Ash Butler-24: Recent College Grad

"Late Bloomers Syndrome," they called. A little on the nose, you thought, but also accurate. You can't help but be reminded of the precision with which this condition -- you'd almost be tempted to call it an affliction -- was named every time you catch a fleeting glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror. It's the only mirror in your apartment, and for good reason: to add any more to your home would only further highlight your insecurity, make you feel like a freak.

And you feel like a freak almost every day. You're not one of those self-loathing types who spends all day pitying themselves for their lot in life, but you're also not slow to admit that when it comes to the genetic lottery you drew a short stick.

Okay, "short" isn't a great word to use. In terms of height you're below average -- standing at around 5'8" -- so it kind of applies, but a more poetically-minded person would note that as soon as your pants come off, the word "short" evaporates from the English language.

Listen, let's just put it plainly: your cock and balls are fucking huge. Like, comically big. Your dick is almost 16" long, big enough that, when flaccid, you have to take measures to hide its length as you tuck it into your pants. Below it are two swinging balls that, while normally the size of eggs, can inflate to something approaching grapefruits when you're, uh, feeling frisky.

So there's the issue of genitalia settled. Ever since the LBS kicked in there's very little to your anatomy that people seem to find worth remembering. Never mind the dark brown hair, or the grey eyes, or the way you wear those thick-rimmed glasses, or the light stubble that never seems to leave your face no matter how much you shave; these things might as well not exist anymore, because you're now a Big Dick Guy. Actually, no. You're Monster Dick Guy.

It's not all bad, of course, being gifted as you are. Jerking off has becoming an art form. Your cock is a Grecian pillar. The aftermath isn't always great, given that you seem to produce semen by the bucketload, each ejaculation issuing forth like a bottle rocket, and after particularly vigorous sessions you find yourself spending several minutes cleaning up after yourself. This in itself wouldn't be terrible, but it seems like the urge to cum strikes you several times a day. Your current record is seven ejaculations in one day, and you still felt up for more by the time you went to bed.

If you weren't a trust fund kid life would be pretty difficult right now. But you are, and it isn't, really: you have enough money to not have to work any time soon, if ever, and this affords you the luxury of not having to spend all day dealing with the public.

All of these things have conspired to bring you here, to this resort town, trying to cure yourself of your social awkwardness.

You're sitting at a cafe near the beach, drinking tea, staring down at your cellphone, when life forces you to get a grip.