My Perfect Man Had One “Small” Problem


Oh, boys. There is nothing more that I love in this life. Tall boys, funny boys, smart boys, bad boys. I appreciate ’em. I do have to say, I am a little picky when it comes to my men though. I can think you’re hot and all, but if I roll my eyes the second you open your mouth, I will move onto the next guy quicker than you can tell me your major. But when I find a guy, I have to be really into him.

So I found my guy of the moment. He’s tall, funny, smart, and looks like Uncle Jesse during his Full House days. He’s charming and makes me laugh at his classic dad jokes, even though I’ve heard them a million times. And I, being the free spirited girl I am, wanted to take the plunge below the belt. I bat my eyes, touch his thigh and whisper “let’s go upstairs.” Of course, being the horny frat guy that he is, grabs my hand and leads the way.

Kissing turns to touching. Things get heated and I pull an Amy Schumer in Trainwreck, and convince him that I will be so much more comfortable if he goes down on me. Then it’s my turn to return the favor before things kick into full gear. I pull his pants down, expecting something sizeable to perform my practiced skills on. The unimaginable happened. It was small, thin, and didn’t look so happy to see me. What do I do? Do I run? Fake sick from being too drunk? Cry? I decided to finish what I started with the easiest blow job of my life and politely turned down a “round two” so that we could get to the finale (the finale being sex, of course, if he could even do that).

He’s tall, funny, smart, and has a smile that makes me melt. But the boy has a plantain instead of a banana. So I ghosted him, like any respectable girl would do. A very disappointed girl. A very disappointed and displeased girl. He messaged me for weeks trying to get me to hangout, but somehow I am always busy.

Don’t make my mistake. Get out before its too late. Request nudes, measurements, and have him sign a contract stating that he is bigger than your minimum acceptable length. Ask your friends to take him for a spin first and report back, call his mom and ask if she knows, maybe even check hospital records (do they keep track of those things?). Do this before the image of golf pencils, gherkin pickles, and baby carrots dance in your head every time you step foot in your favorite fraternity basement. I wish you luck.

Image via Shutterstock

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