The doors were scheduled to open at 2 p.m. sharp for the 1st Annual Smallest Penis in Brooklyn Contest at the Kings County Bar on Saturday. By the time I arrived at 1:50 there was already a long line. All were there to witness the "lifelong dream" of owner Jesse Levitt come true: crowning the smallest penis in Brooklyn. Our sense of awe and wonder had yet to be dulled by heat and fatigue. Intrepid freelancer John Surico and I were eager, nervous. But who were the contestants? Where?

[UPDATE: Here's our exclusive interview with the winner.]

The line, and the bar that filled soon after (with a surprising lack of typical Brooklyn signifiers), flickered with not-so-discreet glances. What's under those cargo shorts? Are you a contestant? What about this guy? But it looks like he's with his girlfriend! Or this one? To these men around us, the gaze was penetrating, inquisitive, but also (at least in theory) undesired. The first brush with a discomforting reality: Is this what women feel like all the time? Subject to rampant unwanted leering? Jesus.

Master of Ceremonies Chicken Bitches introduced the panel of judges: Bar manager Amiee Arciuolo, whose excellent romp with one of the Unendowed out there inspired the cause célèbre, Cherry Pitts (burlesque dancer), and Go Go Harder (nightlife host, porn star), along with the esteemed Penis Kittens, the competition's little helpers. The contest opened with an original song by Don Hoe, which I am regretting even as I type it: "Tiny penis in my mouth, makes me happy north, east, west, and south." THAT is what you're regretting, you sarcastically ask? Quiet down.

The Contestants: Perrywinkle, Sugar Daddy, Rip Van Dinkle, Zigonet (henceforth French, as his name was unclear and he was ultimately disqualified), The Delivery Man, and unexpected last-minute entry Flo-Rida (not that one).

First up was Evening Wear. Each contestant did their catwalk on the bar in a fancy tuxedo hammock handmade by Aimee and her mother. Artisanal! Brooklyn! It was exciting, and the unveil didn't disappoint. After that came the Talent and Q&A segment. Each contestant did a little something, but most of them danced. Perrywinkle moved interpretively to Blink 182's "All the Small Things," and was asked who would play his penis in a movie. "John Malcovich." Sugar Daddy did a half-strip to that insufferable fucking song "Sexy and I Know It"... a bunch of times. His answer portion drew some love: "I love myself and I'm proud of myself and small dick is fine with me." The Delivery Man, already a favorite, did a little stand-up comedy. Rip Van Dinkle did a rap/poem: "He doesn't know that his old bone is captured by all these cell phones." His cadence was practiced.

Zigonet laid on the stage for a moment, pants unbuttoned, then stood up and tried to make fart noises with his hands into the microphone. They tried to play him off, but the music reenergized him and he began to dance erratically. He was pulled off the stage and subsequently disqualified for his drunkenness. This was an uncomfortable moment.

Flo-Rida took the stage and did a full frontal striptease—the first to go totally nude (beware the NSFW photo as you click through the gallery)—and was generally rambling about being 45 years old and bi-sexual. This was also uncomfortable—the shadows ovewhelmed out the light briefly. Um, again: Zigonet laid on the stage for a moment, pants unbuttoned, then stood up and tried to make fart noises with his hands into the microphone...

The final section was Swimwear. The contestants lined up on the bar in essentially white cheese-cloth thongs and were sprayed with water guns. The crowd jeered and cheered. They laughed. We all laughed.

But before the crowning, nearly 3 hours in, what must've been a sewage leak or a terrific accident caused a truly disturbing smell to waft throughout the bar. A crowd of people left quickly and the staff was scrambling to address the problem. Management was admirably doing all it could to neutralize the odor—I'm not sure even they knew what the hell it was or where it was coming from, making it all the more disturbing. It was an aggressive, emetic scent, made more frightening by the 3.5 hour run time, drunkenness, overcrowding, claustrophobia, and sweat-lodge perspiration.

Ultimately, and triumphantly, humanity won out. The energetic, engaging, and talented hosts and judges kept the contest light and fun. Eventually, as even the most disinterested spectator could have pegged, The Delivery Man was crowned king. $200 dollars and the prestigious title of Smallest Penis in Brooklyn were his and his alone. He was funny, charming, cute, confident, and aggressively normal. Fantastically Nice. He wasn't wasted, wasn't incoherent, wasn't scary, wasn't sad. He was proud. He won because he was the Spirit of the competition. An ideal competition would only have contestants like him. And his presence also underscored the critical point—this wasn't empirical. The contest cared naught for your measurements. It was about attitude.

Aricuolo also noted to us that they "couldn't figure out a way to get them to grow" in any reasonable or legal capacity, so a true size would remain a mystery. Certain antiquated puritanical restrictions reared their ugly heads yet again. Still, the stark contrast between The Delivery Man to some the other contestants cast in high relief the gathering's darker side, very much present but held at bay by the good will of the crowd, judges, and The Delivery Man and Rip Van Dinkle.

There were three contestants (made two by French's early exit) who kept their Eyes Wide Shut masks the whole time, in effect negating (or at the very least resisting) the celebratory and positive spirit of the contest. Shame could not be far from the mind, particularly when contrasted with the radical acceptance and confidence of The Delivery Man. A contestant too drunk to participate, like a too-drunk guy at a party, always prompts reflection. An older Flo-Rida who I would consider genuinely frightening in most arenas, not to mention on stage, inebriated and ass naked, jabbered incoherently. Too much to drink.

In the end, what might emerge from the coverage is also the requisite sensationalizing simply because something like this took place in Brooklyn, to be filed under "Oh Look, More Dumb Brooklyn Shit." For the record, it didn't feel very "Brooklyn," whatever that hell that means; the crowd didn't even look particularly "Brooklyn." It was unremarkable. It could have—hell, probably has already—taken place somewhere else in the country.

Thus, we conclude, with far too many words on a Small Penis talent show. Hi, Mom.