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And then there was his low hanging dick, bigger than any I had seen in person. My stomach flipped. My stomach flipped. My towel barely clung to my hips, and I felt every inch of my awkwardness as I stood there, trying to blend into the background. But deep down, I knew I’d crossed a line. Wrestling seemed like the right move—tough and disciplined, a sport where I could carve out a place for myself. My breath froze. My older brother wrestled, and I observed him over the years as it cemented his confidence. The steam had started to fade, replaced by the hum of water and occasional shouts from across the locker room. His soapy fingers brushed over my lower back, trailing toward territory I did not expect anyone else to wash. Way lower. “Hey,” I managed, my voice cracking like I was back in middle school. My inferiority complex was on fire at the sight of it, like it had been designed to make me feel inadequate.