Not An Inch For The Queen

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A lonely guy and his shrinking penis.
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The last time I measured my penis a few years ago. I was still growing. I was a teenager. It was 6 inches. I figured by the age of 21 I could squeeze another 1/4 inch, possibly 1/2... 6 1/2. But that was a stretch.

Without girlfriend, without job, without life, I jerked-off all the time, mainly at night to pass the time. I slept during the day. At 2 in the morning I jerked-off to whatever. No money, no car, just me stroking to the sound of the clock ticking.

One boring night, like all the others, I jerked-off twice to a one, Jules Asner of E's News Daily around midnight. A somewhat prissy broad, but being on TV will do that, especially if you're a newscaster. Ironic though, Jules used to host E's Wild On. Everybody fucking in a smoke-filled club and dancing, covered only with paint, on some beach resort right in front of a complete stranger's camera and Jules would just stand there, making faces at some horny Greek's tits. Wouldn't join in. Never once got naked. She would drink her little mixed drink and maybe laugh, but never ripped off her tight island dress, revealing thumb-sized nipples of cherry and a tiny patch of luscious brown sod that matched her hair atop that 6-foot in shoes head, aching to be penetrated by a dark microphone and an overly tanned British tourist in La Hotel de Slutte of the French Rivera. But that's life! The hot ones who need to get nude and suck your dick just because you watched her show at 12 in the morning never do. It's always the same whores-- dyed blonde and turkey-skinned pussy. Not Jules, not the girl next door. She just gave the news with her shiny apricot lipstick, knee-highed boots to cover up those crossed poles of flesh, making faces, never knowing that losers whack-off to her. If she lived next door, I'd rape her... But I don't live in LA.

I found a can of Pepsi in my kitchen, about a few hours old, a tad flat. Brought it upstairs to my dirty room and drank it. My room, namely the pillows, smell like old ballsweat. They've been the only thing that has stayed the same in this ever-changing, but slow-paced, "life" I lead. Well, I don't lead it. I have no goddamn clue to what's happening. Things just happen and I wake up with something new to do or learn. I could just buy a new cleaner to absorb my ballsweat odor, but what's the point? It'll all come back anyway.

Drank another gulp and read a few stories. Bukowski. He was an author. He didn't give a dog's-cunt to what people said-- as long as he got his liquor. He was my mentor these past months, a little late though. My mind was already fucked through the ear from too much porn, real and animated women, my own shit floating in stagnant urine, bitchy teachers who think I'm offensive, and botched religions who say they understand and can help, but cast the first stone. And that stone normally hits me in the nuts.

Jesus bled from his head and side, I bleed from my "head" and left testicle. Some would like to have their cock swelled up like cucumber wrapped in pantyhose, but not me. It would only take more energy to get off from the toilet after crapping chunks of my self-confidence and my fading love for the world. And I need that energy to live. Plus, the big penis would go to waste. Nothing to stick it in besides from a stinky body-pillow folded in two.

I listened to some music. Fast. Heavy. Satanic. Kept me awake.

It was past 2:15AM. No more soda and the music ended. If I was going to get out of bed I wanted to make the most of it. I got up and dug through a bucket of random stuff on my dresser. I pulled out a protractor with a ruler etched on the bottom. Then I walked over to my VCR and popped in a bootleg copy of my father's only porno, "The Curse of the Catwman"(It wasn't about the "Batman" Catwoman). I laid in bed, got the sock I use to soak up my semen from under my bed, and pulled down my boxers to my ankles. The sock was the 5th one I've gone through since I started using them about a year and a half ago. It was crusty, yellowish-tan from old jizz stains and slightly moist in places from the Asner jerk-off that occurred a couple hours prior.

I turned on the TV and hit play. I was at the only female masturbation scene in the whole movie. It was 3/4 through it. Her clothes were off, except for the white, lacy panties she was using to pull up the crotch into the crevasse of her pussy. Grabbing her left breast with one hand and rubbing the lips of a beautiful vagina, beautiful in porno terms, compared to some ugly blender pussies (looks like they were grinded up) that you always see, with the other. Her body was wetter than her hole. Might've been fake sweat, I can never tell. Still her pussy wasn't that worked up. Maybe if she would've stuck a finger or two in it, perhaps it would've dripped, but clit-polishing and pube-pushing satisfied her. Hey, it satisfied me.

The actress, hmm, in the movie, hmm, reminded me of a lovely, heavenly girl I once knew, once loved, hmm. Jessica Queen. You can't make up a name like that. She was taller than me, but we didn't care, she wasn't tall enough to not be able to hold my hand or kiss me. Dark, thick eyebrows with long, thick brown hair and eyes to match. I love brunettes and for some reason she loved me too. Us never making anything of that was a tragedy. If I acted on our shared feelings maybe I wouldn't have been jerking-off alone at 2:30AM every night. But that's what makes a sorry life. You're not allowed to have it any other way.

I sometimes imagine that the actress, I don't know her name, is Jessica. I imagine Jessica masturbating on a bed, impulses and power of a cat, sweating and grunting, not fingering, just rubbing. I wish she was on my bed and that this was a show for me. Cumming for me. Ready to offer that celestial pink with an enraptured clump of mahogany, reflecting white from the light and my smile off the glaze.

I watched to the end of the scene, trying to build up an erection. I rewinded it to the beginning of the actress's solo. Oddly, I got a stiffy from watching her put back on her clothes. I was at maximum hardage. I stroked a tad to keep the length as I measured my penis with the protractor's ruler. It had been a while since the last size-up.

The protractor read 5 1/3. I squeezed harder for more blood to enter to get bigger, but nothing expanded. A below average 5 1/3 winked at me. What happened to my 6? I was missing 2/3 inches. I should have gotten more, should've been just the tiniest bit larger as I grew older, 18, my sexual peak, but my penis actually shrunk.

I quickly stroked-off. It was difficult in that state of mind, but I managed to jolt two times back to back. The skin was irritated from 4 jerks in 2 hours. The pain was all around, but not as much as the top of the urethra. I always squeezed too hard to get that second go of ejaculant.

I was pissed-off and confused about my size. I took a wiz, ate a granola bar, and went to sleep around 3:00AM. I just didn't know.

Two weeks later, jerking-off four times a night, every night to the same two things, Jules Asner and The Catwoman, always thinking about Jessica and my worthless life, with pain from worn away skin and a bruised urethra, I decided to measure again. I needed to know. I needed to feel somewhat good about myself. Maybe it would get bigger, it couldn't get any smaller, I thought.Sipped a Barq's rootbeer can, pulled down my uncleaned, week-old boxers aged for funkness, whipped out a new-old, holey sock, and hit play. I watched the actress tear off her blue sun dress and pull up those lacy panties in the valley of the lips. I worked it up to complete bonerage. I measured a 4 3/16. I tried and tried to get it bigger, but I got nothing. In fact, I think it went down to a 4 1/16, but that's uncertain.

I didn't jerk-off. I just stared at my shrinking penis. No, it wasn't getting limper and softer, it really was shrinking. Not before my eyes, but slowly like an 80 year-old man, as slow as a dying sun.

I wondered what could have caused it. I thought it was from the wearing away of the skin, but that only would've made it skinnier. I went over all the reasons, an hour worth of reasons. I then came up with a theory. My life sucked. My soul was decaying. Every time I jerked-off to Jules or the actress, thinking of how to improve my life with hypothetical situations which I should've done with Jessica, asking her out or telling her how I feel, instead of wallowing in a bed of sorrow and discharges, wasting away, not only mentally, but physically in the worst place, I ejaculated out little pieces of my soul in my cum. Every sperm carried tiny portions of my soul with every regretful thought I made. The more soul you got, the bigger your cock or breasts, depending if you're a woman or if you're fat, or how snug your pussy is. And my dead soul was dried up on a cotton beach on a blistering sunny day with Asner's tight ass making faces. I was slowly killing myself.

What did I do? Well, I planned to keep the same rigorous schedule, jerking with and off my soul to Jessica look-alikes until my parents find me dead in seasoned boxers with a powerful mix of cum and ballsweat flying off my body, bed, and pillow, naked with a copy of my father's porno playing, my right hand curled up, gripping nothing but a forgotten life where a penis used to be, and my left reaching for a soiled tube sock with golden stitches and large holes at the heel and toe. Why? I didn't care anymore. I had given up. Any chances of living a happy life with a 4 inch erect, and getting smaller, penis was over. I don't even think a prostitute would let me fuck her with that thing...

Do you think Jessica would come to my funeral? I think those odds don't measure up.

And with that hackneyed and pathetic pun enlaced in self-loathing...

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