Thwump.

“What the hell was—?”

It was everything I hoped for, no, needed, and then some. Longer than the diameter of the paper plate, as tall as his bowl of cereal, and he couldn’t look away.

I don’t want too many people to know about my dick. I’ve looked at enough articles, and followed enough privated Instagram accounts to know about the cost of sex-related fame. Rick could handle fame: he’s too stupid to reflect upon and regret his life choices, so he would probably wind up famous on accident without his namesake.

I envy him. His body isn’t a result of a Hox gene gone AWOL like mine. His cock is proportionate, even if a tad on the soda can side of the spectrum, with his jacked physique. Give me a fox-eared headband and you could find me and my dainty ass on some erotic art website. Give Rick that headband and he’d start flexing like he’s holding the world together. He also would brag about an artist using his likeness in porn, teasing the artist for their fetishes in the same breath. It was so... powerful... confident...

It was big dick energy. But I had some too, even if a bit overwhelming. I just needed enough tact to harness it, if even for one breakfast.

“Holy shit, Tim. How have you been keeping that shit under wraps?”

“I don’t know, I just can’t hide it anymore. It’s too... demanding,” I sigh, throwing in two kegels for good measure.

“I think I know what you mean,” he interrupts.

I’m doubtful as all get out. “Really? You need to come thirty times a day to stay sane?”

Rick smirks. “Rookie numbers. Follow me,” he motions me to the backyard. I follow him out the back door, after cramming my plight back into my pants, of course.