Penis Dialogues

Now don't get me wrong. I got nothing against that play "Vagina Monologues" from a few years ago and all the success it has had. I'm not taking anything away from vaginas (in fact I am usually trying to give something to them, heh, heh) and there is nothing wrong with more exposure for vaginas, nothing. I root for vaginas every day.

It's just that there is something about the title, something about the attitude, that these vaginas have, that needs a little push-back. Not even a lot, just a little. And as a penis I need to speak up. If I were to write the story of the penis, it wouldn't be the same as theirs. I would title it "Penis Dialogues," because we penises don't do monologues. We do dialogues. Hear me out.

Now I know a lot of you out there are going, "sure 'dialogues,'" and what about all the times it's just you, and your guy is stroking you, where's the dialogue there? He's got his fist around your head, pulling away to beat the band, just so you can spurt some semen and he feels good and gets his rocks off. What sort of dialogue is that?

Let me explain. We talk to our owners all the time. ALL the time. When he has his fingers around our frenulum (gawd, I love how that word sounds) we are communicating with our man. "Hey bozo! how 'bout some lube?" Or "slow down or I'll blow before the next groin hair drops!"

We are talking constantly, giving feedback, saying our mind, and my point is that a penis is a great communicator. Like who was it, Bill Clinton was the Great Communicator? And we all know his penis got around. We enthrall audiences. We reason, we got focus, we are naturals in the communication department. We're uniters, not dividers. We charm women out of their skirts.

'Course Bubba, his prick's owner, wasn't so smart as he might have been. Leaving a stain of sperm on that silly girl's blue dress wasn't the brightest move, and if he had just had his cock in the right place and kept it there, the whole fuss might not have happened. Oh wait, I think it was Ronald Reagan who was the Great Communicator. Politics was never my strong suit. Never mind. Point still holds.

But penises speak. How would our guy get a soulmate without us? He sees a nice babe and I let him know, like pronto, that she has some promise by pressing against his undershorts, and making his head spin. A nicely filled out chest, a glimpse of upper thigh, a sweet smile with inviting lips - I see those and I am talking, I am letting him know. Here is an opportunity! Get moving!

Now I hear you again, and you're going, okay, point taken, you penises speak. But a dialogue is two ways, where is the listening? Okay, understood. But look at how we're put together. Penises have a mouth but no ears, whattaya expect?

We just listen in other ways, and don't start telling me we aren't SENSITIVE like those vaginas. Hell, I am as sensitive as you can get. My thrust is that we're all in this together, and I am happy to share the stage with vaginas (more the merrier if you ask me.)

But you probably didn't want to hear me ramble on this much to start off, anyway.

A little background about me: not telling my age but I am five and a half inches long (14 centimeters for you metric guys.) Not quite, but almost, that thick around. Size-wise I am strictly your average cock, and that has never bothered me.

What are you seven- or eight-inchers gonna do that I can't? Seems to me when you're that big and you meet a small cunt, you run the risk of banging your head up on a cervix or whatever it is that's at the end of the tunnel, like jumping on a trampoline and hitting the ceiling with your noggin.

I fit into all kinds of orifices no problem, and I love it, love it, when a wench takes me down far enough in her mouth to have her nose buried in my balls. How many girls are gonna take a monster all the way?

I remember Shawna, with those dark flashing eyes and big sidewinder boobs, used to do me superbly. She would lie back on the edge of the bed, her chest spread beautifully out, tits draping on each side, nipples erect, with her head over the edge and Mike, my owner, who I generally refer to as Meathead, would drop me, hard as a rock, down into her mouth and bury me back into her throat.

Oh my, that felt nice. Her nose would stick into my scrotum while she worked my shaft, swallowing and contracting her throat to make me tremble, and then when I was just about to shoot she would take a break and suck my nuts, and then go back for more.

Meathead would knead her chest, all spread out in front of him, while her mouth and tongue did wonderful things to me. Sometimes he couldn't resist lying on top of her to lick her notch, and then he would hump my load fiercely into her mouth, while she swallowed hard and played her hands over my asscheeks. Sure miss her.

I'd rather be thick than long, if I had a choice. Danny Greenberg back in high school had a big old long garden hose of a cock that waved about when he walked around the locker room but it was thin and pathetic looking. Why make it hard for a cunt to grip you? It would have been like sticking a skinny little straw in a big ol' beer stein and have it rattle around. Me, I never met a vagina that couldn't grip me good.

So size issues? None. I spurt as good as the big guys and I'll challenge any one of them to an impregnation contest. Now, of course, if I go skinny dipping in the cold ocean I do shrink up, and I will confess to times when I wish I didn't get so damn microscopic. At least in public.

Some guys have that long, low menacing look with a prick that hangs heavy and waves around like a talisman when walking on a nude beach, and I imagine that has to be a turn-on to the girls. Me, cold water makes me retreat like a turtle. If the Fairy Cock-mother gave me an extra half an inch or so of length one night, I wouldn't complain, but it doesn't matter to me in the slightest that I am not some stupid, big oversized piece of gristle.

I never weighed myself but there are times I feel like ten pounds. Don't dare shave myself (you guys that do, jeez you got a lot of courage) so I got a thick groin thicket. It never bothers me when its soaked with semen and a wench's juices. To be honest, I think I am pretty handsome, especially when erect. (My friends tell me so, anyway. My BEST friends drool over me - ha, ha, ha.)

Now let me say something right here that isn't popular with everyone, but I don't think you would find a prick, if he was honest, who would disagree. Your number one goal as a penis is to speed some semen forth into the world, and there is no, none, zilch better feeling in the world than doing that duty. And you know what? It doesn't much matter how it happens or who does it, whatever works for you.

I like a handjob as much as the next prick, even if my owner is the one doing the honors. Actually, sometimes that is still the best, since he knows me like the back of my balls, and can play me out like a hour-long poker game. (And he knows enough to pay attention to my testicles, something not every other partner has gotten into their head.)

I like fucking, getting sucked, even the rare, tight anus that I slide into sometimes, and just about anything someone will do to pay attention to me. I've had guys do me, often quite nicely, and in a way that most girls cannot duplicate.

I get turned on by a nice hefty sloping chest that is begging for a sperm load trickling down it, or a set of moist labia spread out in front of me, but I think all that is just individual preference. I know pricks who only respond to other pricks, or a set of guys' nipples, or some big hanging balls. Doesn't matter how the wiring goes, just as long as you're wired. I believe in equal opportunity penis use. Okay, got that off my chest.

I'm not saying how old I was when I first spurted, but I surprised the hell out of Meathead. He'd been playing around with me, pulling away 'cause it felt so good and when I finally let loose with a blast of virgin sperm he was sure he busted some internal plumbing. But the next day, he was back at me again and I made him get real good at cleanup for the next few years until we could get some auxiliary help in that department.

For over a year Mike would pull on me with his fingers until his best buddy Lenny showed him his own different wank method. Lenny, I found out later, was far more conventional, a garden variety masturbator, and would use a fist up and down.

Mike felt stupid for having just pulled on me, but I had no complaints and I had given him plenty of good times, and after we learned the fist job method, it became a nice little variation. And yes, Lenny put his hands to me too, along with some other buds in our overheated adolescent frenzies.

My first cunt (but not my first mouth, not telling that story here) was from one of Lenny's castoffs. They had fucked for a year before breaking up the summer after high school, and I hadn't minded when Arlene came to me to cry on Meathead's shoulders and complain about lousy Lenny treatment. (See? We do dialogue just fine.)

We were talking, and after a time her hand had drifted down to my groin. I was pushing the fabric, so to speak, trying desperately to meet her halfway. When she unzipped me and started running her soft little fingers over my head, I was sure that heaven had arrived.

Before you knew it, after she had whispered to Meathead that she was "safe" (I guess she had learned all this birth control sort of stuff from Lenny) she was laid out on the ground, her cutoff jeans down to her ankles, her crotch, red-lipped and inviting, all spread open. With help from her experienced fingers, Mike guided me in. The memory gets me hard to this day.

Her groin had sparse dark hair, and I remember each inch of her cunt that I penetrated that evening. Soft, moist, luscious. It was everything I imagined. A full-body, soft wet envelope, and one that gripped you back! Whoever designed it gets my vote for Engineer of All Time.

I wish I could tell you that it went on forever but it was more like five minutes, probably not even that. But having Meathead heaving away into her, on top, my balls urging me on with their great irresistible hydraulic pressure, and then, and then! being able to send my semen up her, that was fabulous.

We lay there forever. I was up a cunt! My gluey leavings all around me, oozing out and soaking our joined groins. It was warm, nice, wet, as cozy as anyplace I had ever been before.

And of course, perverse as it is, once you have made acquaintance with one vagina, you're dying to meet the rest of them too. Don't know why vaginas don't feel this way so much, but a penis is a born explorer. Uncharted cunt-territories, here I come! One if by hand, two if by bush! I'm not going to lie to you and make up a huge number about how many cunts I have tagged, but it is both plenty and yet not enough.

Now, I have had some wonderful one-night stands, and I remember an evening in Hawaii with a Kansas barmaid on vacation that stands out. Having her soft, succulent tits ride up and down my shaft before I emptied into her mouth, I will never forget that.

But for the most part, one-nighters are overrated, unless they turn into something longer term. The best loving, in my humble opinion, always comes from someone who has gotten to know you a little. I don't mind being catered to, I tell you.

A couple of former lovers really stood out. There was this hippie chick, who seemed really retro even at the time, with dreadlocks and fairly scruffy Earth Mother clothing, long shabby skirts and barefoot or sandals, and flopping blouses, which when sleeveless revealed great bushy armpits.

Tara was her name. She was skinny, had almost no tits at all but great, hard raisins of nipples she used to graze across Meathead's chest and face, made me tremble when she did that, and a delightful, tight little furry crotch that played music on me like no one before or since.

Meathead meet her on the beach on vacation in Northern California, and he ended up staying a couple extra weeks just to hang out with her. We fucked every day, often more than once, for three weeks straight. For the next half dozen years they would get together periodically, one way or another, for a mammoth fuck-fest that would go a week or two or however long they had together.

She was into tantra or tantric something-or-another, and Meathead had to learn how to sit cross-legged (full lotus! I never thought it possible for the doofus) while she gently lowered herself onto him so I could impale her, and wrapped her legs around his hips. She knew how to fold the blankets on the ground underneath them just right so he could sit that way for a long time without his knees or ass getting too fatigued.

They would close their eyes, kiss sometimes, and stay nearly immobile, focusing on genital nerve-endings that were sparking away like fireworks. There was some breathing business she had us do too. She fit me perfect, and we would stay as still as we could, as long as we could, until she would give me a little squeeze, or Meathead would contract his anus and make me move ever so slightly, and then staying still was almost impossible after that.

Meathead checked his watch once and found we had stayed coupled for over 40 minutes. While I don't normally track this sort of stuff, this has got to be some sort of record for me. Course the fact that she had drained my balls ten hours earlier that morning may have had something to do with my endurance.

His knees ached something fierce afterwards, and at the end invariably he didn't want to come in her that way since he couldn't very well push his pelvis into her, so he would upend her and take her on her back on the floor, ass pistoning away and driving me up that heavenly furrow of love. She gripped me hard after I spurt, and I could feel her marvelous cunt muscles squeeze me rhythmically, pulling the last dregs of sperm up out of my balls.

The thing about Tara was she was never in a hurry. If there was ever any way to tease me, coax me erect and keep me that way, just at the precipice of spurting, she would do it. She'd tickle my head with her tongue, rub her fingers up and down my shaft, fondle my testicles, press her palm into my perineum, all done with a grace and sheer enjoyment that melted my heart, if I even have a heart, and I am not sure that I do.

People always say a prick has no conscience and I take offense at that. We do, it just isn't what I would call a very robust conscience. It is a flexible conscience, a practical conscience, with an ability to adapt to changing circumstances.

If someone promises to suck me off every morning I will follow them around the world. How's that for loyalty! Now, if two girls had said they would suck me, I would follow both of them, and what's wrong with that? Why does loyalty have to be exclusive? If you keep truth just to yourself or one person, you are apt to be described as selfish or stingy. Truth is something you share, the more the better and it doesn't pay dividends to be someone known as being "economical" with the truth. That's where I think truth is just like semen - it is made, designed even, for dispersal. And the whole world is better, ah, lubricated, if you do it that way.

Now I should tell you a couple other experiences.

Regrets? Not many, although I will tell you one, although it was not my fault. This was a short-lived affair in college with a Jewish girl named Wendy Wallerstein. She was short and fairly chubby, but she was cute and Meathead fell for her, or rather her hefty handsome tits, hard.

A couple months into it, it was a Friday night and they had been out on the town, both having a little more to drink than is always a good idea. We were in bed, he had straddled her chest, which he loved to do with her, and was pushing me up and down her boob furrow.

She had big floppy breasts and enjoyed holding them closed with her hands to make a nice little valley for me to plow. Meathead would pause at the top-stroke to give her a chance to tongue my cockhead. I don't think she had had many a penis into her mouth before me, and in fact I may have been the first. Virgin mouth! I like the sound of that.

Anyway, she usually preferred to fuck, with me in a condom, which isn't my favorite but was okay, but this night riding her chest was our little foreplay ritual. Well, Meathead had been dumb enough to promise her, early on, that he would never come in her mouth. I could have told him it was a stupid promise. This is the sort of thing, on a truth level, you would think that politicians would have to learn at an early age. Liar, liar, pants on fire, etc.

Anyway, after getting pretty worked up going up and down her chest furrow, he had raised himself up on all fours and dangled my head into her mouth. She was working me over pretty good with her tongue, and Meathead found himself pumping me in and out of her lips a little, while she suctioned the rim of my cockhead. I could feel him squeezing his asscheeks together and my sperm was building up a good head of steam.

And I somehow knew that he was aiming, intentionally, to squirt into her mouth, despite her insistence he not do that. And sure enough, it felt so damn good that I let loose with a good strong first blast, right on the downstroke, hitting her tonsils with a good glob of semen.

Well, she was taken totally by surprise, although she ought to have known the signs I was giving off, and was she pissed. She pulled me out of her mouth and, stupid wench, held me off to the side, but not very carefully and my second spurt just missed her right eye, hitting her in the eyebrows. In those days I could shoot six inches on a bad day, and a good twelve inches easy when my balls were well-charged. 'Course I was above her too, which probably added to the velocity.

She turned away and I pumped another few rounds into her neck and hair, even coating one of her precious earrings. Oh Jesus, what a scene followed. She called him every name in the book, and I got my share too. "You and your stupid penis!" I remember hearing. Also "you fucking men are such messy beasts!" Well, duh. If there was any part of her she was vain about it was her dark curly hair, and now there was semen all over it, great globs of sticky white sperm splattered about her long handsome locks.

What was Meathead going to do? Volunteer to give her a shampoo? He tried, unsuccessfully, to pin the blame on me, saying he hadn't meant to erupt in her mouth, that it was all my fault for "coming too soon" (another penis myth - we never come "too soon," we come when we damn well feel like it.)

The night was ruined, and to tell you the truth, it wasn't even all that satisfying for me either. As you well know, a prick likes continued stimulation after the first heave, in fact throughout, and there I was, being held in the air like some kebab skewer, spurting semen all over the place, like I am supposed to, with my holder getting more and more upset, until finally the sperm dripping down her hand made her toss me aside like a rider off a bronco, and I was left in the air, still nodding with desire but my tanks incompletely drained, and feeling a little peeved myself. And it wasn't my fault! Meathead could have been honorable and pulled out of her mouth (or less honorable and kept me in there, which I would have liked more) but I was just doing what my Creator meant me to do.

So that was that. Meathead was tossed out of her apartment on his ear, trying to blame me in the process, and I grumbled all the way home, like a kid who was promised a plate of cookies and got a dish of broccoli instead. I had been hoping someday to get a chance to cream her tits, but looking back, I don't think she would have tolerated even that.

Best climax? That one is hard to pick, there are several up in that category, and I'll save that story for later. But I will tell you one thing, a prick's best orgasm is always the next one. Let me work on that and I'll get back to you.