Florence said, “He’s nice enough,
he’s got money, he's a doctor and all but he’s not a lot of fun. Worst of all his
dick is so small it’s like a button. I can’t do anything with it.”
“Like a button,” I say
unbelievingly, “you mean like this?” and I hold up my pinky to show her.
“No, Florence says, “more like the nail on your pinky. What am I supposed to do with that?”
I look at her in disbelief.
“Oh, I know he’s in love with me,”
she continues, “but I have to have something to work with.
“That is just too much to have it so small. Even rubbing on it can
do nothing at all. The first time I saw it I was shocked. If I weren’t a nicer
person I would have laughed. Maybe he could get a skin graft to enlarge it or
if he had some skill or craft, but all he’s got is that little button without a
shaft. I’m not a glutton for punishment so I can’t continue to see him no
matter how much he loves me. He calls me every day. I don’t know what to say.”
“Is it the same size when hard?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s no prize, a hard little penny he rubbed on my thighs. I
don’t want to see him anymore. I’m not shallow. I know the score, but what can
I say to him? Your dick is good for nothing, it’s too small?”
Although this conversation happened in 1998, I recall it like it was yesterday. It's strange how these conversations stay in our minds and replay themselves day after day, even long after the person who said it has passed away.
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