A friend and I were at a gay watering hole in the West Village the other night when we heard two guys at the bar buzzing my name.
So we went over and said hello.
One of the guys greeted us, then flitted away, obviously not that impressed.
The other one lingered, seeming to feel there was some sexual come-on going on here.
As part of his glittering conversation, he started bragging about his private parts.
“Wanna see?” he asked, pretending he really wanted an answer.
I didn’t, really; I’m a top, and besides, I didn’t want to be part of any scenario that could get this nice place in any trouble or cause it any aesthetic harm.
He pulled it out anyway. You can’t stop the meat.
I barely glanced down, but my friend did and assured me it would take a microscope to even make the thing visible.
Nope, this is not the kind of object you want to show in public.
(And don’t give me that “grower/shower” bit; even a year’s supply of growth hormones couldn’t make this appendage noticeable.)
“I have 11 inches!” the guy boasted with a slap happy grin.
“What happened to the other 10 3/4? Want to file a police report?” I wanted to ask, but generously stayed quiet.
“I’ve never bottomed,” he blurted, utterly unfazed by the lack of interest in his sexual life.
“Well, with stuff like that, you can’t exactly top,” I was dying to respond, but bit my tongue till it bled.
An awkward silence filled the air as I felt my own privates shrink to gnocchi-size.
And then my new best friend ultimately zipped it up and I vowed to never again say “Hi” to anyone.