Too Big: Part 1
Internet sources say the longest, erect, human penis (presently living & verified) is just under fourteen inches. Another study says the average human penis, Black or White, runs 5½ inches, (with women claiming in surveys they want 6½). The population percentage tapers off fast on either side of those lengths.
So, ladies, what's all this about bigger is so much better, huh? Are most guys coming up short? Or is more girth what you really want, but don't understand the physiology well enough to admit? And how about better technique? Does that count for anything?
Let me tell you, having a dick much longer than average is a pain—usually for the women the guy gets involved with. They might not admit it to their friends, but it is. Yeah, I know. After all, bragging is bragging, right? Even for women.
My family was tall, my father over six-two, Mom five-ten. So it was no surprise that in junior highschool I bypassed Mom and made it to six-three by the time I graduated high school. Being somewhat above average, height-wise, resulted in my being somewhat over average in the length and girth department. That fact soon seeped from the boys' locker room in spite of my shyness, and into the database of my female high school classmates.
Through most of high-school, I kept to myself—embarrassed, you know, a result of looking different than the other guys. And even then, I got teased a lot.
I turned eighteen very early (mid-September) my senior year. So did one girl who got so obnoxious with her flirts, I finally gathered together guts enough to ask her out. Actually, I didn't really ask her out; I merely accepted when she asked me out, but I knew from the start it wasn't for my high academic acuity. Oh, well. Had I been asking her out instead other way around, it wouldn't have been for her high grade-point, either. She was slim, short-to-medium height, blonde, and looked real good in her skimpy cheerleader outfit—you know, one of those bouncy girls whose every move said,
wouldn't-you-just-love-to-fuck-me?
Sexy, yes, but she certainly wasn't much in the brain trust department. In the long run she married some guy who was handsome enough and okay brain-wise, spawned four kids by him, then abandoned him and their kids to go live with some lazy deadhead who was neither handsome nor smart. Explain that one to me some day if you have the time.
Sandi Moore—that was her name—turned eighteen a week after of me so she graduated the same year. According to gossip, by start of basketball season, she had already shagged most of the seniors on our basketball team. I guess she figured having me hanging around would make the following spring and summer more interesting. And surely, my mistaken reputation would enhance her reputation while racking up one more ball player for her portfolio.
So, I lost my virginity—I hadn't been trying to protect it, only protect myself from the embarrassment of not knowing my way around a woman's body. As I recall, we hooked up several dozen times before she said
no more with me
and found herself a different guy, an ex-football jock this time. During our last date—which wasn't a date at all by the standards we'd set previously—when she dropped the
never-again-with-you
bomb, I asked her, dumbfounded,
why?
"Sex with you always hurts." Well, from her experience she should know if I made a difference.
"Hurts?" I mean, don't girls always moan, groan, and twist around like in the porno flicks when sex gets headed toward its climax?
"Yeah. You just don't really care about me, and it always hurts awful bad," she said.
How was I supposed to know? Sure, usually when I really got into her, her breath would clutch, but I thought that was just part of the game. Hell, I didn't know. Like I said, she was my first, and Sex-Ed Class certainly hadn't covered that! Everything you heard about girls said they wanted more, and more yet. Yes, I knew my ten inches was more than most guys had, but what was the problem? When I was around girls, they always teased me one way or another, asking if I thought I had enough to satisfy them. Or would I only disappoint them, too?
Despite this, I did ask several others out toward the middle of summer, but none lasted. Most of my sex life was one-on-one, i.e. me-and-me. One thing I did discover, though: sex taken to completion was a lot more fun than having the girl scramble out from under me at the critical moment or start shouting,
Stop! You're hurting me!
They kept coming at me anyway, although with each experimental run I tried to figure out something that worked. But I doubt a woman can ever understand how difficult it is for a man to hold himself back, even a little, at that moment when his body wants—demands!—he put every bit of himself deep up inside her.
None of these girls had mouths or throats big enough to serve as pussy alternatives, and although I was willing to try anal with them, that idea scared them even worse than I made their pussies ache. So the word got around—even outside our school—that I was a bum fuck. But anyway, I still had both hands.
About the time I started junior college that fall, things turned worse for a short while, then better. One of my better friends' much older sister started pestering me every time I stopped by his home to visit.
Molly was tall, too, five-nine at least, blonde, and pleasant to look at, although a bit on the rangy side. I guess her being slim and big-boned gave that impression. Stan referred to her breasts as
after-market
but they looked great on her—DD, I guessed—but because of her height, not overdone. He said his parents bought them for her twenty-fifth birthday to help her keep her husband interested, but over the following two years, her marriage disintegrated anyway and they divorced. She kept their house, but if her presence was any indication, she spent most of her time at her parent's home.
One evening I was over there, talking cars and motorcycles with Stan, but she kept pestering me, being even more a nuisance than usual. I figured she went all out hitting on me because their parents had gone out for the evening.
"All right," she said out of the blue when Stan left the room to get his
Harley Davidson History
book. "My brother says you're so smart about fixing things, maybe you can fix my laundry room faucet. I had a plumber come out, but he didn't fix it. He was young and kept giving me the snake eye, so I think he was a married guy just wanting to make a return call so he could try hitting on me again. I haven't got time for that."
I nodded. Circumstances being different, I wouldn't mind making a warranty call on her place myself! Between my
I can fix-it ego
and honestly wanting to save her a plumbing bill, I said I'd have a look at it the following evening before supper. Yes, six o'clock would be fine, and I'd bring whatever tools I expected to need.
"Don't eat supper," she said. "You fix it, I'll buy you a huge steak."
I nodded. Steak sounded good to me! A red-blooded young male needs red meat, right?
So, the following evening, with a slip of paper on which she wrote her address in hand, I pulled up in front of the VERY nice rancher at East Douglas Fir Street. Ex-hubby must have had rich parents or had done very well in whatever business or occupation he chose. Maybe his money attracted that mistress Stan said Molly blamed for the whole debacle. The three-car garage at the east end of the house was nice, too. I wondered what Molly kept in there besides that bright red, retro Camaro she usually drove over to her folks' house.
She met me at the front door, looking more lady-like than she usually did at Stan's house. Her smile said
Welcome
in more depth than just a
Hi, come in, fix my faucet, let's go buy you a steak dinner, then I'll send you home
way. Made me wonder if her faucet really did need fixing.
But she wasn't fibbing, although it was a quick fix: A new sealing washer kit from the closest Diamond Hardware Store, install it, test it, no leaks. Situation solved.
Well, situation sort of solved. The whole project took longer than it should have because in her small laundry room, her body kept getting in my way. Once, when I looked up at her with mock annoyance on my face; she just smiled a
go-ahead-and-hit-on-me-smile,
but I pushed by her and concentrated on the faucet.
"Okay, there we got it."
"Good." She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight enough I swear I could feel the nipples on those DDs poking me in the chest. The kiss she planted on my mouth quickly matured into her tongue sticking halfway down my throat. I'd never had that experience before, at least not with a full grown woman who knew what she was doing.
She pulled back and looked me squarely in eyes. "Thanks, Honey. Now let's go have dinner. I got something else for you to fix after we eat, so I don't want it to get too late. You got school tomorrow, right?"
Here I'll skip most of the dinner's description. It was just one damned good steak dinner, with beautiful woman siting across the table watching me eat. She ate only a small salad; I wondered how she kept that body of hers nourished on so little food, but however she did, it sure worked. She wouldn't even take the little bit of steak I had left over. "Take it home. You can eat it Saturday for lunch, to remind you how much I appreciate you fixing things for me."
In that I detected more than merely
fixing a faucet
.
My car lacked the prestige of her Camaro, so as we came out of the restaurant, I almost choked when she fished its keys from her purse and handed them to me. "Here. You drive. I just want to relax. You remember how to get back?"
I shook my head. We must have come seven or eight miles over there from her house. And this wasn't my usual part of town.
"Good. Then, you drive, I'll give you directions."
Okay. Was I going to turn down a chance to drive a new Camaro? The hottest looking thing GM had sent down the pike in years?
But right off, her directions struck me a bit strange. I couldn't have found my way back without directions, but I didn't remember driving through the motel district to get to the restaurant, either.
"Turn in here," she said, pointing to a Best Western's parking lot entry. And once we were in the parking lot, she pointed again, saying, "Park next to that Charger there, the Blue one."
Convenient coincidence, it seemed, but then I realized this B-Western's parking spaces were marked by room number. I looked at Molly, a weak, questioning smile on my face.
"I already checked us in. Just come with me. I already got everything we need up upstairs." She pointed toward the third floor now towering above us.
I helped her from the car, but from there on, it was both of us helping each other. The card key from her purse meant no fumble at the motel's outside or the room doors. The room was huge—was this was one of those suites you see and hear about in movies?
"The bathroom's in there," she said, pointing in that direction. "You go get ready, I'll get ready out here."
"Ready?" I said, feeling a strange expression come over my face.
She nodded. "Honey? You can't fix what I need fixing with your clothes on, so go take 'em off."
Oooh—kay!
"And don't you dare peek until I'm ready. I'll come knock on the door. Then you can come to bed."
Bed? Well, I guess this was going to happen, so why question it?
She didn't knock on the door; instead I heard her call, "Okay, I'm ready. Come out to bed."
I peeked around the edge of the bathroom door, wondering what I'd see when I stepped out. The room was mostly dark, with only a sliver of dim, mid-evening light slipping between the black-out curtains. But that had to be her, that darkish shadow on the bed.
"Come fix me, okay? I need a lot of fixing, and it's going to take a lot longer than that faucet."
I stepped through the door into the main room, toward the huge bed, and stumbled over her suitcase she left sticking out from under the desk. I felt my way from the edge of the bed toward where I figured she was. Her hands found my thigh and my boxers. In a moment her hand found its way inside them, grasped my ten inches and squeezed it.
"Why you still got undies on, Jeff?" she said.
Truth was: embarrassment. She might see how big I was and get scared off before I even got close to her.
"Sit on the edge of the bed here and take those boxers off. Come on. Let's not waste time, okay?"
I had little to do with my boxers' removal. Molly did it with the hand that wasn't holding my erection.
"There. Now lie back on the bed and turn around lengthwise." She led more by her grip on me than anything else, and in a moment she rose on her knees and stepped across me at my hips, never losing her grip on my penis.
