My dick is one inch long

My therapist is a prostitute. I pay her two hundred dollars. I strip naked and we talk about my dick. I make her look at it. My dick is so short I don’t even feel it in my hand when I jack off. It’s so short my orgasm feel like popping a pimple. I make the prostitute yell at my dick to grow. I just think it needs discipline. Growing up I was told to never touch it or feed it, so I think it stunted its growth. My dick can be very insecure. It hated gym in middle school. My dick has self esteem problems.

The last Wednesday of every month the Omega Bar has its strip contest worth $50. Intentionally it begins right after the shirtless men drink free from 10-11 p.m. I’d seen it hundreds of times. It’s not like I needed the money. Actually the drag queen begged me to participate. Well, she didn’t beg, just mentioned it in passing. Well she didn’t just mention it to me as she announced it on the microphone but I knew she was talking directing to me. I tried to play coy and shy, but after seeing the hundreds of inebriated rejects who obviously needed attention fail miserably. I convinced myself I could win. I could do a better job. I told myself I had nothing to lose. I told myself it would be great self-esteem for my dick.

In the contest, the person had to strip to their underwear in front a dick hungry crowd. It was a gay bar. They were all old and fat and hadn’t’ been laid since the Civil War. I knew they would stare. I knew they would outline the print, measure the inches by how far their tongues stuck out. I wasn’t trying to embarrass myself. I was making a statement. I was refusing any longer to feel ashamed. I was taking those pills they advertise a four in the morning and send to my email. It was as if everybody knew my dick was on one inch long.

Immediately, there was regret after I gave the DJ my name and picked out a song to take my clothes off in front of a group of strangers. Suddenly, I wasn’t drunk enough. The shirtless men drink free hour went by too quickly and I needed more liquid courage. I sprinted to the bar. I figured vodka always made me do stupid things, so I ordered vodka and cranberry and then another one, and then another and another one. My heart began to pound. I told myself I should have done those fifty sit-ups. I looked around the bar, at the strangers who would judge me, and they looked ravenous. On my fourth vodka and cranberry in less than 15 minutes, I heard my name. The drag queen had yelled my name like Grandma calling me in from the streets to eat dinner and get ready for bed. I wanted to back out, run the opposite direction. She called my name again. I lowered my head. And just when I decided to avoid a very awkward situation, the drag queen noticed me, pointed the light towards me, and commanded me to come to the stage. I felt trapped. I screamed in my head, “What the fuck did I agree to?”On stage with the lights shining directly in my face, on my body, I froze. I looked out in the crowd for a friendly face, but nothing but disappointing one-night stands, disses and misses, no friends. Nobody cheered me. I felt utterly alone and naked and I hadn’t started stripping. They started the song I handpicked. I closed my eyes. I tried to find a beat. I tugged at my shirt. I tried to remember scenes in movies and television, something I knew I could mimic, grab, hold on for dear life. I remembered “Footloose” where Kevin Bacon taught that idiot how to dance. I quickly realized that I was the idiot and was making a fool of myself. I knew I needed another movie, and thought about “Dirty Dancing” but I couldn’t figure if I wanted to play Patrick Swazee or Jennifer Grey. Next, I remembered Demi Moore in "Striptease" but I wasn’t so ambitious. Lastly, I remembered the tacky “Showgirls” with that “Save by the Bell” hooker Elizabeth Berkeley and knew I found my muse. I just needed to be as tacky and offensive as possible. So I took it off and folded it neatly like I worked at the Gap. I placed my clothes neatly on the side stage like undressing for a one-night stand, making sure to remember everything so I wouldn’t forget nothing when I woke and suddenly knew it was a bad decision. I got to my underwear. I could feel my dick retreat like the coward it was. I slapped my balls, felt the pain shot through my body like burning down the house to make sure my dick was could out to play. I teased the crowd. I figure I show them some ass, make them think of pussy, but I knew they all just wanted dick.

I shook my ass to Tina Turner “Rolling on the River.” Did I mention it was a gay bar? On stage, drowning in the bright light with no lifesaver was beginning to feel like a bad Lifetime movie. I felt my dick smash against my underwear like I just hit the brakes at a 100 mph and it came flying forward. The crowd just looked at me like they were all on painkillers and I was a freak in a cage at an insane asylum throwing himself against the walls. I kept dancing. I was spinning like Tina Turner, throwing my hands out in the air, playing with my nipples, hopping to get some damn attention. I tried to smile, so that the starving crowd figured me friendly and could be petted, tipped. I could tell they were bored and embarrassed for me. I could tell them the drag queen who shook her head thought she was going to have to take off her Judy Garland over the rainbow heels and put me out of my misery. I shook my ass, trying to get at least a smile or sign of life. I felt as panicked as a paramedic pumping on the chest of a geriatric yelling at him to live. LIVE DAMNIT!!

I played with the tip of my underwear. I stuck a finger in my ass. I straightened my socks. I crawled around on the floor like in that movie “Flashdance.” I did anything to live in that bright ass light. I’d watched so many drunks before on Wednesday night die miserly in that bright light and I thought they were just retarded. I thought it would be so easy to take off my clothes in front of strangers; after all, I’d done it so many times before. Two minutes into the song, I just wanted the nightmare to end. When I was just about to quit, storm off stage, I got my first fan. He shoved a dollar down my underwear, maybe out of pity. I could feel my eyes fill with tears. My dick was happy somebody liked him. The winter finally started to thaw but I felt tired going into the second minute of the song, clinging to my breath. I shook my ass. I bent over. I tugged at my underwear. I winked. I licked my nipples. I did a split. I begged in my eyes for the indifferent crowd to love me. To please love me! And all I got was four damn dollars.

The hardest four dollars I ever worked for in my life. Then it was over. The drag queen told the DJ to stop the music. She had had enough. She instructed me to pick up my clothes and exit the stage. I felt used. I felt like I just had sex with an entire group of men and didn’t get off. But yet as I put on my clothes in a dark corner, like I’ve done so many times in my life, I had no regrets. My hands shook as I button up my shirt because gallons of adrenaline were pumping through my veins. I felt exhilarating. Most importantly, I felt I was in a good place in my life. Years ago, I could have never done such a thing because I hadn’t accepted my dick. Now everybody had seen it. They saw the freak. It was only one inch long. It was no longer a secret. I felt free.
A hour later and many more drinks, I was back on stage and I knew I was going to lose, and not to the hot Latino with the “Jennifer Lopez” wide ass in his grandma underwear, but to Edgar, the lovable and lesser intelligent black Forest Gump with one arm. His song of choice, “Like a Virgin” by Madonna. The crowd cheered as the drunk Edgar started unbuttoning his jeans with his one arm, then in a very bold move he revealed that he wasn’t wearing underwear, in which of course the crowd immediately jeered, yelling for Edgar to keep his clothes on rather than take them off. He had already revealed too much, the head of what seem like a very large penis. It had the biggest dick I’d ever seen.

His dick made my dick look like one of his pubic hairs. Edgar, in his toothless grin, crawled around on the floor. They just threw dollars at him. He was like the big headed slow girl with big tits. He was Anna Nicole Smith. I felt so damn flat chest.

They quickly forgot about me and my naughty performance to Tina Turner’s “Rolling on the River.” They had forgotten how I shook my ass and did that Tina Turner dip and spin. I was going to lose.

When I awoke the next morning with the hangover, then memory, I just screamed in embarrassment. I felt something move in my bed, that’s when I turned to my left and it was Edgar. What the fuck! He was in my bed with that toothless grin; both of us naked, his big dick gently cuddle my small dick like it just had a baby. I knew I was going to have a lot to talk about to my prostitute therapist.