“What is love anyway? From my new vantage point, I realize that love is nothing more than a messy conglomeration of need, desperation, fear of death and insecurity about penis size.” – Human Nature (2001)
So this week is witness to a small “mini-feature” on penis size; more specifically race based myths on penis size. Skye kindly linked us to some dick shots yesterday and I believe tomorrow Dr. Sam Sharpe is bringing the science on this issue. Unsurprisingly, I also have something to say on the matter of penis size, surprisingly though it isn’t “bigger is better”.
The facts in my mind are that while “size does matter” it is about being the right size for your partner. Too small and you are left wondering “is it in yet?” but too big and it is uncomfortable, even painful. In fact, I have been defeated by more than one Goliath of a cock, when penetration was just impossible. I’ve had a disappointingly high number of VSDs as well.
In my sexual life, I have been fortunate to come across exactly three perfect penises (to clarify – perfect for me). One is still a somewhat irregular feature in my bed, much to my delight. The tale of my first perfect penis, I will save for another time as I was a much younger and more impressionable rose then; and my adoring worship of that member did lead me into some rather compulsive behaviour. (There isn’t a 12 step program for an addiction to cock!)
The second perfect cock, belonged to a young man I stumbled across (literally – I was hammered) in university. He was Chinese in descent, and as I do favour a hairy bear look on a man, I probably wouldn’t have even ventured there had he not been an utter gent. The night we met he literally picked me up off the floor of the bar, and then offered to walk me home.
The absolute poppet that he was, he didn’t just walk me home; when I awoke the following morning, I found myself tucked up in bed with a glass of water and a bucket strategically placed next to me. This was not the usual practice of my flatmates and clutching my head I staggered to the lounge to find someone to thank. There I found my flatmates, both passed out on the sofa with their shoes still on, make up and drool trailing down their faces. Obviously not the quarter from which my assistance came from. The mystery was solved later that day when a text arrived asking how I was feeling and would I like to get a coffee sometime. The number was stored to a name I didn’t recognise, so I called for an explanation. I have provided both his words and the subtext below:
Dear Ken had walked (carried) me home to see I got home safe (alive). There he found my flatmates were unable to help (speak / walk / stand up) so he put me to bed himself. He promised he didn’t take advantage (grab a quick feel) of the situation (me being so drunk Rohypnol wasn’t necessary). He stayed for a glass of water (the only sustenance found in our house) and to make sure I would be okay (didn’t choke on my own vomit). He then took my number, and left.
I was impressed. My drinking buddies at the time were mostly jocks or “blues” as they were deemed in my university. It was a night out with my boat club that had led me into such a state in the first place. I don’t doubt that had I not fallen down at Ken’s feet, I would not have woken up in my own bed. I also expect instead of a bucket and a glass of water it would have been mine and some anonymous male’s underwear on the nightstand.
So after a few days recovery, I called Ken back and asked him if I could buy him dinner to thank him. (I also was a bit hazy on how he looked). As he had a fairly non-descript accent on the phone, I was taken by surprise when an Asian dude turned up to meet me. Still this was my Good Samaritan and he was pretty cute in a clean shaven sort of way. He was also damn funny and great company. Dinner was a blast – though he was a little too good at imitating my drunken rambles and gurnings at times. Apparently I had already told him I loved him. And while he was trying to manoeuvre me into bed I’d stripped down to my knickers while he was looking for a t-shirt and asked if he liked my boobs. I think he was trying to embarrass me by retelling these stories. It worked. However, not one to be beaten, I thought it best to check the outcome.
“Well do you like my boobs?”
His eyes widened slightly and he looked at me with a very hot and mischievous grin. “I do, and you should count yourself lucky that my mother raised me not to take advantage of drunk girls.”
My response of “I’m not drunk now” was smothered by his kiss.
As we headed back to his halls of residence (that’s a dorm for you American types) I was excited from his kisses (very good technique), but since I was still living under my misconceptions of Asian men I wasn’t expecting all that much in the way of trouser snakes. Imagine my surprise and delight when he unleashed a perfectly proportioned, delightfully smooth and utterly delicious cock. Perfect penis – number two. Hallelujah and praise to whatever being you believe in!
Praise him I did. I vocally agreed with that man and his equipment all that night and a significant part of the following day too. (My boat club were about to declare me AWOL having missed a morning outing and not having been seen at my house or in the college bar for 24 hours.) He became my favourite distraction from finals revision, a wonderful stress relief! (Also partially to blame for my grades plummeting and my final award of a 2.2… few too many hours spent in his bed rather than in the library)
Ken and I fell out of touch after university; however Ken’s legacy lives on in my DVD collection. I’ve already mentioned my impressive (if somewhat intimidating) German porn collection. I also have a fairly awe-inspiring set of the finest Hong Kong cinema money can buy. While this gives me huge cool points in the eyes of many a self proclaimed movie buff – it isn’t for the cinematography / special effects / ninja moves / etc. It is because I cannot buy hard core porn with Asian guys in it. So instead having discovered Ekin Cheng had a strong resemblance to Ken, I buy legitimate films, and indulge my imagination.