by Bar Katz
(01/12/05)

God help me, I broke up with micro-penis. Here's how it all started.

I've always had the best of everything. Apartments, make-up, clothing, education, and dick. And as everyone knows, once you've had a huge apartment, you cannot happily move back to a little one.

Tom Crowley had the biggest dick ever. As dick goes, his was like living in the fucking Dakota. And it wasn't weird looking, like some big dicks get. The head was in nice proportion to the shaft, which was veiny enough to be rugged, but not veiny enough to be sci-fi looking. He had nice-sized balls too, not sloppy but big enough so that when he was on top, I got the nice perk of a little anus-slap. Did I mention I was a rabbi? Ok, I'm not a rabbi, but my mother used to have this thing where whenever she said something inappropriate she would follow it up by saying "Did I mention I'm a rabbi?" Of course my mother's range for inappropriateness never extended to the words "dick," "anus," or "veiny."

I loved his dick when I first saw it. It was like a work of art. I almost felt bad fucking it, I mean, you don't go sticking the Mona Lisa in your pussy.

As has happened frequently for the Jewish people, the trouble started on Yom Kippur. It was the morning of the most solemn day of the Jewish year and I was blowing him before schul. He'd reached the point where he was close to coming, so, knowing it was all downhill from there, I went on autopilot and let my mind wander; what was I going to wear? Back in the shtetl, was this how my bubbe would spend Yom Kippur morning? Is cheesecake Atkins approved?

I thought about how I was going to spend the day atoning for the past year's sins. I wondered if sucking gentile cock on Yom Kippur morning counted as the past year's sin or went into the upcoming year's tally. Note to self: after Tom comes, check Talmud.

Anyway, my reverie was interrupted when, by a series of grunts and headgrabs, he informed me that "Oh baby, yes! I'm..." Well, you know the shit they babble. I got ready to swallow when I suddenly remember I'm fasting. I started pulling my head back, but as I did, he pulled it forward again, so I pulled it back and he pulled it forward. It was a struggle, which I won. Traditionally in any battle, the person who has the other person's penis in their mouth has the advantage.

During the scuffle I must have accidentally nicked his penis with a tooth. You would think from the way he was moaning that I had cut the whole thing off. It was barely bleeding. "I'm scarred," he shrieked. So trying to make him feel better, I said that a little scar would add character. "Who wants a penis to have character?" he yelled at me. In acting terms, his penis had been Robert Redford, and now he had a little Steve Buscemi going. To add insult to his injury, he wanted me to finish blowing him! A guy could be on his death bed, and if he had a hard on, he'd give you the old "blue balls" speech. He says to me, "Keep away from the cut. Just suck the head." I'm speechless for all of ten seconds, in which time I thought about how relaxing it would be to be a lesbian. I look at my watch. I'm late for synagogue. I look at Tom. He has that look on his face that tells me I'm thirty seconds away from getting the blue ball speech. I know how guys are; if I rush off to synagogue now without doing it, a new anti-Semite will be born. So, sucking it up, so to speak, for my people, and careful to only suck the head, I perform my first mitzvah of the New Year.

The bastard broke up with me anyway. I was devastated, but my best friend Emily's words truly summed up how I was feeling; "You'll never find a dick like that again." And I realized that she was right. Chances were that no matter what, I was about to downgrade to a studio. I was devastated. And that's when I got the idea. If I couldn't have the biggest dick, I'd have the smallest.

My friends all thought it was a lousy idea, but what the hell did they know. None of them knew what it was to always demand the best. I also thought that this could be seen as a feminist act. Referring to sex, a boyfriend once told me that I fit him like a glove. I didn't appreciate the comparison. A glove is all surface. It is something defined by what enters it. It's only something that exists to be filled. Well, that's not me. I can not be filled. I'm a bottomless void, I'm an endless tunnel, I'm...I'm bad at post-modern vagina metaphors.

I asked everyone I knew about where they thought I could find the smallest penis. Everyone had stories, but I wasn't looking for just any four-inch-when-erect penis. I didn't want something that was merely small and slightly embarrassing. I wanted the smallest.

After a couple weeks of searching and sifting through rumors and third-hand stories, anecdotal sightings, urban legends, my quest began to take on mythical dimensions. I was actually on a major quest, like the Hobbits with the ring or knights of the crusades looking for the Holy Grail. Sure, looking for a micro-penis doesn't have the prestige of a Holy Grail search, but I enjoy the simile.

Finally I had a name and a number. I'm going to call him only Mr. R., because that makes it a bit mysterious and Poe and Kafka-like. Also, I don't want him to sue me for telling everybody he had a micro-penis.

I called Mr. R. up and made up some stupid reason why and how I got his number, though nothing close to as stupid as the real reason. Then I asked him out. But before he committed, he wanted to know what I looked like! He was a picky little micro-dick. We met at an Italian restaurant in Soho for dinner. I was amazed at how good-looking he was, and charming, though I was having trouble concentrating on dinner conversation; I was dying to see it. I was doing my best to get him hammered. Now I know how guys feel; I couldn't bear the thought of having to wait until a second date to get into his pants.

Back at my place, he kissed me, and I took the opening and went straight for zipper. "Hold on." He said. "I'd like to see a little more of you first." Me! I have two tits and an average-size pussy. Let's get to you, freak! I wanted to yell out, but I did go to Dalton.

Well, I finally got his pants off, and I have to say, it was worth the wait. How small was it? Okay, women out there...look at your pinkie. Now imagine it 1/3rd smaller. Now picture it with balls. His penis was so small, that even if it were on a squirrel or something, the first thing you'd say seeing it would be, "Boy, that squirrel has a tiny penis." Actually, maybe that would be the second thing, the first being, "What the hell is a human penis doing on that squirrel?" But you get the idea.

As I looked at that homunculus size erect penis I thought about some of Henry Miller's more demeaning sexual descriptions; how he would "impale" women or "harpoon" them, or how a woman would "dangle like meat" on his cock. Well, there would be no dangling or harpooning here, unless it was a cocktail olive.

I studied his face, waiting for a look of shame and/or embarrassment, but he was so proud of that little penis you would have thought it scored 1600 on its SAT's. Then the oddest thing happened; I got really turned on. I wanted him to fuck me, though for all I knew he could have already been fucking me.

Mr. R. puts it in and starts moving back and forth with little micro-thrusts and I'll be damned if it didn't feel great. His little micro-penis was hitting some part of my pussy that all the average to big cocks somehow miss. This small, neglected, but clearly vital spot was getting the shit fucked out of it. I was well on my way to what promised to be the best orgasm of my life. Then he said, "You like that? You like that?! You like how I fuck that big ole pussy of yours?" I'm thinking to myself, Excuse me, my pussy is not "big ole." It's only next to your micro-penis that the illusion of "big ole pussyhood" is created. But by that time I was too busy shrieking in orgasm to get didactic.

Afterwards Mr. R. and I rested quietly in each other's arms. He glanced down at his now-flaccid "manhood." He said, "It's funny how much less threatening it looks flaccid." Like I was in danger of being beaten to death with it when it was erect. But beaten me it had. I was taken. I was enthralled. I broke up with him three weeks later.

I'm not proud of my reasons. Ironically, it was my own self-esteem issues. I could be speaking to my friends about him, telling them some small story, but all they could talk about was the size issue. No matter what I did or said about him, and all the many other things he had going, it all came back to that. I thought to myself, at my son's Bar Mitzvah, do I want everyone congregating at the caviar bar to discuss his father's micro-penis?

You can't break up with Mr. R., he has a beautiful soul, I thought. But then I wondered if his soul also had a micro-penis. I guess I was as hung up on "hungness" as everyone else.

So I ended it. He looked up at me, big brown eyes welling with tears, and he said, "Can I ask you one thing?"

"Sure." I said.

"Just tell me why you always call me Mr. R.?"

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