Title: The Day I Shaved My Soul Away (And Two Inches of My Manhood)
I thought I was doing something bold. Something sexy. Something that would make her gasp—not in horror, but in awe. The razor glided across my skin like a knight preparing for battle. I was going to send the picture. The one that would seal the deal. The one that said, “Yes, I am that confident. Yes, I am that smooth. Yes, I am that guy.”
And then I looked down.
Two inches. Gone. Vanished. Like a magician’s assistant, except no one clapped. No one cheered. Just me, standing there, staring at what looked like a frightened turtle trying to escape the spotlight.
Turns out, pubic hair is like scaffolding for your ego. Shave it off, and suddenly the architectural illusion collapses. I wasn’t packing heat—I was packing a lukewarm disappointment. The kind of disappointment that makes you want to cancel the date, fake a power outage, and move to a monastery.
I had told her I was a “solid six.” Not a brag, just a confident middle-class citizen of the penis economy. But now? Now I was a liar. A fraud. A delusional man clinging to the memory of his pre-shave glory like a washed-up rockstar who still wears leather pants to Tesco.
And the worst part? I did it for her. For the gorgeous woman who’d been flirting with me online, who probably expected a Greek statue and was about to get a garden gnome. I imagined her reaction: a polite “oh,” followed by ghosting so hard it would leave a paranormal investigator baffled.
I considered re-measuring. Maybe I was just cold. Maybe the lighting was off. Maybe I’d accidentally entered a parallel universe where inches were shorter. But no—this was reality. And reality was cruel.
So here I am. Shaved, ashamed, and spiritually two inches shorter. If confidence was a currency, I’d be bankrupt and applying for emotional welfare.
But hey, at least I didn’t nick myself. That would’ve been the cherry on top of this tragic sundae.
