Ryan's Presentation Taes a Turn

The clink of silverware and low hum of conversation filled the hotel restaurant, a polished space tucked just off the main lobby with gleaming dark wood, soft lighting, and crisp white linens. Ryan sat at a table near the window, picking at a Caesar salad, his blazer folded over the back of the chair. The late afternoon sunlight cast a golden wash over the linen, and across from him, Scott leaned back slightly in his seat, looking every bit the polished professional in his tailored shirt that hugged his broad frame.

"I just don't get why Carl's even in the running," Ryan said, stabbing a crouton with more force than necessary. "He's good at sales, sure--but catering management? It's not the same thing."

Scott raised an eyebrow as he cut into his steak, his jaw flexing thoughtfully. "You're better with clients," he said plainly. "You know how to run a room, Ryan. That's half the battle right there."

Ryan gave a short, almost bitter laugh. "Apparently, not everyone agrees. Carl's been cozying up to upper management the past few weeks--working those charm muscles."

Scott smirked. "Well, he's got the tan and the blazers, I'll give him that. But the second he's asked to jump in the kitchen or deal with a guest freak-out, he'll melt like ice cream in August."

Scott leaned in slightly, folding his thick arms on the edge of the table, his voice lower now, calm, but pointed. "Do you feel secure? Confident enough to go for this?"

Ryan paused, his fork hovering just above his plate. The question sat in the air for a beat too long. He looked down, then back up, and nodded. "Yes," he said, voice quiet but steady. "I do. I have to."

Scott raised an eyebrow, studying him. "You sure?"

"I've been working on a marketing proposal," Ryan added quickly, his words picking up speed. "For the team meeting this afternoon. It's not a formal interview, but I know Mr. Dempsy will be watching. It's going to be part of his decision."

Scott gave a slow, approving nod. "Smart. What's the pitch?"

"A themed seasonal catering package--localized menus, customizable options, tie-ins with regional events. I even looped in some mock visuals. If I can frame it right, I think it'll show that I can think like a manager."

"Good," Scott said, his eyes steady. "You've got the brains and the experience. Don't let Carl's haircut and skinny pants psych you out."

Ryan laughed softly, but the nerves in his gut didn't ease. Mr. Dempsy had always been a tough read--an older man with a serious presence, 6'2 and broad-shouldered, his salt-and-pepper hair always neatly parted, his graying beard trimmed close to the jaw. His style was classic, almost old-school, but always clean. Gray eyes that didn't miss a thing. Ryan respected him--feared him a little too. Today, more than ever, he needed to impress.

"Thanks," Ryan said, setting down his fork and smoothing out his shirt. "I just have to... wow him. No pressure, right?"

Scott grinned. "You're gonna do more than wow him. You're gonna make Carl look like a panicked intern."

Ryan took a sip of his iced tea, the glass sweating lightly in his hand. He glanced toward the window, watching a few guests drift through the courtyard outside, then looked back at Scott. "You know, I actually focused the proposal on the event spaces--especially weddings," he said, his voice gaining a bit of excitement. "That's where we're missing the most consistent opportunity."

Scott nodded, listening. Though he worked more in corporate logistics, he always had a sharp ear for people and planning, he'd taken an easy kind of interest in Ryan's work from the start. He was actually how Ryan got the job. Ryan's partner, Trevor, had been friends with Scott since college and used the connection to help get his foot in the door of the 5 Star Hotel and Bar.

"I dug into the last year of bookings," Ryan continued. "We've been coasting on our reputation alone, but there's been almost no fresh marketing. My idea is a full seasonal rollout: 'Spring Garden Weddings,' 'Summer Evenings,' that kind of thing. Each with coordinated décor options, sample menus, vendor partnerships, and--this is key--social media-ready packages. Couples want aesthetics and ease, and we can sell them both."

Scott tilted his head, clearly impressed. "That sounds polished as hell. You came up with all that on your own?"

Ryan smiled faintly. "Yeah. Trevor helped talk through some of it, but the vision's mine."

"Well, Trevor's always said you're the one with taste," Scott teased, smirking as he leaned back again. "And if Dempsy doesn't see the value in that pitch, then he's not as sharp as everyone says."

Ryan gave a nervous chuckle, but the words sank in like a steadying breath. "Thanks. I mean it. I just... I know people still think of me as he new guy..."

"The new guy?" Scott chuckled, "It's been three years. We've hired like... three office roles since then."

"I know but it just still feels that way." The man said into his cup before taking a sip.

Ryan sat back in his chair, Scott's encouragement still echoing in his ears, but a familiar tightness crept into his chest. The kind that didn't budge no matter how good the proposal looked, no matter how carefully he'd prepped the slides. He stared at his hands--thin, pale, a bit shaky--and couldn't help the thoughts that rose uninvited.

Why do I always feel like I'm trying to measure up?

It wasn't just the birthday incident, or Carl's polished act. It was deeper than that. A quiet, lifelong hum beneath the surface. He'd always felt... a little less. Less assertive. Less commanding. Less of whatever that confident, effortless kind of manhood was supposed to look like. Of course, he was also lacking in the manhood department, so that was to be expected.

He thought back to coming out to his family and later his friends at his own Birthday Party about having such a small dick. To the fear, the weight, the quiet kind of bravery it took. That moment had taken courage, even if the second time it had been thrust upon him by his Partner. Trevor knew he could handle it, just like he knew he could handle this presentation. And yet somehow, it didn't translate here. There were no speeches, no declarations. Just posturing. Composure. Confidence he didn't always have.

Ryan glanced down at the portfolio in his lap again. He'd rehearsed every slide. Visuals, stats, layout--it all looked solid. Professional. Smart. He reminded himself of that.

"Thanks again for looking it over," he said to Scott, his voice a little more subdued. "Your notes really helped pull it together."

Scott gave him a thumbs-up and a smile. "You're ready, Ryan. Seriously."

Ryan nodded slowly, trying to believe it. Trying to carry that quiet courage forward--into a world that didn't always feel like it had space for people like him.

~~~

Ryan stood near the front of the small meeting space, the walls painted a neutral beige, and the carpet patterned in the hotel's trademark navy and gold. A long conference table took up most of the room, surrounded by a mix of familiar faces--Scott, sitting near the end with his arms loosely crossed, offering a nod of quiet encouragement; Carl, poised and smirking faintly, one leg crossed neatly over the other in his slim-fit suit; and Heather, clipboard in hand, her eyes flicking toward Ryan with polite neutrality.

Mr. Dempsy sat at the head of the table like a judge, back straight, gray eyes unreadable beneath his furrowed brow. His salt-and-pepper beard framed a face that had seen decades of hotel management, and though he hadn't said much during the meeting, his presence was commanding enough to keep the room quiet whenever he shifted in his chair. A few other office staff were scattered around--none really caring to be at this weekly meeting.

The weekly conference had so far been all business: upcoming in-house events, a midsize social blocked for next weekend, a regional convention arriving mid-month, and a few small private parties. It was familiar terrain. Ryan had taken notes, nodded where appropriate, kept his nerves hidden under a practiced calm. But now, Heather glanced up from her tablet and addressed the group.

"Before we wrap," she said, "Ryan has some thoughts to share about marketing strategies for our event spaces. Particularly weddings and private functions."

The words hit like a spotlight. All eyes turned toward him, and suddenly the air in the room thickened. Ryan felt a slow flush rise from his chest to his neck, but he forced a steady breath, stepped forward, and opened his folder. This was it. No turning back now.

Ryan glanced toward Scott, needing that one last tether--and there it was. A small, discreet thumbs up from across the table. Just enough to steady him. He exhaled quietly and turned to the girl closest to the wall panel. "Would you mind dimming the lights a bit?" he asked, his voice steady, if a touch tight. She nodded and tapped the switch, casting the room into a comfortable dimness as the projector flickered to life.

The first slide burst onto the screen behind him--bold colors against a dark backdrop, clean fonts, and an understated but modern design. It looked good. He clutched the clicker in his hand and took a single step forward.

"So, weddings," he began. "Let's be honest--they're moving away from hotels. Industry-wide, we're losing market share to vineyards, converted barns, outdoor gardens, even boutique halls that offer a 'personalized' feel. Hotels are being seen as generic. Stiff. Uninspired."

He let the words hang just long enough before clicking to the next slide--statistics, quotes from recent bridal industry publications, and a few social media screenshots showing curated wedding posts far from traditional venues.

"But I don't think we have to compete by pretending to be something we're not. We have the infrastructure, the resources, and the staff. What we need is a rebrand--seasonal packages, curated aesthetics, and flexibility that speaks to modern couples."

The next few slides showed sample ideas--Spring Garden Romance, Summer Nights on the Terrace, Classic Winter Luxe--complete with color palettes, proposed menus, and examples of social media-ready visuals. As he spoke, he felt the attention in the room narrow, not just on him, but on what he was saying. Mr. Dempsy, still and focused, leaned slightly forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the screen.

Ryan kept his voice even, his pitch smooth. He didn't let himself look at Carl. Not yet. He had a plan--and now, he was right in the middle of it.

Ryan felt a growing steadiness in his voice as he transitioned to the next key slide. "Now, I want to show you a breakdown of how a rebrand impacted revenue across five comparable hotels--each in towns with a similar population and wedding seasonality."

He clicked the remote, expecting a pie chart, a graph--something clean, professional.

Instead, audio crackled to life. Laughter and faint background chatter.

The screen filled with a shaky video: a sunlit yard, a fence he knew too well. Lawn chairs. A table draped in blue gingham. A grill. People milling about in summery clothes. Ryan froze. He wasn't sure what this video was.

At first, the room didn't register it. There was a brief pause as people blinked, expecting it to be part of the presentation.

Slowly, Ryan began to realize it was his backyard. He knew that table. He knew the curve of the privacy fence and the mismatched lawn chairs.

The video panned awkwardly, almost lazily, until it landed on the back of the house--his house. A voice on the video laughed off-camera. Ryan stared far too long, confused. He didn't add a video to the side of his backyard.

"I--uh--I'm not sure what this is," he nervously chuckled, swallowing hard, trying to keep his voice steady. His hand was already fumbling with the remote, but the video rolled on.

Then it happened.

Trevor appeared in the frame, leading someone by the hand. The camera zoomed slightly, and there he was--Ryan, emerging from the house, blindfolded, naked.

A few audible reactions hissed from around the room. Someone gasped. Someone else snorted a laugh--short, shocked, trying to stifle it.

Ryan's heart pounded in his ears. "This isn't--this wasn't supposed to--this isn't part of the presentation," he stammered, stepping toward the laptop in a blind panic. His face had gone bone-white. His fingers missed the keyboard once, twice.

He clicked at the button in his hand but wasn't able to change the screen. He watched in horror as his past self became aware of the auditory gasps from the yard and removed the blindfold, confirming to the room that the naked man standing in the center of the video was none other than himself.

Ryan's voice cracked. "I'm so sorry. I don't--this wasn't meant to--this is a mistake--" He didn't even look back at the room before him, he couldn't.

He slammed his finger on the clicker and finally the screen flipped but much to his shock the following slide was a series of pictures of him at the partner, stark naked amongst his clothed party guests, his tiny dick rock hard in the open air. No! He clicked again, and again. Each slide featured pictures he never knew were taken that day.

Ryan's skin flushed hot with mortification as Mr. Dempsy's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. "Mr. Davidson, what is the meaning of this?"

The weight of his gaze felt like it could collapse the room. Ryan's heart slammed against his ribs, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. His hands were trembling. He turned back toward the table, every pair of eyes in the room now locked onto him with varying expressions--some confused, others clearly amused, a few visibly horrified. And Carl, of course, was sitting back in his chair with a smug smile, arms crossed, soaking it all in.

Ryan stood before a photo of himself and his three inch dick bobbing around as he walked through his back yard.

Ryan's mouth went dry as he struggled to form words, the room's tension building with each passing second. He could feel the eyes of the office staff on him--some whispering, others looking away in discomfort. The video on the screen seemed to mock him with every frame, replaying his worst moment, all over again.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Then, finally, it was Scott who broke the silence. His voice was firm, cutting through the noise. "Ryan, you need to answer Mr. Dempsy's question. What IS the meaning of this?"

Ryan turned to Scott and--there it was. A smile. A small, almost imperceptible smile, but unmistakable, hung on Scott's lips as he leaned back in his chair, arms casually crossed. It wasn't an expression of sympathy or support. It was something else entirely.

Ryan's breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. No. No, it couldn't be. But as the realization hit him, his body went cold. Scott was the only other person who had seen his presentation. He had access. He had the means.

And then it clicked--the subtle changes in Scott's demeanor, the way he'd played it so cool during their lunch earlier, the faint but knowing glint in his eyes when he'd told Ryan to own the moment.

It had been Scott. Scott, who'd done this. He was Trevor's friend... Trevor had him do this. It was all making sense.

"Its so small!" The familiar voice of Carl cut through his mind. A few of the guys in the back laughed. Not him... not the other employee in line for the promotion he wanted. Of course that was the least of his concerns now...

"Wait a second," One of the female employees called out, her voice piercing the laughter. "Is that... Heather?"

All eyes immediately shifted toward Heather, whose face paled as she realized what was happening. The camera had caught her in the background, laughing with the others at the backyard gathering. She hadn't expected to be noticed, but now the attention was on her.

"Wait--what?!" Heather stammered, her voice high-pitched and flustered. She pushed her chair back abruptly, standing up with a nervous laugh. "No, no, I... I didn't know anything about that! I was just there, I didn't-- I didn't know what was happening, I swear!"

"She didn't!" Ryan jumped to her defense, but her hateful angry glare silenced him. She had warned him if anyone found out, she would refuse to be associated with... what were her words, "terrible, awful, horrible thing".

"Look, I... I didn't know! I swear!" Heather's hands wrung together; her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "It's not my fault-- I didn't even know that video was going to be in the presentation. I--" Her voice trailed off, her words becoming more frantic as she realized the eyes were still on her.

Mr. Dempsy, his expression unreadable, didn't say a word. But everyone else remained silent, waiting for Heather to explain herself, and the tension in the air only grew thicker.

Finally, unable to bear the uncomfortable weight of the situation any longer, Heather looked to Ryan. "This is what happens when you work with a small dicked loser!" her voice trembling. With a sharp motion, she grabbed her purse from the back of her chair and stormed out of the room.

"That is so embarrassingly small!" One of the male employees, a tall, lean man with dark hair and a sharp, judgmental expression, broke the silence with a low chuckle.

"Looks like someone should've kept their clothes on. Not much to see there, huh?" A second man slapped the table in front of him.

The words hit Ryan like a punch, and the room responded with snickers--laughter laced with disgust. Ryan's face burned hotter than ever, but he couldn't look away from the screen. He knew exactly what they were referring to, and it felt like every eye in the room was crawling over him, picking him apart.

Another employee chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery. "I'd disown my son for having a clit dick like that!"

"Oh, his parents did!" Scott pointed out, and the room resounded in another fit of laughter.

"Yeah, man," one of the others added, his voice almost a sneer now. "You'd think if you're gonna pull a stunt like that, you at least have to have a reason for it. That's just pathetic."

"Honestly," Carl said, shaking his head "How can you trust or rely on the abilities of a man who can't even reach a full six inches minimum?"

Ryan could feel the heat of his face as it flushed even darker, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything happening. Carl was using this to his advantage, the bastard!

"Man, if I were you, I'd be mortified. That's gotta be the last thing you want going public." Carl continued, "In my experience little dicked guys like you can't think about anything else but how tiny that clit dicks are. There's no way you can lead a sales team!"

Through it all, one thing stood out--Mr. Dempsy. The older man, who had said nothing since the video started playing, was sitting quietly at the head of the table, watching it all unfold with a cold, indifferent gaze. His silence was suffocating. He hadn't so much as flinched, his expression unreadable, as if Ryan's personal humiliation was just another day in the office.

Ryan took a breath. He had to be brave. He'd lost family and friends to the fact he had such a small dick but he had to keep going.

"I'm not naïve," he said, his voice steadier now. "I know I have a tiny dick. These photos and the video was taken from a surprise birthday where my partner Trevor helped me come out to my friends and family about being so small in the dick department. Clearly, he thought it'd be in my best interest to come out to all of you now."

His eyes swept the room, stopping briefly on Carl, then Scott, then finally Mr. Dempsy--who was watching intently, brows knit but unreadable.

"I want to see it." The words seemed to spill from his mouth.