We asked J.D. Hawkens, an entrant from this year’s Smallest Penis In Brooklyn Contest, to explain how it feels to expose your tiny member to a bar full of screaming, drunk women, and more importantly, why the hell you would ever do such a thing.
If you’ve watched any high school comedies, this scene is probably familiar: A hapless nerd balances a tray filled with food as he shuffles through the cafeteria. Just as he passes the “hot girls” table, someone yanks down his pants. This, we all know, is the ultimate humiliation - an embarrassing and very public emasculation of the male species. So if that’s true, then why on Earth would any adult male, much less six of them, subject himself to a “Smallest Penis in Brooklyn” contest, a spectacle played out in a bar full of hooting, camera-toting females and destined for viral infamy on the Internet? Damned if I know. I was contestant number three, “Rip van Dinkle,” and these are six things I learned at this year’s pageant at King’s County Bar.
1. This is one contest where you do not check out the competition.
I can’t speak for the other five contestants, but checking out other dudes’ junk is not really my thing. And if I did want to examine the male appendage, there are most definitely easier ways than by suffering through the sweltering heat of a cramped dive in Williamsburg, rehearsing lines for the “talent” portion of the event, and fielding questions posed by a nosy reporter from The New York Post. Oh, okay, I admit it, I was tempted to sneak a peek when I first noticed fellow contestant “Sugar Daddy,” a chubby Asian fellow seated quietly in a corner. “Uh-oh,” I thought, “What’s he packing under those tiny shorts? Do the rest of us even stand a chance?”
2. I can’t prove it, but the women running this show seem to have a hidden agenda.
Just minutes before show time, we were suddenly confronted with a series of scantily clad distractions. I espied “Dawn Ho,” a singer who would later entertain bar patrons with her version of “Tiny Bubbles” (inevitably redubbed “Tiny Penis”), but who now sat cross-legged on the floor, messing with a costume. For no reason that I could discern, she was topless, and frankly, I began to worry about the pageant’s rules for size disqualification. Discretion being the better part of having a tiny wang, I fled to the balcony for a smoke and was followed there by Cherry Pitz, a New York burlesque queen and pageant judge who materialized before me as I puffed on a Marlboro. With no warning, she began to strip down to her thong. What the hell? Could the six of us maintain our competitive condition under this onslaught of female provocateurs? This was not fair!
3. If you’re a member of the media, best not mess with the contestant most likely to win the “Mr. Meth-Head” category.
At this point, you might be wondering: “Just how small were these guys, anyway?” I hate to disillusion any scholars out there, but this competition was not exactly scientific. The big question at King’s County Bar was not, “Who has the smallest penis?” but rather, “Will any fools actually show up to compete?” But I am dodging the question. My pride-and-joy is a bit undersized - roughly two inches in a cold shower – and the thought of displaying this in public was, obviously, a nerve-wracking one, so tensions were running high backstage. The atmosphere was not improved by the presence of several irritating reporters, in particular a curly-haired creep from Gawker. He was interviewing me when I happened to look down and observe his hand, mere inches from my crotch, snapping away with his iPhone. I later noticed the same guy in a heated dispute with contestant “Flo Rider,” a caveman throwback who seemed high on something slightly more chemically-specific than just “life”. Flo Rider was pissed at Gawker Guy, and Gawker Guy appeared to be soiling his own pants. The lesson here is this: If you are going to surreptitiously snap pictures of a man’s genitals, even at a contest like this one, it’s best to ask his permission first.
4. If you are an aspiring poet and would love to see your verse in a famous publication, spend no more than 15 minutes composing your masterpiece.
That’s how much time I spent writing “My Poor Pecker,” a rap I performed in the talent portion of the pageant. Two days after the contest, I was stunned to see “My Poor Pecker” reprinted, verbatim, in the online version of The Village Voice.
(Skip to 30m 05s to see Rip Van Dinkle’s rap!)
5. Everyone’s got their own reasons for taking part in a contest like this.
There was no mistaking the crowd’s mindset: These people were backing us, baby. Whatever qualms the six of us might have had before we took the stage, they vanished in a wave of Penis Colada-fueled cheers and applause. I ended up taking second place at the inaugural small-penis pageant (a double loss, when you think about it), losing by a pubic hair to “The Delivery Man,” a genial UPS worker with both the smallest penis in Brooklyn and, from my perspective, the largest ass in North America. For me, the contest was a surreal blast; I had been languishing in a personal and professional rut, and I was craving something, well, out there. Other men might address this midlife malaise by booking a flight to the Himalayas or Tahiti, but I ask you, which of the following two statements is most likely to make a lasting impression?
Midlife Crisis Guy 1: “I just got back from Mount Everest. Spent five minutes on the top of the world.”
Midlife Crisis Guy 2: “I just got back from Brooklyn. Spent three hours shaking my dick in a small-penis contest.”
I rest my case. I found my adventure in New York, although admittedly I had no clue that I was about to star in what some people view as the Web-powered last gasp of Western Civilization. It’s odd to experience your 15 minutes of fame in the glow of a computer screen. Internet coverage was rampant - America’s sweetheart Miley Cyrus complained that she missed our show. Conan O’Brien and Jay Leno poked fun at us. Flo Rider and Gawker Guy patched up their differences, moved to Massachusetts and were married (okay, maybe that one’s not true).
6. Remember, always choose a good disguise.
If you’re worried that your teenage nieces, or perhaps Sarah, the director of statewide assessments at work, might see your exposed ball sack on the Internet, you can always do what I did: Wear sunglasses and grow a beard. But if you should ever find yourself competing in a small penis pageant, here's my advice: Do your best, but hold back a bit of your talent, because as any short-dicked man will tell you, you must always leave them wanting more.