Mason Hintley knew it was time to head for home when he found himself looking at the tiniest cock he’d ever seen. For a second, he thought he might be hallucinating. Must be the five martinis he’d gulped down during the course of the evening.

A second look confirmed that no, he hadn’t had that much alcohol. He doubted there was enough alcohol in the world to make him hallucinate when it came to cock sizes anyway.

This hookup would not happen. Mason was a size queen. Maybe that made him shallow, but every man had his standards, right?

His restroom companion waved his below-average dick like a stick in front of a dog. Why was he doing that? Did he want Mason to play fetch, or what?

Obviously, Mason’s lack of enthusiasm finally registered. “Get on with it,” the stranger snarled. The guy looked ridiculous with his pants lowered to mid-thigh and his bits and pieces dangling in the air. Not that much dangling was going on, considering the length—or rather, the lack of length.

“Um…” Mason planned to make a hasty retreat, but his balance was giving him problems. He refused to blame the tasty martinis for his inability to maintain his equilibrium. He usually held his liquor much better than this, although his legs didn’t seem to share that opinion, judging by the way they wobbled. Damn traitors. There was no way he’d embarrass himself even further by falling face first on the tiles. He assessed the floor critically, in case he lost the battle against his rebellious limbs. Muddy footprints, paper towels, and empty condom wrappers. Too gross for words.

The stranger gripped Mason’s shoulder. “Down on your knees.”

Ewww. Mason was wearing his favorite white jeans. He wouldn’t soil those to suck any guy’s prick, much less this mini-prick. Poor guy had looked promising when they’d been dancing earlier. Appearances could certainly be deceiving.

Looking at his almost-hook-up, all Mason could think of were tiny cocktail sausages, along with the fastest way to hightail it out of this restroom. Preferably without sustaining any major injuries.

“Hey. Did you know today is National Sexual Abstinence Day?” Mason blinked against the dizziness that assailed him. If he were to be honest with himself—something he hated with a passion—he’d admit he’d had too much alcohol. Bad things happened to drunken guys who followed strangers to restrooms. “Let’s forget the whole thing, okay?”

Even more so when the stranger had a tiny dick, but was easily twice as broad as Mason.

“Are you kidding? Suck me.” Tiny Cock glowered.

He was a lot taller than Mason, with muscles on top of muscles that threatened to rip the seams of his tight shirt. Maybe the dude was on steroids? Mason remembered reading the stuff had a tendency to shrink a man’s family jewels.

“I…” Mason wobbled again and fell forward, squishing his face against the guy’s sweaty shirt. Yuck! Although he usually liked the smell of sweaty, aroused males, this guy smelled…not pleasant, to put it mildly.

Unfortunately, Mason wasn’t in a friendly mood right then, and he decided it was best to bid the other man goodnight before something flew out of his mouth he might regret.

This wouldn’t be the first time his verbal diarrhea resulted in a fight, complete with shouting, black eyes, and split lips. His opponent usually took care of the shouting and punching, and Mason ended up with the black eye and split lip. He was generous like that.

Trying to suppress a gagging sound—the smell got worse the longer he breathed it in—Mason propped his hands against the steroid chest in front of him and straightened. Not a graceful move, but fuck that. He’d save the smooth moves for a martini-free day when he didn’t have to stand up against roughly 230 pounds of horny, smelly stranger. A quick escape had just made it to the top of his priority list.

“Sorry, buddy, but I changed my mind. I’m not into sucking strangers,” he lied.

Steroid dude grunted and grabbed Mason’s arm.

Had the drugs killed this guy’s ability to communicate with words as well as causing shrinkage? The bastard was strong, he had to grant him that. Mason tugged and tugged, but without success. He was sure they looked ridiculous.

“Hell, no. Stop playing coy.” The guy placed his meaty hand on Mason’s shoulder and tried to push him onto his knees again.

Mason struggled like a blonde bimbo in a cheap romance novel against the bruising grip of the mad villain about to ravish her against her will. All taking place in a filthy restroom at a gay club. Sounded like a best seller, didn’t it?

Mason had to get rid of this obnoxious dude. Faced with a man much stronger than him, he did what every self-respecting and successful man in his thirties would do. He screeched and brought his knee up to the guy’s nuts.

The effect was astounding. Mason watched as the stranger clutched his groin and crumble to the floor with a loud thud. He scrunched his nose in disgust. An Email to the management was in order before someone caught the plague, or the Ebola virus, while kneeling on those tiles.

“You little prick!” The man rolled around the floor, cursing and groaning.

Mason left the crime scene stealthily when two other horny clubbers who were groping each other barged in. He fought his way through the dancing mass. Maybe he should reconsider his weekend activities. Picking somebody up proved increasingly harder the older he got. He needed grown-up hobbies that weren’t as exciting as fighting against doped hook-ups. Like knitting…or stuffing a ship into a bottle. He’d always wondered how that worked, and Mason had skills when it came to stuffing something big through tiny openings.