shredded4summer
dnr busy slaying
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Cursed by the Meat
I was fifteen when I first realized something was wrong. Not wrong in a medical sense—at least, not technically—but wrong in the way that made life harder. The kind of wrong that made things unfair.
It happened in gym class. We had just finished running laps, and I was in the locker room, changing like everyone else. I wasn’t paying attention to anything around me, just pulling my shorts off when I heard the first snicker. Then another.
"Dude… look at that thing."
I turned, confused, and suddenly, a dozen pairs of eyes were locked onto my lower half. Some were wide with disbelief, others with amusement. But the one that hurt the most was pure disgust.
Jason, one of the popular guys, leaned in, eyes narrowing before he made his judgment. "What the hell, man? That ain't normal."
I froze, feeling the heat rise to my face. I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t asked for this. But now I was standing there, my entire existence reduced to some freakish spectacle. I yanked my gym shorts up and turned away, heart pounding. Maybe they’d forget about it. Maybe it was just a stupid moment that would pass.
But high school doesn’t forget. And high school never lets things pass.
At first, it was just whispers. "Have you heard about him?" "Nah, there’s no way, that’s impossible." Then, the nicknames started. "Tripod." "Baby Arm." "Meat Mountain." "Subway Footlong (but actually 14 inches)."
Some of them laughed when they said it, treating it like a joke. Others acted like it was some kind of mythical curse. But the worst part? The way girls reacted.
Some were disgusted, the way you'd react if you saw a spider too big to exist. Others were… interested, but not in the way that made me feel like a person. I wasn’t a guy anymore. I was a thing. A curiosity. A test of limits. "I just want to see it." "I bet it’s not even real." "I dare you to show me."
The ones who didn’t see me as an experiment avoided me entirely. I heard them whispering. "Imagine trying to do it with that. You’d get split in half." "It’d probably hurt like hell." "No way, not even if he was the last guy on earth."
I was fifteen. I hadn’t even kissed a girl yet, and somehow, I was already being rejected for things I never even had the chance to do.
By the time I was seventeen, I had given up on dating. What was the point? Every girl who got close to me either backed out the second they realized or stuck around just long enough to confirm the rumors were true before ghosting me.
Rachel was the worst.
She was beautiful. Funny. Smart. And for a while, I actually thought she liked me. We talked for months, and I started to believe maybe, just maybe, I had found someone who saw me as more than just a walking punchline.
Then one night, we were alone, and things started to get heated. I was nervous—of course I was—but I wanted to believe this time would be different. That she wasn’t like the others. That she actually liked me.
But the second she saw it, she pulled away. "Oh… I can’t."
Her voice was small, almost apologetic. But it didn’t matter. I knew what was coming. I had heard it before.
"I just don’t think it’ll work," she said, avoiding my eyes.
I nodded like I understood. Like it didn’t hurt. But inside, something cracked. She left, and I sat there alone, staring at myself in the mirror, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do.
By senior year, I had resigned myself to being a joke. If I couldn’t change it, I might as well lean into it, right? So when someone started calling me "2L Pepsi" after a party rumor got out of control, I didn’t even fight it.
"Yo, 2L! How do you even walk?"
"Bet you pass out when you get hard, bro."
"Is it true you have to wear two pairs of underwear just to keep it down?"
I laughed along. What else could I do? If I acted like it bothered me, they’d never stop. So I played along, pretended it was funny, acted like it was some kind of blessing.
But it wasn’t.
No one talks about the downsides of it. The way you can’t wear sweatpants without people noticing. The way you have to be careful about how you sit. The way random guys feel entitled to ask about it like it’s some public property.
And worst of all? The loneliness.
People think it’s some golden ticket to an easy life. That women throw themselves at you, that you’re automatically some god-tier alpha male. But the truth? It isolates you. It turns you into a spectacle. You’re not a person anymore—you’re just a talking point.
I tried everything to downplay it. Wearing baggier clothes. Sitting with my legs crossed. Even considering surgery at one point. But when I asked a doctor about it, he laughed in my face.
"People would kill to have your problem."
Would they? Would they really?
By the time I hit college, I had given up on the idea of romance. What was the point? Every girl either saw me as a challenge or a freak. And at the end of the day, no one wanted to deal with it long-term.
One-night stands? Sure, if I was lucky enough to find someone drunk and reckless enough to try. But that never ended well. They either bailed halfway through or suffered through it and never spoke to me again.
It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t exciting. It was just… depressing.
And the worst part? I couldn’t even talk about it. What was I supposed to say? "Hey, my life is hard because my dick is too big"? No one wants to hear that. No one cares.
So I just kept it in. Kept pretending. Kept laughing at the jokes, playing along, acting like it didn’t hurt every time someone turned me into a punchline.
But at night, when I was alone, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder…
What would it be like to just be normal?
To just be a guy, and not some oversized curiosity?
I guess I’ll never know.
I was fifteen when I first realized something was wrong. Not wrong in a medical sense—at least, not technically—but wrong in the way that made life harder. The kind of wrong that made things unfair.
It happened in gym class. We had just finished running laps, and I was in the locker room, changing like everyone else. I wasn’t paying attention to anything around me, just pulling my shorts off when I heard the first snicker. Then another.
"Dude… look at that thing."
I turned, confused, and suddenly, a dozen pairs of eyes were locked onto my lower half. Some were wide with disbelief, others with amusement. But the one that hurt the most was pure disgust.
Jason, one of the popular guys, leaned in, eyes narrowing before he made his judgment. "What the hell, man? That ain't normal."
I froze, feeling the heat rise to my face. I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t asked for this. But now I was standing there, my entire existence reduced to some freakish spectacle. I yanked my gym shorts up and turned away, heart pounding. Maybe they’d forget about it. Maybe it was just a stupid moment that would pass.
But high school doesn’t forget. And high school never lets things pass.
At first, it was just whispers. "Have you heard about him?" "Nah, there’s no way, that’s impossible." Then, the nicknames started. "Tripod." "Baby Arm." "Meat Mountain." "Subway Footlong (but actually 14 inches)."
Some of them laughed when they said it, treating it like a joke. Others acted like it was some kind of mythical curse. But the worst part? The way girls reacted.
Some were disgusted, the way you'd react if you saw a spider too big to exist. Others were… interested, but not in the way that made me feel like a person. I wasn’t a guy anymore. I was a thing. A curiosity. A test of limits. "I just want to see it." "I bet it’s not even real." "I dare you to show me."
The ones who didn’t see me as an experiment avoided me entirely. I heard them whispering. "Imagine trying to do it with that. You’d get split in half." "It’d probably hurt like hell." "No way, not even if he was the last guy on earth."
I was fifteen. I hadn’t even kissed a girl yet, and somehow, I was already being rejected for things I never even had the chance to do.
By the time I was seventeen, I had given up on dating. What was the point? Every girl who got close to me either backed out the second they realized or stuck around just long enough to confirm the rumors were true before ghosting me.
Rachel was the worst.
She was beautiful. Funny. Smart. And for a while, I actually thought she liked me. We talked for months, and I started to believe maybe, just maybe, I had found someone who saw me as more than just a walking punchline.
Then one night, we were alone, and things started to get heated. I was nervous—of course I was—but I wanted to believe this time would be different. That she wasn’t like the others. That she actually liked me.
But the second she saw it, she pulled away. "Oh… I can’t."
Her voice was small, almost apologetic. But it didn’t matter. I knew what was coming. I had heard it before.
"I just don’t think it’ll work," she said, avoiding my eyes.
I nodded like I understood. Like it didn’t hurt. But inside, something cracked. She left, and I sat there alone, staring at myself in the mirror, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do.
By senior year, I had resigned myself to being a joke. If I couldn’t change it, I might as well lean into it, right? So when someone started calling me "2L Pepsi" after a party rumor got out of control, I didn’t even fight it.
"Yo, 2L! How do you even walk?"
"Bet you pass out when you get hard, bro."
"Is it true you have to wear two pairs of underwear just to keep it down?"
I laughed along. What else could I do? If I acted like it bothered me, they’d never stop. So I played along, pretended it was funny, acted like it was some kind of blessing.
But it wasn’t.
No one talks about the downsides of it. The way you can’t wear sweatpants without people noticing. The way you have to be careful about how you sit. The way random guys feel entitled to ask about it like it’s some public property.
And worst of all? The loneliness.
People think it’s some golden ticket to an easy life. That women throw themselves at you, that you’re automatically some god-tier alpha male. But the truth? It isolates you. It turns you into a spectacle. You’re not a person anymore—you’re just a talking point.
I tried everything to downplay it. Wearing baggier clothes. Sitting with my legs crossed. Even considering surgery at one point. But when I asked a doctor about it, he laughed in my face.
"People would kill to have your problem."
Would they? Would they really?
By the time I hit college, I had given up on the idea of romance. What was the point? Every girl either saw me as a challenge or a freak. And at the end of the day, no one wanted to deal with it long-term.
One-night stands? Sure, if I was lucky enough to find someone drunk and reckless enough to try. But that never ended well. They either bailed halfway through or suffered through it and never spoke to me again.
It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t exciting. It was just… depressing.
And the worst part? I couldn’t even talk about it. What was I supposed to say? "Hey, my life is hard because my dick is too big"? No one wants to hear that. No one cares.
So I just kept it in. Kept pretending. Kept laughing at the jokes, playing along, acting like it didn’t hurt every time someone turned me into a punchline.
But at night, when I was alone, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder…
What would it be like to just be normal?
To just be a guy, and not some oversized curiosity?
I guess I’ll never know.
