by Coleen Singer at Sssh.com Porn For Women
It could have been a lovely Saturday morning, one filled with promise and maybe even a little wake-up sex.
Instead, it turned into a very un-arousing ersatz counseling session, with me playing the dual roles of sex therapist and support mechanism, instead of newly-minted girlfriend.
The year was 1993, and I had just spent the night with a fellow student named Bill. We’d met in an American Lit course I was taking, where I was immediately struck by Bill’s unusual combination of intellect and humility. It was like he had no idea he was the smartest guy in the room. I’m pretty sure I don’t have to explain to any woman reading this post how fucking rare is modesty in smart men, particularly when they’re young and have yet to figure out how special they aren’t.
While Bill excelled in class and was quite easy on the eyes, he also was pretty awkward when it came to interacting with women. I think the only reason he opened up to me was he had pegged me as a sexless nerd-girl (or as a lesbian, perhaps). At any rate, I was someone around whom Bill could afford to let down his guard, in part because he might have figured in was pointless to try to get into my pants.
A few weeks later, after I’d determined Bill was never going to take the initiative on his own, I asked him if he wanted to grab a few drinks sometime, or maybe a movie. A few nights later, a few drinks became fooling around on the couch, which evolved into the roll between the sheets I’d been angling for, all along.
That takes us up to the aforementioned counseling session, which came the morning after what was really a pretty decent first sexual encounter. I hadn’t reached orgasm, but there was nothing too unusual about that; for me, sex improves immensely once I’m familiar with my partner and vice versa.
When we woke up the next morning, I could tell something was wrong. Bill seemed to be moping, which is a hell of a way to respond after a girl has busted out nearly her entire sexual repertoire in order to make the night memorable for you.
After beating around the bush for a bit and denying anything was bothering him, Bill dropped a question I didn’t particularly want to answer: “You didn’t cum last night, did you?”
There was the answer: Bill considered the night before a failure on his part, because I hadn’t reached orgasm.
On the one hand, it was sweet. Bill had revealed that at the very least, in mattered to him whether I’d fully enjoyed myself. On the other, Bill was so downtrodden and was being so hard on himself, I almost wanted to slap his face, shake his shoulders and give him one of my older brother’s patented“What the Fuck is Wrong with You, You Simpering Fucking Pussy?” pep talks. Instead, I tried to talk through it all with him rationally, and to comfort him with feedback from woman’s perspective. As it turned out, this was a big mistake.
We hadn’t been talking for more than 10 minutes before Bill was literally sobbing into my bed sheets. The crux of his problem, he was convinced, was that his cock was too small.
Bill started asking me about other guys I had been with and how he measured up. Maybe the smart play would have been to lie, to tell him he was by far the most endowed young buck I’d ever mounted, but the truth was he was right in the middle of the range.
As calmly and kindly as I could, I tried to explain to Bill that pleasing a woman generally has nothingto do with penis size. Sure, I’ve met women to whom size does matter, but I know many more who couldn’t care less about it.
I also told Bill it wasn’t a coincidence that the best sex I’d ever had was with a long-term boyfriend, because it takes time – even call it “practice”, if you like – for partners to learn each other’s preferences, to get to know each other’s bodies, and to really click, sexually speaking. I wasn’t dissatisfied with our first sexual encounter, I told him, so why was he?
I even attempted to get Bill to try again, right then and there, helpfully – and, OK, maybe a littleselfishly – suggesting he try his hand (well, tongue) at cunnilingus, explaining that if he wanted to make me cum, in this case the shortest route between two points just might be oral sex.
Bill wasn’t having any of it. He was Mr. Sobby Micropenis fogging up my windows with his tears, andthat was that. He didn’t want to hear about eating pussy; he wanted to make someone howl with his phallic prowess – prowess he was now entirely convinced he simply did not have.
Part of me wishes I could go back in time and show Bill the King’s College London study on penis size which has been subject of much discussion (and hopefully, much male mirth as well) on the Internet this week.
Maybe knowing he was probably a bit above average, if anything, would have helped Bill. It has been a long, long time, but if there’s one thing I have a very strong memory for, it’s All the Dicks I’ve Loved Before, as Willie Nelson might have sung (you know, had he been an openly-gay cowboy instead of a tax-dodging, dope-smoking-on-the-roof-of-the-Whitehouse cowboy), and as I recall, Bill was comfortably in the 5 to 6 inches range.
According to the Dick Detectives at King’s College, the average erect penis measures 5.17 inches -- which probably doesn’t sound like much to fans of Ron Jeremy or Sean Michaels, but sounds about right based on my own…. Ummm, “informal research.”
The bigger point here, fellas, is I don’t really give a fuck how big your dick is, or isn’t. The truth is, like a lot of women, I derive far, far more pleasure from the stimulation of my clitoris than any manner of penetration.
In fact, where penetration is concerned, if your cock is TOO big, I don’t want that thing anywhere near my vagina, thank you very much. For me, at least, being plowed by a man who’s hung like the proverbial horse is a recipe for severe discomfort, not ecstasy.
I have no idea what Bill is up to these days. After our night together (and the following morning’s counseling session), he was distant, probably embarrassed and more convinced than ever he had a Penis Problem. I tried for a couple weeks to get him to come out with me again, but each time I asked, he “had plans.” Eventually, I took the hint.
Wherever he might be, I hope Bill has come to terms with his penis size, found lasting happiness and sexual satisfaction – and, for his partner’s sake, maybe mastered the art of cunnilingus, too.
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