We had just started dating when Blake first asked me how many sexual partners I had. It was Thanksgiving, we spent it together – cooked dinner and sat down to watch a movie. It was the perfect holiday: we lay on the couch, legs entwined, full, satisfied … I felt happy, excited and scared – a cocktail of emotions that most often accompany a new relationship. Blake seemed to me an attractive, intelligent, creative person, and I could easily imagine myself next to him. So in response to his question, I just gave a number.


I couldn’t even imagine that my boyfriend’s sex story didn’t have as many chapters as I do. But it didn’t matter to me! He spent most of his youth in a monogamous relationship, and I didn’t deny myself anything. But Blake saw the situation differently. From his point of view, the number of lovers may well have been too large – and this, as it turned out, was my case.

The day before the wedding, Blake insisted that I tell him how big his penis is compared to my previous men. We were together for a year then, and he constantly asked me about my sex life before meeting him. But this time, he naturally cornered me, yelling for me to tell him the truth about his cock size, as if my experience made me some kind of cock expert.


I was scared. Finally, I broke down and blurted out that, in my experience, his cock is somewhere in the lower border of the average. It was one of those things you shouldn’t say no matter what, but Blake just forced me to tell him. He not only violated my personal boundaries, he literally swept them away.

We signed the next day.

We bought the most common wedding rings at the mall on the way to the courthouse. I was wearing a lacy pink and white dress that I found in my closet. I sobbed the whole ceremony, and it was as if a knot was tied in my stomach. Deep in my heart, I knew that marriage would not solve our problems.

A few days later, Blake was on fire with the idea of ​​penis enlargement. Until that day, I had no idea that this was even possible. But my husband was already prepared – he spent hours on forums where men like him, insecure in themselves, shared ideas with each other on how to strengthen their masculinity. Blake found some clinic in Mexico.



I literally begged him not to change his body. “I like you the way you are,” I assured him. She persuaded him that he did not need a larger dick. It was true: I didn’t see any connection between penis size and quality of sex. I’ve never dated someone because they have a big dick, and I’ve never broken up with anyone because of “insufficient equipment.” Not to mention the fact that I have chronic pain that makes it uncomfortable to have sex. And if Blake changes his penis size, it could have a negative impact on our sex life.

But he was adamant. Said he was doing it for me! As evidence, he gave me that I flattered my former lovers about their dignity, and never told him anything like that. It turned out that he read it in my correspondence over the past few years. Another abuse that knocked me out of the rut.


He said that’s exactly what I really want.

But while I was thinking about how to give him more confidence in my own sexuality, Blake wasted no time in looking for a way to shame me myself. He told me that he shared with his friends the number of my lovers, and they asked him if I had any emotional problems. He showed me data on the average number of sex partners to prove that in fact I am a whore, and his number of mistresses is only slightly higher than the arithmetic mean. That is, he is a heartthrob with the sins of youth, when I am a real freak.

It was pure gaslighting. He was looking for a way to put the blame for the operation on me.

So he flew to Mexico and had surgery there.


After some time, he returned – he flew by plane to the nearest town, and crossed the border by bus. His penis, hidden in a synthetic “sleeve” and wrapped in gauze, was very sick. Blake didn’t even let me look at him.

As the swelling subsided, it became noticeable that Blake’s cock had indeed grown larger—he looked more both when he was at rest and when he was erect. But that wasn’t enough for him. Most patients visit such clinics two or three times, although each such trip costs thousands of dollars.


So Blake flew there a second time. When he returned, he behaved confused and embarrassed, did not allow me to look after him, did not tell me about postoperative care. He spent long hours in the bathroom, and later I found bloody pieces of gauze there. He seemed to pretend that the changes were natural, and got angry every time I mentioned the operation.


I still don’t know what kind of operation he had.

You can probably say that it was a success, because the size of Blake’s penis increased without significant side effects, without scars. But this, coupled with the incessant abuse, destroyed our marriage.

Because of my pains, I now almost constantly experienced discomfort when making love. I spent a lot of time at the doctors, trying to cure my symptoms. Blake went to sleep on the couch and accused me of not meeting his sexual needs. Especially, according to him, considering how much sex I had before him. Sex was like something I owed him.

Several times I tried to end our relationship, but Blake threatened to kill himself, he resorted to threats every time, and it worked. His control and level of violence against me also increased. A few years later he was yelling in my face, overturning tables, and he could grab me and throw me against the wall.


During our last quarrel, he put his hand over my mouth so that no one would hear my cries for help, and I suddenly realized with unexpected clarity that he was going to hit me. But it didn’t scare me—and that made it even more scary. I was waiting for his hit.

Finally, I gathered my strength and left him, filed for divorce.

My life improved at an incredible speed, but the process of emotional and legal separation, getting rid of psychological trauma will take much longer. I’m glad I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I imagine myself finally going out into the air.