The Ken Doll (or The Curious Case of the Shrinking Tool)

He closed his eyes and rubbed it, conjuring the images from last night, that blond nymph sensually moaning on top of him. Then, he rapidly took out his tape measure, holding it from the base on the inner side right up to the tip where the hole was, like the NHS site had suggested, using the same method as in the past few weeks. 12.9 centimetres. There was no denial, it was smaller.  He didn’t keep records initially because really, it couldn’t be true. But 12.9 cm? Since those silly teenage days, where hidden in the family bathroom he’d quietly measured himself, he always had at least 15.0 cm, if not 16.5 cm on a good day, well above average. 

***

He recalled that ominous Thursday walking into the bar; no wingman, no friends, just tired of everyone. Worn down by a long week that only resulted in a major deal falling through at the last minute, a good fuck was in order. The rooftop lounge turning into a club with the view of St. Paul’s cathedral wide in front of him was one of his favourites. He had avoided this place for a while; too many familiar faces. But today it felt just right. Sitting at the long sleek black counter and having ordered his one drink for the night, a Campari with orange, like a predator he slowly let his eyes glide through the room scoping for his perfect prey, simultaneously confirming that he was at the upper end of the male contenders here.  

He had a shortlist of three: the petite Asian peeking at him through her colourful drink; the tall blond conquering the dance floor reminding him a bit too much of Jenny from last week, though he couldn’t deny her nice figure underlined by the white tube dress clearly here to be stripped; finally the brunette sitting at a table with a group of friends, the desperate girls night out, every single one of them screaming for a guy to rescue her. He was satisfied with the diversity he had picked. Too many men just stuck to one type until every single replacement just looked like a bad xerox of the last one. Where was the fun in that? 

Suddenly like lightening she caught his eye. Sitting on a bar stool at the end of the counter, her red lips sipping on a martini were so sensual, her appearance was surreal. Her hazelnut wavy hair was draping her beautiful shoulders remaining free above a red velvet dress smoothly flowing over her expressive curves. She distinctly reminded him of the first woman he ever considered sexy: Jessica Rabbit. 

Turn around, so I can see your face. Just in that moment, she swirled around on her seat to face him, her emerald eyes emitting a mysterious spark. His shortlist was long lost by now and the winner was clear.  

He wasted no time to close the deal and walked right up to her, her eyes fixated on him. He wasn’t too surprised. He was a good looking fellow after all, tall and well-built from his regular gym workouts at the craziest hours of the day, his square jaw with just the right amount of dark stubble to look manly and not rogue. His tailored grey suit accentuated his features, while his Tag Heuer Carrera watch was an easy item to communicate his financial standing without being blatantly obvious like the sad men with their overdone gold Rolex bling, bigger than their wrist (and any other part of their body).

“I see you’re having a martini. They do have a killer mojito here. Would you like to try one?” He said now leaning in right next to her. 

“I’d never say no to a free drink,” she said, putting hers to the side. 

Jackpot! “My name is Ken.” Always a monosyllabic strong name. He extended his hand. 

“Annika. Pleasure.” She said.

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