Your dick was not bad. True, it made my poor little cunt ache like hell. Maybe a bit out-of-date and untidy. Not fully satisfying, not because of its size, but for its roughness.
But it was ok. I could handle that. I could handle everything.
What I found greatly impossible to cope with, was your balls size. Everything about your body was from bearable to excellent, but when you got into my pants, this little fact couldn't stop pounding in my head: I was fucking an insanely small-balled guy.
Your testicles were as big as a pair of Tic-Tacs. Baby size.
But I had to refrain myself from staring at them too much, or feigning I was actually looking at your moderate penis size. I had to pretend that my attention wasn't drawn to those insignificant bells hanging between your already toothpick-thin legs.
What an ironical surprise it was, when I found out your balls were a representation of your actual courage. You literally and metaphorically had hardly any balls. Hardly any guts. You were chicken shit while standing in front of me. You would deviate your look, far away from my eyes, and escape the tension moment so gallantly by using a lie.
But life results both a teacher and a good joker. Whether I learned it or not is just a matter of time. But the joke it played on me was a very good one indeed: How ironical! Your outside balls were just a pure materialization of your inner ones. Probably your inner balls, your guts, were just as small as those you hung so proudly when we were in bed.
I'm sorry. I'm way too ballsy for you.