Does size really matter?

Never in the ever-so-long existence of my life have I exposed to so many penises since I’ve been in health care. It’s the nature of the beast I suppose. We see patients at their most vulnerable which means pee, poop, and genitalia. We see you in areas it takes three mirrors to see.

And right from the beginning, I have been non-judgemental. Fat people. Tall people. Emaciated people. Old people. Young people. People with a lot of body hair. People with gross moles. Nobody — and I do mean nobody — is perfect.

Hey, I’m fat, so I have nothing to talk about regarding a less than socially desirable physical attribute, okay? And I don’t like being gossipy about a part of one’s anatomy that one has NOTHING to do with setting up.

But, damn.

What is with all the tiny penii?

Perhaps I’ve been lucky in my life to only had men with the customary “average” sized penis or larger. But seeing so much weenie peenie, I can’t help but wonder how all you men ended up ruling the world?

Prior to becoming part of health care, I always felt that if I ever met a man and fell in love with him only to discover that his member was considerably less than average, I would happily work with it no matter what its size. After all, it’s the person who counts. The man, not the member.

That’s what a much younger me thought.

But since my dating experiences of the last few years have aged and hardened me, they have created in me a much more cynical person who no longer cares about making men feel better about themselves.

The men who I have treated in health care, whose members were, shall we say, on the two-incher size, haven’t been nice guys. They were cranky assholes. To be honest, I wasn’t really surprised when I discovered they had tiny penii under their hospital gowns because their bad attitudes projected their inadequacies long before I had an actual visual.

That said, I always afford my patients their dignity. I do my job with no expression with regard to their nudity (or body odor!!). I am very matter-of-fact. Even if they’re jerks, they deserve their dignity like any other person. I don’t go out to the nurse’s station and gossip or laugh at anyone. EVER. In fact, I never say a word about my patients to other staff unless it’s medically necessary. I mentioned before that I, myself, am fat, so I wouldn’t want anyone going to the nurse’s station and saying “Hey did you see that whale in 13? Holy crap is that lady huge!”

But here in cyberspace, I feel an overwhelming need to unload this burden I’ve been carrying. What’s with the tiny penii? Are most men like this and I just didn’t know?

I’ve been very selective over the years in who I sleep with. I tend to be a large personality so it takes a pretty bold man to come up to me and ask me out. Maybe that social confidence is driven by the physical confidence of having a larger member.

Most recently was Bob who was bold in his intial approach. Turned out, he was easily 6″-7″ erect. Not the largest I’ve ever seen, but far from the smallest. From a satisfaction standpoint, he fit just fine, but what he really lacked was a sense of romance — or selflessness — in other words, I came away from the experience not having…. “came”. Other people’s needs have never been Bob’s forte.

Oh, sorry. Is it getting weird in here? Hang on, I have a point.

I haven’t been with many men, but of those, nobody was as small as what I’ve been seeing all the time on the hospital floor. In the past, whenever I read that the average penis size was 5″ erect (and about the length of my finger soft), I thought that seemed about right. Now I’m not so sure.

Surprise.

I couldn’t help but wonder if it’s true that most men are on the small side, how then did they end up in charge and marginalizing women so easily? Honestly, I have to tell you that if men of larger size can be selfish and unsatisfying, and men who are small size are cranky assholes, I don’t know what the hell is left.

Unlike those with small penii who hide their perceived weakness under clothing, as a fat girl, I am forced to wear my inadequacy openly for everyone to see. And they see it.

The last two romantic experiences have embittered me to the point where I really don’t care about ever having sex or a relationship again. I can’t honestly imagine ever being able to get close to another man and allow him to set my world on fire EVER AGAIN.

The other day, Bob texted me. His birthday was coming up and he wanted me to be his birthday present. WTF, man, seriously? Wouldn’t you rather have a nice sweater?

This man, who, instead of choosing me, went back to his ex-girlfriend, bought a house with her, lives in the country with her, now all of a sudden out of some weird sense of nostalgia wants to get with ME of all people? WHY???

It boggles my mind. I don’t get it at all.

Last night, after I got home from school, I stripped off all my clothes in the bathroom and got ready for bed. I took a moment to stare at myself in the mirror while nude and wondered aloud how anyone could want me. This is not a sexy body. I feel gross. I look awful. Saggy and fat. Leaning hard into pre-menopause, even my once pristine facial skin is starting to change texture. The bags under my eyes have deepened.

I turned to the side to view myself in profile. UGH. I picked up my boobs to place them at a higher, younger position and stood up straight to correct my posture. Sucked in my belly and stood on my tiptoes as if I was wearing heels. I gazed over my shoulder with a sly, “come hither” stare and burst out laughing at myself. I looked ridiculous.

The only thing that I have, as a fat me, is what little dignity I can still muster. I wear a lot of black shirts with blue jeans. I never wear skirts and avoid colorful clothes like the plague. I might look good in them, but I wouldn’t know. I just try hard not to look dumpy or stupid. I wear the same jewelry every day. I recently paid to have my hair professionally colored and cut — and it looked great (it’s getting so long!) — but with nursing school, I have to always wear it in a bun or a ponytail anyway. My daily life is as unglamorous as it gets.

My therapist thinks I should expand my horizons, but there are no more horizons to expand. I go to nursing school and have re-dedicated myself to studying hard, aiming for an A this semester.

That is what I do to compensate for the fact that I’m weird. Even when I was thin, I thought differently than other people. I’m not like the others. From an early age, I was separated from my peers because I was “special” and placed in the gifted program. I don’t know anything else. I don’t know how to be like everyone else — I never have. I always wanted to, but it wasn’t in the cards for me.

The only thing I have ever done well is excel at what I’m good at. When I was younger (and thinner) that was music and art and acting. Now it’s medicine. That’s how I make up for being weird. That’s how I can make restitution for taking up too much space in this world as a fat person. That’s how I reimburse my existence as a singleton who never got married or did the family track.

I have to be great at something. It’s literally all I have.

My replacement value — to me — has become my ability to save lives. To make a difference. I take all that energy I would have spent on a family and a life and put it into learning and trying to be great.

So I don’t know if size really matters. If you ask Bob, he still wants to have sex with me, so maybe size doesn’t matter to him.

But apparently, size does matter to me, no matter how liberal I might like to think I am about it. I have long since judged myself unworthy due to my size, so is it any real surprise that others do as well?