Just Me And My Micropenis

by Ian on May 17, 2011

by Frank Greasestain

Frank Greasestain was born. Soon he will die. Now he lives. He maintains a website where you can read his story “Chicken Breath,” among others.


“You know, before I get started with girls, I ask them, ‘you like it with skin on or skin off?’” and Roy started cracking up with the dried white saliva blowing with the air escaping his mouth. He could barely breathe.
I sat there in complete non-understanding.
He noticed the blank look on my face and asked, “You don’t get it?”
“I get it,” I said with no confidence in my voice.
“You don’t get it. It’s because I’m an anteater!”
“Ohhhhh,” I tried to fake ‘getting it.’
“I’m not circumcised.”
“Oh!” I got it. I turned my face toward the floor. I couldn’t even tell if I was circumcised or uncircumcised. I was born with a micropenis.

Doctors usually give parents the option of keeping a perpetually virginal boy or constructing a fake vagina. Men usually don’t care about the size of vaginas. They’re just happy to be invited in. You can’t even get your foot in the door with a micropenis. My parents were fundamentalists and of course it was God’s will for me to have nothing but a slightly oversized clit hanging (Ha! If only it were big enough to hang!) above a normal sized ball sack.
I was made from mud. It was meant to be. God damn you, God.

When I get embarrassed, like I was now discussing Roy’s sexual exploits, my penis shrinks even further into my body. Sometimes I worry it’ll never come back. This was one of those times. I had a slight panic attack in my mind but no one could ever tell. My palms were sweating.
“You alright, Mike?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
Fine? I couldn’t even masturbate.
“You’re not fine, bro. What’s wrong?”
For some stupid reason, I felt like telling the truth.
“I’ve never had sex. I’ve never even masturbated.”
“You gay, dude?”
“No. I just physically can’t. Never mind. It’s no big deal.”
It truly was no big deal. Language has a way of hanging us.
“What, Mike, you got a little Vienna Sausage? As long as it can crack the curtains, it can jump through the window if you know what I mean!” He slapped me on the back seeking approval of his joke. A Vienna Sausage would be great but I could hardly claim a Lil Beef Smokey.

We were at McDonald’s and after large Cokes, we both had to piss. So we went to the pissers.
I can’t stand directly next to anyone while pissing when there are no dividing stalls. I sputter start and then I worry someone’s sizing me up in comparison to theirs. It really, really bothers me. But there we were. Some fat ass was in the pooper and there were only two stalls, side by side, one for kids and one for adults. If I didn’t piss, it’d raise suspicion. So I went next to Roy and ‘flopped’ my ‘Johnson’ (what’s diminutive for Johnson?) out of my boxers.
I heard a loud stream hitting the urinal cake to my left. People must size each other up by the loudness of their streams in public. This thought meant I wouldn’t piss.
“Ain’t you going to piss, man?” Roy turned and looked right at my left ear.
“Not when you’re looking at me like that,” I said.
“What you got a shy bladder?”
I ignored the question.
“Holy shit, man! Look at the size of your willy!”
My penis, again, tried to escape inside my body making my situation all the more laughable.
I quickly zipped up my jeans with no fear of getting my dick caught and ripped off.
A penis isn’t a wart you can wish away.
I stormed out of the bathroom and to my car. We drove together to McDonald’s but fuck him.

I sat at a park and watched lovers hold hands, high school kids with their backpacks on their fronts to cover their boners. A trick I knew of but never used. Roy texted me and told me to tie a string around my dick and weight it down with something.
“It’s sure to stretch,” he said. “I read it on the internet.”
He had no idea how hard it was to tie a knot around a micropenis. Almost impossible. I’ve tried. I’d even thought about cutting of the blood supply with a string like some people do with warts and skin tags and my dick would just shrivel up, die, and fall off eventually. The key is being able to tie a string around it though. I had no hope. And I’d have to move to a new state for a vagina and start all over. It was useless.

When I got home, my mom was cooking breakfast for dinner. I loved breakfast for dinner.
“We’re making bacon!” she smiled as I stormed in.
“Fuck you!” I yelled at her and stomped to my room.
“This is my house! Don’t you dare speak to me like that!”
“You ruined my life!”
“I gave you life!”
“Thanks!” and I slammed the door. I went to my bed and stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep.
I dreamed I was walking down a long hall with brown carpeting, white walls, and kitsch paintings of flowers placed at perfect intervals. The hall only got longer as I kept walking. My little penis started stretching like the Unstoppable Stretch Armstrong toy. It got longer and longer and started to drag behind me. I could feel bugs crawling all over it and lint and dust clinging to it. I started to itch. It was terrifying.

I woke up and grabbed for my dick. The smell of bacon crept through the air conditioning vents in my room. The pimple above my ball sack was still there. I walked out of my room toward the kitchen table.
“Sorry, mom,” I said. I grabbed for some bacon. She never made sausage. Or hot dogs. She was a considerate woman.
“It’s okay.”
“Why couldn’t you guys just agree to give me a pussy? I would have never known the damn difference.”
“You’re just as God made you.”

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