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Yes, that’s my name which I am publishing without remorse…for I am here to tell you, the world, and if necessary my grandmother: SIZE DOESN’T MATTER. Before you snort, consider this. I am a knock-out. Or, was. The ’90s were good to me. If I can sum up my looks in one sentence, it’s this: I boinked celebrities.True. I was hot. And I had my share of cock. Trust me, I was not loose, just incredibly hot. When you are that hot, dick comes a-callin’. Sometimes, I answered that knock. Because, yes, I was ripe for the bone-yard.

Now, size. Let’s not get so ensorcelled by tales of my beauty that we forget what we’re here for. Which is the shattering of that oft-maligning myth: big dicks are better.

They’re not.

How do I know? His name was Johnny Long. I know that sounds like a porn name, but I assure you as I write this, I fear for him discovering this article. That was his birth name, and continues to be his given & legal name. Until he reads this, and jumps off a bridge. Anyway, he was a man among men, gorgeous, talented, a jeep-owner. And there was another thing he owned: an 11 inch cock. Now, I am 5 foot 3. Then, I probably weighed 105. Hot stuff, like I said. But where was I going to put a cock the size of a small island? Answer: everywhere.

I am a longtime fan of yoga. So when I say everywhere, I mean it. A product of divorce, there was no orifice I was unwilling to at least consider after two budweisers. But there was a problem. Poor Johnny’s dong was so ginormous, he wasn’t able to work it right. As in, it didn’t work. It registered “interest”…but soon flagged. I believe it was the sheer amount of blood necessary to maintain “tumescence” that Johnny — and for that matter, no mere human — could summon without a transfusion. I surmised that Johnny would have to be a quarter horse to keep this thing in business. The human body just simply doesn’t manufacture enough liquid to do the job — and keep a heart beating regularly.

I was so perplexed, I overlooked the obvious humiliation and sought advice from the other biggest cock-fiend I knew: my mother. I’m kidding, she is not a cock-fiend. However, she is a professor and I figured she’d know a thang or two. How wrong I was. Her advice was to eat pumpkin seeds. The idea being, the zinc content would offset Johnny’s apparent anemia. She swore, that would, “Put the lead back in his pencil.” I wanted to tell her HIS pencil was more like a highlighter pen…or even a can of spray paint. But we indulged her. Poor Johnny ate enough seeds to start a pumpkin patch in his intestines. But, there was no response from his huge and placid wang. She was wrong, but worse: I had awakened an inappropriate giant. What began was a decade of hellish questioning about my “intimacies”. I eventually lied, telling her it was all working again.

And on the drama marched. We tried everything…including - thank god - sex toys. Were it not for manufactured 11 inch cocks, I would have never been able to stand living with the real deal for 4 years. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Despite his ginormous and disappointing “leg of a cock”, there was true love present.

I guess that is the ultimate point. Size can actually INHIBIT normal function of the cock. Too big can actually make a relationship suffer. But where there is love, nothing else matters. Well, except…I did do lots of extra-curricular fuckin’. However, that had more to do with daddy issues than dildo issues.

My point is, size can be a sticking point. Big can be bad. Very bad. THAT SAID, I’m not sure if super duper small is any better. I once boinked a French golf pro whose dick was so small, I kid you not, I could close my tiny hand around it and still have enough left over to work the remote. THAT was not something I could fathom screwing. Yet, there I was one hot July afternoon, sweating the sheets with some runt who couldn’t say hello in English. Look, when you ask if he’s in, and he’s already done, there is a problem. Also a problem, his wispy 8th grade style moustache. Gross. When I look back, I get depressed.

But this was all before therapy. I do a lot less fucking today. Which is a shame since I know a thing or two about dongs. Merry Christmas.