Boys are showers or growers. In the first compulsory communal showers in the cinderblock grey square of my middle school, the boys shed their acid-washed jeans and fleece-lined jackets and rushed into the water. They kept their glances to themselves. And I believed that I could hide my nub. I was a grower. Grown, my penis was completely normal sized. I’d done measurements and checked the charts. My penis didn’t become flaccid. Rather, once stowed, it was the size of a marshmallow and the color and texture of butter left on the counter. I took solace in the idea of the Hulk, of a tiny man who grew into a gigantic veined muscle. He was a man-sized grower. However, in the hot steam of the shower, as the boys gingerly washed and kept their hands in motion, waving over their privates to keep them private—no one wanted to be caught glancing down—I was curious, because even these evasive maneuvers could not hide that I was surrounded by showers, flaccid hulks the color and texture of butter left on the counter.