I don’t think I have a small penis. I mean, I’ve stared at it all of my life. I can wrap my fingers around it, so I know it’s not of Sasquatch proportions. There are inches there, multiple inches, of love. I’d say it would make a nice cigar. I have been given the standard statement I think most women tell men who are small to average size, that I’m “just right.” Like the bowl of porridge Goldilocks most preferred. I imagine men who are prodigiously gifted are told the same thing, just to keep their ego in check. Maybe during sex, these women also say “Slower! Stop stabbing me in the guts!” I wouldn’t know. I just know that once upon a time, for a hot minute, I thought I had a huge dong.
The cellphone camera is the worst thing to ever happen to man’s obsession with his junk … Just find the right angle, click, and abracadabra, mammoth wang.
Men are obsessed with the size of their penis. We tell ourselves that it’s women who are obsessed, and while a penis can make an impression, the old saying applies: “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.”—which is possibly the worst metaphor ever that also describes something perfectly. If my penis is the boat, then is the rest of my body the ocean? Who is the woman in this metaphor? Because I’m both the boat and the ocean, right? So that means the woman is … the sky? Or is she on the boat? The boat is taking her somewhere, so the size doesn’t matter, but will the motion make her sick? I have no idea.
The cellphone camera is the worst thing to ever happen to man’s obsession with his junk. Any man’s penis can look huge with the help of this terribly little device. Just find the right angle, click, and abracadabra, mammoth wang. There is nothing wrong with two consenting adults eroticizing cold digital gizmos and sending each other tantalizingly sexy snaps. But if you’re a woman who has ever received a pic of your man’s junk, you have to know that the moment before he sent it, he stared at his genital self-portrait with pride and thought, This is thunder made flesh.
Men have no perspective when it comes to the size of their penises. Our dongs are never as big or as small as we think they are. Take your average belligerent drunk at a bar. Is he overcompensating because he has a small penis? Or is he overconfident because he has a big penis? Does hulking out send excess testosterone and skin to a small penis? Can a big penis unzip itself and punch an opponent unconscious? That same drunk will pick a fight with a smaller guy he thinks he can beat or a larger dude he thinks he can beat, and in both instances, he will probably lose because he’s drunk and ninjas come in all sizes.
The first penis I ever saw was monstrous. It was one of those moments as a boy when I realized I wasn’t a little baby anymore, and that one day, I would be an adult. My father walked out of the shower naked as I was in the bathroom and I saw his gigantic, hairy penis. I was terrified, because that was my inheritance right there: a grown man’s wee-wee. Did my dad have a big penis? You’ll have to ask my mom. I’m sure it was “just right.” But when the first penis that you see that isn’t yours is a frightening tube that dwarfs your tiny dinghy, then your sense of size is thrown off for your entire life.
There was a jock in junior high school who would bully kids smaller than him. This dimwitted beast would strut around the gym locker-room snapping towels at those of us who’d wear our underwear into the shower. He was muscular and tall and he was all mushroom cap and no shaft. Go figure. In college, I had a roommate who was a skinny, long-haired hippie and just the nicest guy ever. When he’d get drunk, though, and stumble back to our dorm room, he had a habit of stripping completely naked. One night, I got up to go to the bathroom and he was standing there in the buff, trying to free a Twinkie from its wrapper. This quiet, gentle soul had a penis like a tomahawk missile.
The woman I lost my virginity to in college had lost her virginity to her high school boyfriend. I knew going in that meant that she would be more of an expert on penises and sex than me. I was intimidated that she had experience, and would be disappointed with whatever awkward fumbling would soon be imminent.
Pornography is an insufficient educational tool. From the get-go, I basically advertised my sexual ignorance. I had never put a condom on before, and I couldn’t fit the rubber over the head of my penis. I looked up at her, embarrassed. “I’m … I’m too big?” I tried to unroll the latex coin, but it wouldn’t give. She giggled and showed me that I had to pinch the receptacle nubbin. Then she did and rolled the condom down my erection. “You’re the perfect size,” she said, and I believed her.
Original by John DeVore