My dick is bigger than yours!” Collin exclaimed, folding the tips of his fingers over mine. It looked like the scene in Tarzan when Jane presses her dainty palm against the wild beast-man’s hand. “Your dick is the same size as your middle finger. See, mines bigger than yours, a lot bigger. You have a small dick,” he explained, showing its alleged size with his thumb and index. Since this was a gross overestimate, I remained silent, not sure if I should correct his mistake.
In 5th grade I got my first boner. I immediately wanted to tell Collin it was bigger than my middle finger, but decided against this after realizing it might inspire new questions I didn’t care to answer, like “How much bigger?” This was inconsequential. I was above average.
In 6th grade, a popular song by a girl named Gillette played on the radio constantly. “Don’t want no innie weenie shriveled little short tort man,” she whined to a repetitive dance beat. Being the smallest in my class, kids would point and serenade me with these lyrics during recess and lunch. When my best friend bought the unedited, parental advisory version, I found out the song really went “Don’t wan’t no short DICK man,” which I’d been hearing incorrectly for the past month. Now I wasn’t sure if people were insulting me or my dick.
In Junior High I had my first “real” girlfriend. There were a few in elementary school, but we never actually hung out or talked. This girl kissed me – on the lips. She opened her mouth and rolled her tongue around mine in a clockwise pattern. She held my hand in public and let me grab her ass while we walked. We were legit. Her parents never came home before 5 pm, so we’d go to her house after school and have long make-out sessions that would strangely make me more insecure. After thirty solid minutes of kissing we’d take a break, then I’d go right back in, just to make sure she’d still do it.
During one heated afternoon, I took my hand out of her hair and placed it on her stomach. We slowly leaned back to a lying position and I started moving it in circles, too scared to head north or south. I continued to rub her stomach like it was a good luck Buddha-belly, ocassionally sliding my fingers underneath the tight fit denim below. Finally I started playing with the button on her jeans, testing the waters — no resistance. After minutes of uncertainty, I wussed out and went back to her stomach, considering the consequences of putting my hands down her pants. She might then put her hands down mine. That damn song popped into my mind again. That fucking Gillette bitch cock-blocked me from getting my first hand-job. Or maybe I cock-blocked myself and was looking for a scapegoat.
In 9th grade, a friend gave me an old VHS porn. Before this I had to rely on the Reef ads in my Surfer Magazine, or the “Help My Troubled Teen” episodes of the Jenny Jones show. Since porn stars are unusually large, I still had no accurate frame of reference to compare myself. When I expressed doubts about the middle finger theory to a classmate, he demonstrated how to measure on his own hand. “From the bottom of your palm to the top of your middle finger,” he showed me. Which if true, meant the average size now doubled. Another wildly uncredible source told me to measure with my feet. “Take your shoe size, divide it by two, and turn that number into inches . . . so if you wear a size 10, you have a 5 inch dick,” he said pointing down. I believed this for about five seconds until noticing the smaller UK measurement next to the US number inside my Converse. Surely everyone in this UK place didn’t have smaller dicks. Plus, I was a 9.5 in Converse, and a 8 in DVS’s. Frustrated, I turned to the web for advice. One of the earliest Google searches I remember doing was ” average male penis size”. This information varied and proved useless since there was no universal set of instruction on where to measure from. Upper shaft? Underneath? Side? Balls included?
In 10th grade, I made it to second base. A curvy 16-year-old with full C’s let me motorboat her before I knew there was a name for such a thing. We dated briefly and this became a daily ritual, though I never took it further. One night over the phone she asked me, “Do you ever get so horny you just don’t know what to do?” My 15-year-old brain pondered this deeply before answering, “No, I just jerk-off.” We then went back to discussing homework and she never brought it up again. I later found out she lost her virginity to the guy after me.
In 11th grade I got a car – one more place for me to not have sex in. I also got a job where I could meet other horny girls I wouldn’t know how to please. Amy was one of them. Since we worked for a call center, it didn’t matter how we dressed. Amy always wore the same baggy sweatshirt over a pair of blue overalls. Occasionally she’d get hot and remove the sweatshirt, revealing a tube-top shirt hugging her thin waistline. My eyes would wander down into the dark crevice on the side of her overalls where skin showed, and on several fortunate occasions, the frilly lace of her underwear. She had messy dark hair that covered what would’ve been a very pretty face, if not for the acne. In an attempt to hide this, she caked on a foundation thicker than Edwards Scissor hands, inadvertently drawing more attention to the uneven surface of her cheeks. This was just the flaw I needed to possibly hook-up with her.
I knew she liked me when she began to mimick my awkward conversations with the customers as soon as I hung up. If I messed up a line in the prompted script, she’d parrot the mistake back. This gave me license to grab a pen and poke her in the side and outer thigh, and basically all the places I really wanted to slowly run my hands over while she undid her overalls and grinded me like a stripper.
The first time I saw her outside of work was at our mutual friend Greg’s house. His Dad was gone for the day and had left an unattended case of Heineken in the garage. “He won’t notice,” Greg assured us, handing out three warm beers; one to myself, one to Amy, and one to his friend I didn’t know. He rummaged through the box and pulled out a fourth. We all gave a cheers, then took baby sips while bumping our heads to System of a Down. Scared of getting drunk for the first time, I sneaked into the bathroom and poured out half of my beer in the sink. I flushed the toilet and walked out taking a sip, indicating I’d been drinking all the while. After doing this a second time, Amy confronted me.
“They went outside to play basketball, wanna see if we can find some better music to put on upstairs?” she asked me in the same childish voice girls in porn use when asking their boss for a raise. I took a swig from my empty bottle before tossing it in the trash. I followed her up.
We ended up in his parents bedroom where all the potential music CD’s would be. To our shock and dismay, they didn’t have any Offspring or Weezer — just a bed. She flopped onto it, letting out a sigh. I sat on the edge with one foot safely planted on the ground. “I could go for another beer,” I lied, looking at the baby pictures of Greg hanging in tacky gold frames. “I could go for another beer,” she mocked me in a macho voice. I lunged over and thrust my hands into her sides, producing a squeal followed by laughter. I tried to pull her closer by the hips but she didn’t move more than an inch. Unsure of how to continue, I kept touching and pushing on her stomach and sides. It wasn’t quite tickling and it wasn’t quite wrestling. It was somewhere in between. There’s a lot of guys who can pull off the play wrestling flirtatious move perfectly, lifting 120 pound women over their shoulders effortlessly and flinging them around like a rag doll. I, however, am not one of them. I learned this early on and decided to do the female population a favor by never trying. After my failed attempt at man-handling, she proposed an idea.
“Let’s play a game. You name something you’ve never done, and if the other person HAS done it, they have to . . . ” She lifted her eyes up and to the left, “They have to remove an article of clothing.”
“Who goes first?” I asked, omitting from my thoughts the part where I might have to remove my clothes.
Each time it was her turn to take something off, she’d lift up her shirt to reveal the bottom of a purple satin bra, then suddenly change her mind and remove a damn sock. I had to strike weird GQ poses with one knee up so she wouldn’t see the increasing bulge in my pants.
After ten minutes she’d taken off her scrunchie, her earrings, both socks, a toe ring, and a bracelet I could’ve sworn she wasn’t wearing at the start of the game. After removing my hat, sun glasses, socks, and pooka shell necklace, I was down to the essentials – shirt and shorts. It was her turn. She said she’s never bleached her hair before, grinning at my frosted tips.
“Me neither.” I joked, trying to buy some time.
“Off with the shirt!” she cheered, proud of herself. “Or the pants!”
I forced a laugh and said the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m not taking my pants off unless you wanna slob my knob.” – my exact words. She looked me up and down before replying.
“Okay.”
She said okay. Without even cracking a smile. No grin. No awkward “only kidding” laugh afterwards. Just okay – as in “Okay Brian, whip out that knob so I can start slobbing.”
I sat upright, rigid with adrenalin. I always knew the time would come when I’d have to show my dick to a girl. And that time was now. No longer would my hard-on stay hidden. This boner wouldn’t get tucked underneath a silly Quasimotto walk, or shy behind a three-ring binder. This boner was coming out. This boner was ready to enter a brave new world in which no other boner had dared to venture — Amy’s mouth.
“Well, let’s um, go in here . . . I don’t want to make a um, mess, on the parents’ bedroom,” I reasoned, grabbing her hand and leading her into the bathroom like true gentleman. I flipped the switch and a bright white light beamed down on us, accompanied by the loud hum of a fan. We stood facing each other in the cramped space lit up like a football field. No sucking was happening. I looked around and pointed to the toilet. “Should I uh, sit down on here, and we can do it like that?” I suggested, assuming it would be rude to drop my pants and start pushing her head down. She looked at the porcelain chair and nodded.
I sat down. She stayed standing. I unzipped my pants and pulled them down to my ankles. She stayed standing. I slowly undid the tiny button for the hole in my boxers, as if my dick was so huge the entire flap needed to be open for it to get out. I pulled it out through the hole, then pushed down on the skin around the base and thrust out my pelvis, trying to make it look as big as possible. She stayed standing. She looked down at it. I looked down at it. I kept my hand around the bottom and thrust it out even more, almost sliding off the edge of the toilet.
And then . . . she laughed.
Not a long or loud laugh. A thin, breathless exhale given with a smile.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked looking up, still holding my junk and trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“No.” she replied, making the same weak chuckle while gazing upon my manhood.
“It’s just that . . . Well . . . it looks like you’re about to go pee or something.”
I slouched my shoulders and sat back on the bowl, relieved that the words “Small”, “Tiny”, “Innie” or “Weenie” were not in that sentence. Then she dropped to her knees, put her hands on my thighs, and began.
Unlike a push-up, if you were to count both the up and the down part as separate actions, or perhaps I should say the “back” and “forth” parts as “one” and “two”, I’d say she got to around seven and a half before that familiar tingling sensation started running through my body. I swiftly shoved her off, hoping to extend this longer. “Perhaps she could take off her shirt, or show me her underwear,” I thought. “Or we could kiss for a little while – we hadn’t even done that.”
She removed her mouth and I reached for it. If you were still keeping a count, I suppose you could say this grabbing action brought it up to an even eight. And as it turns out, eight was the magic number. Before I could suggest back tracking into some fore-play, the “mess” I referred to earlier now covered my hand, my leg, my underwear, and the tile floor. Amy stayed on her knees staring at my crotch, dumbfounded with what she witnessed.
“I just came,” I informed her stupidly.
Her face switched from shock to “No shit, dumb-ass” to a peculiar disappointment. We both remained silent, letting the fan make all the noise, until finally, she spoke.
“You were supposed to come in my mouth.”
Two weeks later she gave me another chance. After trying to fondle what would’ve been my first vagina, and getting shut down like I was asking for dry anal sex, I gave up and let her slob my knob. For some reason, even light touching of her private parts (through the clothes) was strictly forbidden, or “too intimate”. Shooting loads into her mouth however, was fine. And so I did. After thinking about baseball, cold showers, and Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, I outlasted my old record by at least seven minutes. Thank you.