Many moons ago I was ShazamLA, Pasadena specifically.  I worked in a bar/pool hall/restaurant where I had the opportunity to meet many men (including the Ex).  I was a host so it was my job to greet the customers, play music (if I never hear “Hotel California” again, I’ll be fine), and take people to their pool tables to rack their balls (insert ball joke here).  Yes, I did rack the balls in such a way that my own rack did a bit of a dance.  Hey, my tits are nice and I liked getting tips–don’t judge me.


When I was at my station there was plenty of opportunity for guys to chat me up–I couldn’t go anywhere.  Sadly, the conversations were all very similar.  Because it was LA I was always asked what else I do, I think because they assumed I’d say I was an aspiring actress.  I was not.  I was attending junior college (I believe the same one that James Deen–swoon–also attended, albeit many years later.) and often studied during my down time at work.  The studying allowed for more questions, all lame. Sometimes I chatted just to entertain myself.  Horny drunk guys can used for entertainment purposes, then as now.

One guy I met was a cool rockabilly type.  Up to that point he was the only guy I’d dated/fucked who had more tattoos than me.  Not on purpose, that’s just the way it worked out.  Along with having a full sleeve, he also had a cool car (the make and model of which I have no damn clue), and greased hair.  Through our conversations I learned that both of his parents were deaf so he knew sign language, which is so interesting.  We got along very well.

He came over to my place and we watched a movie on my little 13″ Montgomery Ward tv (I still  have it, in my bedroom).  We started making out.  I’ll admit I was worried for my sheets because of his hair grease, but apparently he didn’t overdo it and the sheets were fine.  He was a VERY good kisser.  I can kiss for hours, and that’s not just something I say.  I really can kiss and kiss and kiss.

During make-out sessions there are, of course, opportunities to show off one’s hip-action skills.  A good dry humper is usually also a good fucker.  He was very good.  I was having a lovely time, though I did have to avoid running my fingers through his hair for fear I’d mess up the ‘do, and get all greasy.

Things progressed.  Back then I was much less sure of myself in general and much less comfortable with penises in particular.  My style was closed eyes and opened legs.  I feel quite bad for the guys I fucked back then.  Maybe I should offer them a repeat to protect my reputation ….

Anyway, we fucked.  I think.  He certainly acted like he was fucking me.  I, however, couldn’t feel a thing.  NOTHING.  Again, this was a while ago.  My pussy now can, and does, accommodate large objects, both flesh and toy.  My sex toy arsenal back then consisted of ONE rather average-sized dildo and, well, that was it. (Can there be an arsenal of one?)

Nonetheless, I simply could not feel his penis in my pussy.  He finished and left.  It was then that things began to make sense.  He had told me the last woman he’d fucked had simply faded away; that he had liked her and had wanted to see her again, but that she never called him after the sex.  Because there was no point in having sex with this guy more than once.  Back then I worried a lot about what others thought of me, so I was concerned about diplomatically cutting this guy loose.  I had no interest in pretending to feel that thing in me a second time.

I needed advice from my friends on how to deal with this guy.  I talked to my coworkers the next time I went in to work.  I told them that we’d had sex but I could not feel a thing.  They were incredulous–no penis is THAT small.  Yes, sadly, it was that small.  How small?  Trying to put it into perspective, I looked at objects around the bar and saw a roll of Life Savers Candy®.  “That size,” I said, pointing it out.  No joke.  Just as I was telling yet another coworker my–well, his–sad story, in he walked.

I was stuck at my work station and he went off to do what tiny-dicked guys do at bars.  Apparently, that is making out with the woman he’s not supposedly dating in front of the coworkers of the woman he is supposedly dating. A coworker was nice enough to report to me that he was out on the bar’s patio sucking face with someone, not me.

Wha?!  I was upset, but not that he was making out with someone else, because that was exactly what I needed to get out of the “relationship.”  But why did he have to make out with someone at my place of work, while I was on shift, and in front of my coworkers?  I looked like the fool, when the truth was he was packing a minuscule excuse for a penis.

So I played a song and dedicated it to him: the (unfortunately) edited version of “Short Dick Man”.  Never saw him again.

I swear.  True Story.