SIPA — He was there when you walked in to the fourth floor restroom. You heard him peeing as you walked to the urinal at the other side of the room. Every drop he made could be heard echoing throughout the vast, empty restroom. You pulled out your instrument and joined him, an impromptu duet.
Halfway through your song, you heard him finish. And he stayed.
When you were finished a few seconds later, he was still there, standing, looking down. You shook yourself to make sure nothing remained. Maybe he was doing the same. Maybe he’s been standing there so long because his penis is massive. Maybe he’s been wringing out every last drop because there was just so much to work through. Like pushing out the last bit of toothpaste from a long tube, perhaps he was working incrementally, diligently, from the base to the tip. That must be it. He’s huge.
You can’t be emasculated by this guy. He’s got a ponytail, 1970s aviator glasses, and pink socks under his L. L. Bean boots. You stand at the urinal a bit longer, pretending to milk yourself like a cow locked in a pen. But you can’t bring yourself to it. This isn’t you. You’re not… big. You’re dry. There’s nothing left in you because, well, there wasn’t much there to begin with.
He won. You wash your hands in shame as he still stands at the urinal, running his hands across the entire length of his member. You exit the restroom, defeated by the big-penis man.
