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My phone buzzed, displaying a name I’d purged from my active memory: Max. We used to date, for a brief, almost embarrassing, period. That was, until I discovered just how minuscule his dick actually is. We’re talking the size of a chapstick tube, maybe even a used one at that. Our relationship, if you could even call it that, ended abruptly after I realized my needs were just going to gather dust, indefinitely.
His voice on the other end was a pathetic, wavering mess. He started apologizing, rambling about how he’d messed up, how he missed me, how he’d changed. He even dared to beg me to take him back. My mind, however, was already back in my apartment, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d actually have to fake it again. The answer was a definitive, resounding no. I can’t date a guy who is utterly incapable of satisfying me! And what did he mean by “changed”? Did he have a donor cock surgically attached to his tiny little weiner?