Entry 01 I Have A Big Dick

So... Today, I begin.

Because it's time.

For me to speak, to reveal, to rise.

My name is Maximus. This is my first offering here on literotica.com. I feel like I've been circling this moment for years. There is a part of me that really just wants an outlet, a place to be seen and vulnerable and sexy. To let my shame dissolve into a great big erotic yes. I hope this first entry has you come back for more. This is just the beginning. Something in me feels like it's hovering on the edge of revelation. For such a long time I've been holding my breath beneath layers of silence and repression. Carrying a truth too large to ignore, too powerful to suppress, too holy to keep hidden any longer.

So here we go. Let's not dance around it. Let's begin with my center of gravity. The main event. My dick.

Let me offer you the numbers, though they barely capture the experience: Soft, I hang somewhere between 5 and 7 inches—depending on temperature, mood, how much I've been seen, how much I've been worshipped. When I'm erect... its over 8 inches long, thick as a wrist, with a girth that makes lovers pause, smile nervously, then open in awe. 6 inches around, full and pulsing, veined like a sculpture. My cock is like a fat meaty cylinder slightly thicker at the base tapering up to my huge prominent head. My shaft is almost perfectly straight with an ever so subtle upward curve.

And my balls? Oh my big balls. Two heavy orbs the size of chicken eggs, swinging like twin moons behind Shiva's shining shaft. They constantly ache. They overflow. They offer cum like a dispenser.

The truth that has shaped my life, my body, my legend:

I have a big dick.

And honestly it's mythic.

It is the GodCock.

That's not me being cheeky. That's actually what one lover called it—awestruck, on his knees, lips parted in reverence. And the name really stuck. And once that name was spoken, it echoed through bedrooms, bathhouses, temples of flesh and fantasy, whispered like a sacred title across cities and decades.

This cock has gravity. It shifts the mood in a room. It lingers in dreams. It haunts lovers who try to move on.

I'm not exaggerating. I'm just telling the truth.

And it's not just the size. It's the presence. The proportion. It's the shape, the curve, the way it hangs—so prominent. The way it sways when I walk. The way it rises when it's being watched. It's not just a cock. It's a relic of the gods. Lovers and worshippers alike become dickmatized. People remember it. They write me love poems about it. They slide into my messages years later, still haunted.

One man said, "Your dick looks like the dick I see in my mind when I imagine a big dick."

Another said, "Every dick I've had since you has been a letdown."

So many have knelt, stared, worshipped and whispered: "It's fucking huge"

But here's the paradox. I didn't always feel that way. I was raised in a world that punished pleasure. A conservative, religious household where desire was dangerous. Curiosity was sin. And my body—especially this body—was something to cover, hide, control. I was scolded for touching myself. For feeling arousal. For being seen. When my cock began to grow, it wasn't celebrated. It was feared. It was hidden. I was told to shrink.

But you can't shrink something this massive. You can only ignore it for a while—until it demands to be seen. My cock would not be silenced.

He grew. He hung. He rose—and with him, so did I.

I used to feel shame. I used to feel like I needed to hide. I'd downplay. I'd laugh it off. I'd try not to notice how people noticed. I tried to ignore the fact that somehow everyone always knew I had a big dick. But the truth? They always saw it. Whether I hid it or not. The outline in my pants. The bulge in my boxers. The undeniable swing in my step.

I was born with a god between my legs.

And for too long, I treated him like a curse.

But now? I treat him like the central pillar of the cathedral of my life.

I hold my dick is a temple of worship, and my body it's a sacred altar.

And I am the high priest of pleasure.

I've had hundreds—thousands—of lovers. Men, mostly. But not only.

I'm queer. Neuro-queer. Horny. Sensual. ADHD with a twist of divine chaos. I'm a speaker of strange truths. A mystic of the flesh. A walking paradox—saint and sinner, healer and whore, teacher and temptation.

Oh yeah, you probably wanna know a bit about what I look like.

Well, I'm in my early 40s and easily pass as at least 10 years younger. I stand at about 5'6", lean and toned in that kind of natural, lived-in way. Around 150 pounds—some sharp angles, some softened edges. Having a small frame really makes my cock much more prominent.

I keep my head shaved; it suits me. I've got a goatee and a curled mustache that give off a bit of a devilish vibe—not over the top, just enough to make you wonder what kind of trouble I've gotten into. My eyes are golden brown, sometimes catching the light in a way that makes them glow with a little mischief, a little mystery.

My body's covered in a soft, well-kept layer of fine brown hair—chest, belly, legs, arms. It's part of me, and at this point, I like how it feels—earthy, honest, warm. If a satyr wandered out of Greek mythology and slipped into something more modern and fluid, I'd probably be somewhere in that territory. There's definitely a masculine presence about me—broad, heavy, grounded—but I carry it with a gender-fluid twist that throws people off just enough to keep things interesting.

I like to say I look a bit like a real-life Disney villain—one you're not sure if you might wanna fuck, and definately makes you question something about your own sexuality. Most days I'm in loose, flowing harem pants with nothing underneath, my cock swinging freely under the fabric like a slow, deliberate pendulum. I wear a fitted tank or soft tee, usually with a scarf or shawl tossed over my shoulder—something that moves when I do. And yeah, I usually have a streak of black eyeliner, not perfect, but always intentional.

I'm a minister of many mysteries. A speaker. A ritualist. A sacred hedonist. A trickster-priest who dances at the crossroads of sex and spirit.

And this space?

This is my new temple.

A place to tell the stories I've never told. To speak the fantasies I've only whispered. To confess some of the wild and amazing moments me and this cock have had. To reclaim my sexual power. To reveal my most carnal desires. I'm not here to brag. I'm here to embody. I've lived with so much shame around my cock and my sexuality and this is a sort of journal, healing/revealing a way for me to let it out and integrate a more whole version of myself. So this is sacred exhibitionism. This is devotional arousal. This is the Phallic Gospel According to Maximus.

And yes, there will be stories. There will be sex; lots of it. There will be ritual. There will be magic. There will be cock worship.

But more than that—there will be truth.

Because I am no longer interested in pretending to be small. I am here to live large. To be seen. To be celebrated. To be witnessed in the full glory of my GodCock embodiment.

So yeah—first entry.

My name is Maximus. I have a big, unforgettable, divine dick. It is my obsession (and I really hope it becomes yours as well).

And I'm done pretending it's anything less than holy.

So, now you've tasted a few drops of my confession. Do you want more? You've imagined the shape of what hangs beneath my harem pants. But this is just the tip.

The real stories—the ones soaked in sweat, spit, prayer, and cum—those are still to come.

So if your curiosity is rising... if your body's already responding... good. That means you're ready. Ready for more of Maximus. Ready to enter into the congregation of the worshippers of the GodCock.

More to cum...

-Maximus