I’m going to hop right to some reader questions today, because I have a suspicion my answers to a couple of them might be on the longer side.
Since formspring.me has been decidedly unfriendly to anonymous questions of late, I’m grateful that a few of you of late have been sending in questions via email. You can still always ask me questions on formspring, if you’re a member there—but if not, just send me an email to the address in the sidebar, put the word ‘questions’ in the subject, and I’ll get around to them in one of my Sunday columns.
The advantage of writing me directly, of course, is that you can get around a website’s built-in limitation to the length of a question. But the real advantage is that I just love the email from you guys and gals.
When did you become aware of the fact that you've got a big dick? You don't really mention much about your dick in your descriptions of your teenage escapades. Was it at the time that The Fulcrum turned you from bottom to top?
A lot of the guys I tricked with when I was in my early and mid teens didn’t know my name. I might’ve been with them dozens of times, either sucking them off in the cruisy toilet stalls around town or getting splinters in my back from lying on old picnic tables with my legs in the air in the park, but we weren’t making much small talk, much less exchanging names. Just as I thought of them as Old guy in the mint green Cadillac or That hot guy with the mustache, they referred to me That skinny blond kid with the big dick.
I was always the tallest kid in my classes. I have old grammar school photos in which you’ll see a couple of dozen smiling little munchkins and then me, Lurch, at the rear. By middle school I was taller than most of my teachers. I was about 14 when I hit my full foot size (elevens, for those of you who are interested). I was six feet tall by fifteen, and added another three inches before the end of the year.
What most people couldn’t see is that my dick was growing in proportion as well. I started measuring it when my parents gave me their copy of Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), around the age of ten. The doctor who’d written that book said the average penis was six inches in length. Naturally I wanted to compare. When I placed a metal ruler on the top of my erect dick, I discovered that I was a little below normal. By the time I was twelve, that metal ruler said that I was seven inches. And by the time I was 14, it read eight.
What took a few years to catch up, however, was the thickness. It never really occurred to me to measure my girth back then. But I do know I had a remarkably skinny dick until I was about eighteen, when it began filling out. It matched my remarkably skinny body—although I was six-foot-three, until I was twenty-one I never weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.
So a long and skinny dick on a long and skinny kid makes quite an impression on guys; I probably looked a lot larger than I really was. I heard comments about my dick all the time—how lucky I was, how I was going to make some woman happy when I grew up, how huge I was for a boy. But other than masturbating constantly, I wasn’t really dick-centric back then. Guys sucked me occasionally, but usually I was seeking to service, rather than to receive it.
I was truly most aware of how large I was compared to other boys and even to most men when I sucked myself for others to watch. Sometimes I’d do it for groups of guys at my mentor Earl’s place; usually I did it for cash for solo men. I was limber and hung enough back then that I could strip down, lie on my back, lift up my hips from the floor as if I were doing a shoulder stand, and then lower my dick into my mouth. I could easily get two or three inches in there, and more if I really strained. It wasn’t all that pleasurable to me—with all that back and neck strain, it’s not remotely like getting a blow job from someone else. It wasn’t something I would normally do on my own. But usually I could get off easily enough by sucking and jacking myself, and then I’d shoot my own seed down into my waiting mouth for the guy to watch. (That part I liked.)
Yeah, I knew I was hung then, because auto-fellatio was not exactly something that anyone else I knew was able to do back then. I was probably a cocky little shit about it, too.
It wasn’t until the fuck I detailed in The Fulcrum, however, that I learned that having a big dick meant I could satisfy others by topping. After that point, I became a cocky big shit.
When you aren't feeling particularly in a sexy mood, or your mojo is down, how do you get yourself sexually worked up again?
I look at my foxy self in the mirror, baby! How could I fail to turned on by that sexy sight?
No, I’m being facetious. (Really.)
I think it’s totally natural for your mojo to ebb and wane. I know that my horniness flares in the late spring and early summer, for example; I want to bang everything in sight, then. Anything vaguely dick-receptive sounds good, then. I start looking at the holes in Krispy Kreme donuts in an entirely different light.
But I also know there are times I don’t feel particularly attractive or fuckable, either. It might be after the holiday season when it seems my diet has entirely consisted of Christmas cookies and zero fiber for a month. It might be around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, when I tend to get a little down and mopey. It’s not only one hundred percent okay for you to feel the exact opposite of horny at times, but it’s normal.
I can really only speak for myself, of course, but I’ve found there are also times when I’ll talk myself out of feeling horny by trying to convince myself I’m an unattractive bastard whom no one would want to touch. Usually there are a lot of circumstances contributing to that conviction. Things might not be going swimmingly at home. My work might be in a stagnant place. Maybe my checking account is a little lower than I would wish. It might even be that I haven’t been able to get myself any, and as a result I’ve settled on the backward conclusion that I’m unattractive and a sexual leper.
It takes some self-honesty and some rigorous mental sorting out to get to the bottom of things when you’re in one of those moods. I find it’s usually helpful to dip your toes in the waters by being a little self-centric, sexually then. Pick one or two activities you really enjoy during the best of times and focus on those. Don’t expect or demand that it blossom into full-blown sex, but don’t deny it if it does, either.
Last autumn when I was deathly ill, it took me a very long time to bounce back, for example. There was a period in which, after medical care, I was physically better, but still feeling like a troglodyte. I didn’t just see myself as unfuckworthy, but I didn’t understand why anyone had ever at any point in my life wanted to fuck with me, and I was convinced that no one would ever want to fuck me again.
I had my friend Rock Star anxious to see me, though. So I told him that hey, I needed to re-enter the sex thing slowly. Could we please just meet up after our long hiatus and, as corny as it sounded, hold each other and maybe make out a little? That was what I needed more than a full-blown fuck.
He was sweet enough to agree. And that’s exactly what happened. We met, we lay on his bed clothed (shoes off, though!) and made out gently. I didn’t feel like fucking, but I felt less subhuman. We met again and made out some more. That time we got naked, and my erection started to reassure me that maybe I was getting back to normal.
The time after that, I was back in his hungry hole.
My point here is that it’s perfectly okay to request activities that might convince you and your mojo specifically to come back to life. You deserve to be enjoying yourself. We all do.
Have you written any stories of your MF or MMF hook ups?
In my personal journal, I’ve written those, just as I write about my guy-on-guy hookups. I don’t usually reproduce them in my blog, however.
I know that a portion of my audience would be receptive to hearing about MFM encounters in particular. Back in the days when I discovered how popular I could be in the strange little subculture of cuckolding, I fucked a lot of women that would make the jaws drop of one hundred percent straight dudes, and fucked a lot of hot straight guys straight out of many gay mens’ fantasies.
While I know that there would be a lot of (silently) appreciative readers who’d enjoy hearing about those times, there are also a handful of very vocal readers who would complain loudly if I went in that direction. The couple of times I’ve come close to including scary vaginas in my life story, the screeching and caterwauling has been deafening. And the amount of abusive email I’ve endured about it has made me lose my temper.
Most of my encounters these days are with guys. By far. But I feel stymied about talking about other aspects of my sexuality, past and present, because of the outrage with which I have to put up afterward. I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be cowed that way. But after four years of writing here I’ve learned that nothing makes me enjoy it less than waking up in the morning to a box of nasty email.