«Big Penis Disorder:» An Excerpt About Lukas Gage’s Ex from His Memoir ‘I Wrote This for Attention’

Lukas Gage has nothing to hide. In his revelatory debut memoir, I Wrote This for Attention (Simon & Schuster) out October 14, the actor unapologetically tackles skeletons most celebrities would rather keep hidden in their closet, including the traumatic, tough-to-navigate divorce of his parents; his use of drugs and alcohol; borderline personality disorder; hot-takes on Hollywood culture; and yes, relationships. 

Gage, most known for his roles in wildly popular, meme-able TV shows like The White Lotus, Euphoria, You, and darkly-tinged thriller/horror projects like Companion and Smile 2, absolutely goes there in a chapter titled “Big-Penis Disorder,” chronicling his relationship with an ex described as an “easygoing, earthy Malibu himbo” from whom he contracted STDs (two at once!). The chapter, gossipy as it may be, contains a deeper message about mental health, a perpetual desire for validation, and the quest to discover love-of-self—a theme neatly explored throughout I Wrote This for Attention.

Below, Gage unpacks the book’s therapeutic, healing subjects, plus, shares an exclusive excerpt from the book (lucky for us, it’s related to what we’ve all Googled about him before). 

I Wrote This for Attention is an arresting book title. How did you land on it?
It was the title from day-one, and I’ve never gotten more pushback from my agents and publishers. They fought me on it for a while, but I just knew in my heart there was no other title—it’s so hilarious and it sets the tone. 

The memoir genre is full of incredible stories. Who are some of your favorite celebrity authors?
Julia Fox’s Down the Drain was one of my favorite books I’ve ever read. She’s a beautiful writer and the messy narrative has so much heart in it. You think of Julia Fox and you think it’s going to be chaotic and crazy, but then, unexpectedly, there’s this element of female figures that saved her life as a throughline—it was a huge inspiration and she’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever talked to in my life. Demi Moore’s book Inside Out was incredible. As a kid, I loved Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis and Larry Sloman, and I just read Mark Ronson’s new book Night People.

You reflect on your childhood and write from the point of view of empathy towards choices you describe as impulsive or chaotic. Now you’re 30. What advice do you have for your younger self?
You are a walking contradiction and that’s okay. You don’t have to have it all figured out; it’s okay not to have it all figured out. Stop trying to change who you inherently are.

Who would you cast in your biopic?
Jojo Siwa. She’s polarizing like me. Her sexuality is confusing like mine has been for people. She’s unapologetically herself and it can rub people the wrong way, or people can really get down with it. Aesthetically, she has blonde hair—well, not right now—and blue eyes. I could see it: She could really transform, dip her toes into a crazy role. This article’s going to come out and say “Lukas Gage Wants Jojo Siwa to Play Him in the Biopic of His Book,” and I can’t wait for it.

Is that the headline?
Yes! Please, do it. I love it. I’m sold on it.

You’re honest about substance use in the book. What was your intention including those deeply personal aspects of your life?
I’m not trying to have a deeper message about the statement of drugs and addiction—that feels above my pay grade for this book. But, experimenting with drugs and alcohol was a byproduct of me wanting connection and wanting love and wanting to be seen and validated. To me, there’s such a nostalgia to that period of time that I would be doing a disservice by not mentioning the limo buses of molly and the raves and this and that. It’s ingrained in me and that was such an important time. 

Let’s talk about “Big Penis Disorder,” the chapter you’ve let us publish [below]. Why did you decide to write a chapter about an ex-boyfriend and STDs, and, in tandem, share your borderline personality disorder diagnosis?
When you experience abandonment at an early age, as I did in my childhood and with my dad, it has a way of manifesting into all relationships later on in life—that wound will always be there. With this relationship, I wanted to shed light on a story that wasn’t about losing the love of my life. It was about how much I could lose myself in a relationship. But [it was] one that I didn’t even want, just because I needed someone else to make me feel whole, and to not have the threat of abandonment on the horizon; I kept onto somebody in an effort to not feel alone. I wanted to show how abandonment is linked so deeply with borderline personality disorder. 

I had to lose myself that far to get the help to then figure out that diagnosis. They go hand in hand. With my diagnosis, my whole life—fear of abandonment, self-image issues, self-identity issues—was now put into words that I could understand by a professional. There was a relief in hearing it because I felt so alone in these extreme relationships and mood swings and splitting [a psychological term] and loss of sense of self; I just felt alone in it and suddenly felt way less alone. 

You write about several exes in the book. One of your most public relationships was chronicled on The Kardashians. How did you decide to be so open about your love life?
The line [between] public and private interest has always been a tricky dance—I’m either doing too little or too much. Part of the decision to be so in your face about my relationship was an act of defiance of people on the internet constantly coming for me and questioning me and accusing me of taking roles from people. It was almost abandoning my own sense of values of wanting to keep relationships sacred and personal. And then, suddenly, I abandoned that whole thing just to prove a point. I don’t even know who I was trying to prove it to—stranger trolls in Ohio? I don’t know why it mattered so much to me, but it did, and I just wanted everyone to shut up. So I was like, Do you want an answer? And really shoved it down your throat. 

What have you learned about your relationships, romantic or platonic, by writing about your experiences and thinking about who is allowed in your inner circle?
It goes hand-in-hand with the borderline personality diagnosis and this term called splitting, which is viewing things as all good or all bad. I’ve learned there’s a gray area in between. People don’t have to be the love of my life or the villain of my life. I’ll always love love and I maybe will never diminish that part of myself, but that doesn’t mean I need to get married after three weeks of knowing someone. I can maybe wait four seasons next time, at least. There’s this impulsivity and boldness about myself that I love, but now I can take a minute and take a breather.

“Big-Penis Disorder,” excerpted from ‘I Wrote This for Attention’

After finishing filming You that summer, I packed my bags and traded in my U.K. flat for the Ex’s Malibu beach house. I hoped we could delete the past six months from our memories, but when we got home, it felt like our relationship was still lost in the gloomy London fog.

The Ex felt like a different person—normal, more himself than he had been during our time overseas. When we were back in the rhythm of our old routine, surrounded by the familiarity of our city, everything else faded into the background. It felt like we’d found our way back to each other. Our days unfolded with simplicity: surfing, reading books as we basked in the sun, going to yoga with Cheryl and Rhonda. We disconnected from the noise of others—no phones, no social media—and in that space, I rediscovered why I cherished my relationship with the Ex.

Soon, the ease of it all began to unravel. The things I’d once found so insightful about him now started to feel like indifference. He’d just sit for hours on end, reveling in the mundanity. He’d memorize questionable facts about whatever microbiomes are and recite them with a twinkle in his eye that, initially, I’d swooned over. Until I realized that twinkle was empty, just like him, just like us.

I tried reintroducing him to my friends, but even in the light of day, they didn’t seem to be warming up to him.

“Lukas, I have to be honest, I’ve never heard him talk about anything other than himself. He’s never asked me one question in the several months I’ve ‘known’ him.”

“He asked if Marvin Gaye was an up-and-coming artist . . .” 

“He talks inside my mouth.” 

We’ll call it mixed reviews. On the surface, I was like, They just don’t know him like I do! Why do they care so much?

Deep down, I knew they were right. Still, I was bullheaded and hasty, always have been, and it was going to take more than earnest pleas from people I love and trust most in life to change my mind. 

Summer collapsed into fall, and I continued to pretend I wasn’t noticing more and more the things that were wrong with the relationship. I started spending more time with Cheryl and Rhonda while he would hit up Equinox for hours on end.

One day, as I was getting out of the ocean, I felt something strange—a tingling sensation on my penis. Had something stung me in the water? I quickly opened my suit to check, and sure enough, the tip of my penis looked like a raw, red stoplight.

That night, I showed it to the Ex. He looked perplexed and shrugged.

“Could it be a bacterial infection? From the water?”

I was pretty sure that wasn’t a thing, but I also didn’t want to rule it out as a possibility.

“Let’s keep an eye on it,” he said.

When I woke up the next day, the burning sensation was even worse.

“I think this might be something serious,” I said to him, but he kept insisting that it was likely some kind of bacteria. All day, I went down a Reddit rabbit hole: Anyone experiencing a penis bacterial infection from swimming in the Malibu beaches today? This week? Ever?

Unfortunately, evidence was slim. When the Ex got back from the gym, I was waiting on the couch, my anxiety practically radiating off me. I’d been running over everything in my head for hours. When I told him what Reddit said, he cut me off.

“I’m telling you, I know people who have had this happen to them, Lukas!” 

He had a tendency to say my name at the end of every sentence. It felt like he was trying a little too hard to make sure I knew he was talking to me, as if I’d somehow forgotten.

“Okay, please just tell me the truth. Is this an STD?” 

His mouth dropped. “Oh my God. No. Are you kidding me?”

I almost felt bad for accusing him, but I was running out of explanations for why my penis felt like it was marinated in Tabasco. That night in bed, I stared at the ceiling, trying to self-soothe and quiet all the warning signs telling me shit was about to hit the fan.

In the morning, we’d gone nuclear: My dick was leaking toxic waste like Chernobyl. I asked him to give me a ride to the walk-in clinic, and he happily agreed. He grabbed his car keys and his protein smoothie, and reassured me it was going to be fine. He was being so casual about it. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong. Maybe he was being truthful and I was just always expecting the worst in people. Maybe I was being paranoid and he was right. 

As we sat in his Tesla on the way to the doctor’s office, I took a deep breath.

“Listen, I want to give you one last chance to tell me the truth. Did you sleep with someone else? This is your get-out-of-jail-for-free card if you just tell me the truth.”

“Lukas, really? Are you really asking that?” He laughed, slightly offended.

“Well, what am I supposed to think? I’m literally leaking slime.”

“I don’t know! I really don’t. What I do know is you are going to feel really silly when they give you some antibiotics and tell you this is all some Malibu bacteria—” 

“That’s not a fucking thing! That’s such a Glee-ass lie!”

“What does that mean, Lukas?” 

“Stop ending and starting a sentence with my name! People only do that in soap operas!” 

“Can we not? You never listen to me, so if it makes you feel better to hear it from a doctor, let’s just do it.” 

There it was again, that calmness.

My phone buzzed, and I saw it was my mom calling. I answered and put her on speaker in an effort—because yes, I am close enough with my mother—to get her advice about my penis.

When I explained the bacteria hypothesis, my mom took longer than usual to answer.

“What the hell are you talking about? That’s not a thing.”

Her response was simple but enough to make my breathing slow. 

The Ex chimed in.

“Hey, Paulina, Lukas is being neurotic. It is absolutely a thing. There are all these surfers from the pier who have had this happen to them. There’s a bunch of sewage that gets dumped into the ocean and causes infections. It’s so sad, like, sea life is dying and it’s ruining the coral reef.”

I held my breath and waited to see how my mom would react. 

“I don’t know, honey. That may be true, but I don’t think it affects your—” 

The Ex cut her off again.

“Trust me. It’s just a different culture. Come out to Malibu where all the surfers are, and you’ll definitely hear about it!” 

“I have lived in San Diego my whole life, dear. That is my culture.” 

He didn’t have an answer for that.

The conversation dropped off right there, leaving an uncomfortable silence that stretched as we drove down the PCH. 

Before I could even take a seat, the nurse led me straight to the back. Ironically, the doctor looked just like one of these Malibu surfers who, according to the Ex, probably suffered from the exact same penile affliction.

“So, what seems to be the problem, buddy?” 

“I—I’ve heard about bacterial infections you can get from the ocean? On your, uh . . . dick?” 

He smiled, and shook his head. “Uh, what?”

He could see the panic in my eyes and put on his best bedside manner.

“Okay, why don’t we see what we’re dealing with?”

I sheepishly got to my feet and dropped trou. The surfer doc took one look and tried to conceal his laughter.

“Oh yeah, man, that’s definitely an STD. The ocean’s a little more forgiving. We’ll get some tests going right now, no worries, bro. But for now, I’m gonna treat you with some antibiotics, cool?”

Turns out it wasn’t just one but two: gonorrhea and chlamydia. A double homicide.

A shot in the ass. A round of antibiotics. Then came the confrontation—the arguments, the shouting, and the tears. The STD was the least of my worries. What was a bigger pain in my ass than the shot in my ass was knowing I had handed him the truth on a silver platter—a chance to come clean, no strings attached, no judgment—and he had still lied to my face.

When it was all said and done, I packed my things and loaded my suitcases into Phoebe’s trunk. My friends gathered around, embracing me. As they tried to get my mind off it throughout the night, they reminded me, kindly, that they never liked him. I tried to remind myself that, deep down, I probably didn’t like him anymore, either.

Here’s the most fucked-up part: As furious as I was, I was so afraid of being abandoned, that a few weeks later, my dumb ass let him back in. Not intimately, but emotionally. After weeks of him begging, I gave him one final chance to exist in my life. I allowed him to hit me with all his half-hearted apologies and crocodile tears. And just when I’d accepted that maybe this would be okay, maybe I didn’t care that he cheated on me, maybe we were meant to be together and we all make mistakes—

He ghosted me. Full-blown, never spoke to me again. The day I agreed to give him a second chance, he said he was going to a concert with friends and promised to meet me for breakfast burritos the next morning. As it turns out, it wasn’t exactly a concert. I later discovered it was a rave, where he fell head over heels with a closeted Mormon on Molly, and moved to Utah the very next day. 

And that long-winded story about getting ghosted and STD’d brings us back to the facility in West LA, where a doctor, who, despite the headband, was way smarter than I will ever be, was looking me in my eyes and telling me that this was indeed about more than just a breakup.

“I KNOW IT’S such a basic reason to come to this place, and I need to just get over it, move on, forgive and forget . . .” I said. “It’s just that forgiveness feels so performative.”

“What’s another possibility?” she said. “What if forgiveness wasn’t for him? Or for the stuff you told me about your dad? What if it’s for you? What if you could see forgiveness as something for your own peace of mind?”

“Can we revisit this? I feel like I can halfway forgive him . . . Maybe I need to stay pissed off for a little while longer.” 

“Anger’s a bridge sometimes,” she said. “But you can’t stay parked on it forever.” 

I wanted to make a parallel parking joke so bad, but I stopped myself. The therapist adjusted her glasses and leaned forward slightly.

“Lukas, have you heard of BPD?” 

“Big-penis disorder?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. 

The therapist stared at me, I stared at her back. Both of us knew it wasn’t. 

“No, I asked you because you have eight out of nine markers for it.” 

“Are you sure it’s not big-penis disorder?” 

“It’s borderline personality disorder. I can give you some literature for it,” she said. I immediately felt resistance flood my body.

I’d spent so much time insisting I just wanted to be seen. And now, here this therapist was, turning over the corners of my psyche I’d been too scared to touch. It felt like shaking out that old, brown rug my mom had hoarded from house to house, full of dust and secrets. 

It wasn’t that I disagreed with her. Outbursts? Clearly. Abandonment issues? Sure. All-or-nothing relationships? Obviously. Distorted identity? Check. Check. Check. 

Hearing it laid out made me feel so flattened. So that was it? Not a tortured genius or an enigma. Just someone with a mood disorder and a treatment plan. Maybe I was just . . . vanilla. 

It was exactly what I’d been searching for: a fix. A quick and easy solution. But as she sent me home with the pamphlets, the literature, and a couple of prescriptions for mood stabilizing drugs, I realized that maybe there was no quick fix. But if there was even a chance, I’d swallow it whole.