"It's not you, it's my penis complex."

I discriminate against small penises. My hands are up and I confess: I am a discriminatory sexpot. I hold a strict “no entry” policy for the entire race of Junior Johnsons. You know what I’m talking about – Gherkin-sized genitalia. Shrimpy shafts. Mini willies. Puny Peters.
However, about a week ago I did something I’ve never done before: I disobeyed my own rules.
It all started when I was out one night, having one of those lustful encounters with a guy at the bar. It was obvious from the first sexy eye-contact thing that there was going to be bedroom-after-bar action.
At the one-on-one after party in my bedroom, Bar Guy and I were totally immersed in a racy, aerobatic spit-swapping and frisky foreplay. We were, you know, doing the whole body-part-groping thing, the ripping-off-of-clothes, the hair-pulling, and the neck-biting. It was almost too hot for me to handle. Until, that is, my hand grazed his…. little rosebud.
ZAP!
That’s what it sounds like to me when the horny flame abandons my libido.
ZAP! is what happens when I see small penises.
ZAP!
Like being electrocuted, then going numb. Totally turned off. I was thinking, don’t put your pinky sized prick in my pussy.
As I was being zapped after my disappointing discovery and starting to consider putting out, I had a change in heart. If I was so attracted to Bar Guy initially, than why put such an irresistible attraction and a handsome man to waste? So I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It’s all about quality, not quantity. Right?
Wrong.
By the time we started going at it, I was completely zapped. My mind had wandered far from sex. I couldn’t even revive the tingling feeling in my stomach I felt during foreplay. Instead, I was thinking about how I had forgotten about my laundry in the dryer, how I should have vacuumed the carpet that afternoon, and how nice my room would look with a cream colored linen curtains.
It wasn’t like Bar Guy was bad or anything. He was doing all the right moves, all the things of “good sex.” He was all rough-and-tumble: lifting me up on my dresser, pinning me against the wall, rolling me around on my (un-vacuumed) carpet, busting out Karma Sutra moves. The guy had skills, and I’ll give him credit for that.
I was disappointed with myself. I had liked Bar Guy. I wanted to still be attracted to him. It was too late, though. My zing was zapped.
That’s when I realized: maybe I just have a Penis Complex, a crippling psychosexual disorder that’s incapacitated me from reaching my full sexual potential. I can’t help it. There’s just something about a stunted shaft that leads me to the compelling desire to avoid it. I can handle hairy asses, beer-bellies, and goatees, but small penises just plain turn me off. Sometimes they make me feel like a pervert, like I’m about to screw a five year old or something.
I’ve tried to overcome my problem, but I just can’t do it. So I’m back to my original policy. No bulge, no boning.
I’ll just have to live with having a limited sex life and in constant pursuit of 8’’ dicks.
I apologize in advance to all males with small penises I will encounter. If I put out, it’s not you. It’s my Penis Complex.