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The clerk at the pharmacy gives you that same tight-lipped smile as she scans the box of Magnum XL condoms. Her eyes flick down to your wedding ring, then back up to your face. She knows. Of course she knows. A man like you couldn't fill these. You’re just the errand boy. Your wife texted you the specific brand and size an hour ago, while you were still at your desk. "Don't get the wrong kind," she wrote. "He's very particular. If you get the wrong size it won't fit him, he needs the XL ones." So here you are, paying for the condoms he'll use to fuck your wife tonight. The ones that will stretch around a cock so much thicker than yours. You wonder if he'll make her come harder because of the thin latex, or if he'll take it off halfway through and finish inside her, just because he can. You hand over the cash, picturing her handing him one from this very box, her fingers trembling with excitement as she rolls it down his shaft right in front of you. How many boxes will you buy this month? How many times will you stand in this line, a walking advertisement for your own inadequacy? The clerk bags them silently, and you know she's imagining the man who will actually use them.