, I was unfazed. We were a little drunk, and I just thought there was more work to be done to get the little fellow up and running. After 20 minutes of coaxing, I realized it was about as good as it was going to get. It was disappointing, but I went on a few more dates with him nonetheless. (I drove a 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera – can you blame me?)
When it came time for the sex, I braced myself for some serious magic tricks. Surely, he’d learned to work with what he’d been given. Wrong. It was about as exciting as inserting a tampon. And that’s when I knew that I could never, ever marry him. I could forgive his dull personality…and his vanity license plate…but the tiny peen was a no-go. I bid him adieu and never saw him again.
Forever the curious gal, I recently Googled him and much to my surprise, he’s married! Sure, I’m a little pissed that his wife is skinnier than me, but for the most part, I’m happy that he and his tiny penis have found companionship. To her, and what must be the world’s tiniest vagina, I offer a salute. You’ve done a good thing, M’lady.
*akin to the size of a pencil at the Lottery kiosk