something behind the woodshed.

“This better be good; I can’t risk being late because of my wang again.”

“Eh, who gives a shit? Tardiness being the fault of your dick fucking rocks, dude. It’s like you’re physically too virile to bother learning math and bullshit like that. If you can’t use it to fuck or procure a fuck, then whatever, right?”

I felt fireworks in the back of my head and a falling sensation: Rick might genuinely be... y’know... “on my level.” Or at least something near it. It’s like my horniest thoughts were read-aloud to me.

But how the hell did I not know about it? He’s like a standard-bearer with that thing! I could probably get a police sketch done of it.

But I’ve never seen it bust, though. That’s the catch.

Rick gave a telltale crinkle from a condom package, and then unveiled his jacket.

If I didn’t have the context I have now, I would have thought he was trying to sell me overpriced condoms he stole from a pharmacy, but no! Those are ones he probably uses to relieve himself of excess pressure. I extend my hand, and he recoils.

“Nuh-uh, Mandingo. This shit sure as a fuckin’ sunrise won’t fit you,” explained Rick.

Ach! Stupid condoms! I shrink my hand back.

Ow! Stupid, scraping branches!

A tinge of the envy I have of our size difference returned. He could buy condoms. I can’t find any in my dimensions. They’re wide enough (sometimes), but they’re always too short. Maddening...

But not as mad as the sight before me. Little multicolored white-water balloons, some popped, some fresh based on the chlorine smell hanging in the air, speckled the thicket between our house and the neighbors. They were big, although one of my blasts alone could probably beat ten of Rick’s but the sheer number of them was astounding.

“And, now, since we’re being honest with each other, I gotta knock one out really quick. Number sixteen today,” he winked as he whipped out his pride and two joys.

Sixteen? Well, jeez. I do have rookie numbers. I was on number five, although bursting at the seams for a number six since breakfast.

“And for good measure, that chick I was texting? Already kept No. 1-5 as mementos,” he croaked before unloading “No. 16.” It certainly defied porn with how large the balloon became, but it was still minute compared to me.

And that’s when the rage set in. Two brothers, for some God-knows-what reason, positively jam-packed with enough cream to open an immoral pastry shop, with two large basters to match.

But Rick only had enough of the curse to still have a social life and be braggadocious without concern from doctors so long as he threw in a (off-)white lie or two. I beat him in length, girth, even output, and he’s got me beat solely in how often he beats off, which is aided by his (relatively) demure size.

I felt so angry...