The adage ‘it’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it’ certainly applies but sometimes, it’s nice to be in the company of a monster, writes Barry Lowe.
A few years back Steven Dawson had a huge international hit with his play, Big Dicks on Stage, which had nary a dick, big or small, to be seen in all its glory. No matter, the play was so funny, it made my jaw ache which was roughly the equivalent of sucking one of those non-materialising big dicks.
I’ve had my share of dicks, from gargantuan to tiny, over the years although I wouldn’t mind sampling a few more before my jaws shut permanently, and I’ve had a number that could be considered XXXL. A few that loom large in my mind are the young slim guy who had the dick of death and shagged me in the attic while a painter renovated the lounge room; the guy who stuck his dick through the glory hole at the late lamented public toilet at West Ryde (don’t ask for the address, it was more than 40 years ago); the older gentleman whose cock I sucked on a regular basis when I worked in a sex shop on Oxford Street; and the bear whose dick really was as thick as a beer can so that I needed a shoe horn to get it in me.
But the best of all was, let’s call him Remo, a member of the RAAF whose member was incredibly memorable. We had a relationship for a little under a year. Remo was popularity plus, gay men keen for a taste of the morsel hidden none-too-successfully in his tight trousers. At parties he was openly groped until wet spots appeared on his pants from the leakage of his excitement. I shrugged it off as proof positive that I had the prize catch.
When the others realised a quick feel was all they were going to get, they drifted away and Remo and I settled into blissful domesticity, my anal sphincter stretched regularly to accommodate his monster. Yeah, it hurt like hell at first and I needed time out to heal after each penetration. It’s not like I was a novice, and no lasting damage occurred, but I wasn’t used to something that large in my butt on a regular basis. For starters, it meant his dick reached parts of my bowel hitherto virgin to male genitalia which in turn led to deeper douching, if you get my drift.
In the early days it also meant an entire tube of KY just to get the knob through the anal sphincter without me gritting my teeth. I had no idea of the number of faces a person could pull to signify discomfort. Eventually, however, I was comfortable enough with the girth, length and regularity of his dick although by that stage we’d also discovered we were basically incompatible: he didn’t like movies with writing along the bottom, I loved foreign language films. He believed physical exertion was the only exercise that made a person tired, whereas I was exhausted sometimes after a marathon journalistic writing effort.
So we parted after about ten months. At the end of that year I met the man whose dick fits me perfectly and I’ve been taking care of its needs for over forty years. Sometimes, though, my arse itches for a little more; that’s when I remember fondly those months with Remo.