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1: Dick Length
2: Dick Girth
3: The rest of the other features
2: Dick Girth
3: The rest of the other features
Comprehensive list of the most dimorphic male traits in order, to end all the copes about masculinity once and for all.
D
Deleted member 4362
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Oh you thought I was gonna put effort into a thread 
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its fine, i will do it for youOh you thought I was gonna put effort into a thread
THE STORY OF THE MISALIGNED SPINAL COLUMN
BY RODGER DODGER
BY RODGER DODGER
Long ago there was a man who had a twisted back. Nobody could crack it and many feared it might snap. He sent out the best of talent seekers to find the best crackers in his domain but alas, nobody could help him. Soon his condition worsened and when he lay on his deathbed, his lords surrounded him, waiting for him to name a successor.
His personal doctor put his ear close to the mouth of the dying man, ragged chain ratting breaths foretold of death.
"Ugh, fuck all of you, sycophant bastards..." he was gone.
The doctor rose, looked in the congregation. A dozen dozen eyes rested on him eager, some already polishing the hilt of their swords. Whatever the answer might be, there would be blood.
He sighed and looked out the window where morning was finally dawning.
"Where is Sigismund?" he spoke faintly.
Murmurs erupted and chainmail rustled. This was not what they had expected.
Sir Reginald spoke up first.
"With all respect my dear medicus, not to tarnish the reputation of your high office, but... are you sure that is what you heard? Sigismund? The bastard from across the mountains? He is not a Knight, nor a warrior, less than a beast even, if the legends are to be believed."
The doctor turned and without as much as glancing at the congregation, leaned over and closed the dead mans eyes.
"Go. Find him. That is all."
When the room had emptied, he pulled a small vile from his bag. He felt like using it now. His masters had taught him of occasions like this, he was not supposed to... he was just a servant, subject to the requirements of the service.
He put the poison back in its bag.
Time would tell. It always did.
His personal doctor put his ear close to the mouth of the dying man, ragged chain ratting breaths foretold of death.
"Ugh, fuck all of you, sycophant bastards..." he was gone.
The doctor rose, looked in the congregation. A dozen dozen eyes rested on him eager, some already polishing the hilt of their swords. Whatever the answer might be, there would be blood.
He sighed and looked out the window where morning was finally dawning.
"Where is Sigismund?" he spoke faintly.
Murmurs erupted and chainmail rustled. This was not what they had expected.
Sir Reginald spoke up first.
"With all respect my dear medicus, not to tarnish the reputation of your high office, but... are you sure that is what you heard? Sigismund? The bastard from across the mountains? He is not a Knight, nor a warrior, less than a beast even, if the legends are to be believed."
The doctor turned and without as much as glancing at the congregation, leaned over and closed the dead mans eyes.
"Go. Find him. That is all."
When the room had emptied, he pulled a small vile from his bag. He felt like using it now. His masters had taught him of occasions like this, he was not supposed to... he was just a servant, subject to the requirements of the service.
He put the poison back in its bag.
Time would tell. It always did.
