I was a drifting dock in want of a well-cast hawser, and he hooked his heel on my barstool.

He offered me a longneck and a grin, and I needed no further convincing to agree to a change of venue. I was more than ready to unleash the mastiff barking behind his fly.

Back at his tidy condo, in due course, he undressed without shame. And so did I.

His cock rose up like a tender shoot in springtime. Not that I ever thought he had a zucchini down his jeans, but I was expecting more than an asparagus tip.

I should have suspected foul play when he introduced himself as “Pinkie.”

The rest of him wasn’t bad. His abs rippled, his biceps bulged, and his face radiated sincerity. Nice.

He reminded me of one of those Roman statues.

I was aware of my inexcusable chauvinism. I was no better than a zit-faced teen sniggering at small tits. I was worse than Joe Mechanic slobbering over his MUFF-ler wall calendar. I was measuring Pinkie by external standards. But still. When a girl’s starved, she wants a sausage-with-the-works, not a baby dill.

“Don’t worry,” he said, noting my concern. “It’s the motion of the ocean, not the size of the boat.”

He rummaged in his dresser drawer, for a condom, I assumed.

Do they make them that small?

He got into bed beside me.

Pinkie was a nice kisser, with a shaved face and brushed teeth. I could tell by his moans that he was turned on. But nothing else gave me a clue.

“Is it in?” I asked. I wasn’t usually this oblivious, but his stumplet stumped me.

“Um, I haven’t started.” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Don’t you like foreplay?”

He cuddled closer. “For the Greeks, the ideal penis was the small penis. Check their urns. Hercules had a teeny weeny.”

The Greeks also killed Socrates, but you had to admire a guy who calls it a “weeny” with a straight face.

“They thought it meant better fertility,” Pinkie continued. “Like, today, guys with low counts have to wear boxers—”

“So togas saved democracy?”

Pinkie’s right eyebrow shot up, “Oh, Giselle!”

He remembered my name. I had wanted to get in his pants so fast, the introductions had been rather hasty. But. He. Had. Paid. Attention.

“I’m sorry, Pinkie. I mean, this is nice and you’re sweet, but I didn’t go pub crawling for sensitive husband material. If you know what I mean.”

“Tell me what you want, Giselle. Whatever it is—”

As if his mini-wand could conjure magic to order.

He pulled out the dresser drawer he’d been fishing in and dumped its contents on the bed.

He had quite the arsenal. He displayed Santa’s Little Helpers one by one. “You prefer matte or glossy? Neon or naturale? Animal-shaped or lifelike? Motorized or manual?”