My name is George, and I have a nine-inch cock. This is its story.
Forget what you’ve seen in Boogie Nights. I love that opening scene, with a teenage girl enthralled by the boy’s giant teenage cock. You imagine he gets this every night. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wacked off to that, wishing it were true. But it’s not.
The first time I bedded a girl, I was in high school and we’d only been on two dates. She was talking about how she liked me, and she said she wanted to “get down on the floor” with me. It was so awkward, but she said it with total conviction. “And make out?” I asked. “No, have sex,” she replied, as boldly as she could pull off, her eyes gazing away from me. Needless to say, we walked directly to my home. We dodged my parents and went downstairs, then locked ourselves into my room. We kissed and fondled, and she started to caress me through my pants. She moved to go down on me, and I started to slide off my pants with all my virgin awkwardness and eagerness. When I pulled down my underpants, exposing my erect cock for her to suck, she pulled back.
“That’s not going in me,” she announced instantly, a raw reaction. Her face peeling back in horror.
There was a lot of awkward silence as I walked her home, and we didn’t have another date. When I called – and here I have to give her credit for not coming up with bullshit excuses – she told me, simply, that it wasn’t going to work and we both knew why.
It didn’t take long for the word to spread at school. The girls giggled as I passed by, and it got annoying pretty fast. I wasn’t George, the guy in class – I was Big Cock Boy. Oh, the nicknames, the many nicknames – heard behind my back, said in class in front of teachers who objected but weren’t in on the joke, and occasionally said to my face by people brave enough or stupid enough to think I enjoyed it.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Some of the more outgoing girls were interested, and a few of them would approach me cold and ask to touch it. This was how I first got laid. These girls would go to bed with me, but usually only once, and afterwards they’d avoid my calls or tell me to get over it. Many didn’t like the sex, saying it hurt. I remember one telling me, after sex in her house (where her single mother wasn’t home but boys often enough were) that it was funny. “I’ve always heard about how girls want big cock,” she said. “You know, like on TV and shit? I mean, I’m glad I did it. It was an experience. But I wouldn’t do it again.”
That’s what I was: a roller coaster you had to ride once, to say you’d ridden the Monster.
To be sure, a few girls loved it. Every single one of them came from broken homes and had a lot of sex. They talked during, told me how they loved being fucked, like they were in some porno or thought girls really talked like that. They were masochists who didn’t love fucking as much as they loved being fucked. And they never loved me. Even those who said they loved me cheated on me – not even that covertly.
I was just a body, a vehicle, a bit of useless flesh attached to this giant, interesting tool. I was a fetish. An object. A thing.
Another thing about having a cock like mine: you slam into the cervix pretty easily. Some girls like this and call it touching bottom. Others find it uncomfortable. The good news is it does provide some stimulation for the head, although that can be uncomfortable too. But it blocks the cock going any further, and I sometimes had trouble getting all the way in. I came to prefer girls who looked roomy down there. I got jealous of my normal-sized friends who loved to get that extra eighth of an inch, to feel themselves buried to the hilt.
And if girls gag a lot during oral sex anyway, it was a rare girl who could slide nine inches down her throat for more than a second, usually followed by near vomiting. One time, one of the girls did vomit – all over my big cock. Imagine nine inches covered with chunks of half-digested chicken.
Everyone thinks bigger is automatically better in America. Bigger house. Bigger car. Bigger tits. Bigger cock. But there are biological limits.
I can’t even imagine what it’s like for those guys unlucky enough to be bigger than me. I’ve seen them on the internet, the real circus freaks who know the only job they’re going to get is under a tent.
Then there were the gay guys. Even some who weren’t publicly out couldn’t resist making a pass at me. Some of the most popular kids, the football players who went to all the cool parties I never heard about, suddenly wanted to be my friend – but only when others weren’t around. The first few times, I didn’t understand they were gay. When I figured out, I was offended. But I never told anyone – I kept their secrets. I didn’t want even a walk-on role in a gay anecdote. After a while, I could pick out who was gay right away and let them know it was cool, but I wasn’t interested. So I didn’t get all the girls, but at least one stereotype proved true.
In college, I majored in biology, though I never had any great passion for it. Everyone knew soon enough what was in my pants. Gays kept approaching me and girls were still scared of it, except for a few who I didn’t even want anymore. Nothing really had changed.
Except for me. When I was in high school, it seemed fun enough to fuck a strange girl, even if I didn’t like her and knew I’d never speak to her again. I’m not saying I didn’t partake at college – I did. But it stopped being fun. There was no fulfillment in it. It was the same type of girl over and over, and I was getting bored.
I finally gave in and took one of the gays up on their offers. I figured that I wasn’t enjoying straight sex that much – maybe I was gay. It was college, and you’re supposed to experiment in the dorms. He sucked on me, and I sucked on him, but only he got hard. I stayed halfway limp, just this long stretch of floppy meat unable to engage. He kept asking what was wrong, and I kept ignoring him, pretending I was into it. He begged me to take him from behind, and even bent over for me. But I just kept staring at his rear end and masturbating, hoping to get it up. I gave it my all, but it just didn’t work. That was how I learned I wasn’t gay. Hey, I gave it my old college try.
And then there was the disease. I usually had sex with condoms, but some girls didn’t want to – they said it felt better without them. And condoms weren’t always handy. This one girl told me it was okay because she was on her period and couldn’t get pregnant. There was a lot of blood – chunky, and thick. When I noticed the bumps a few months later, I thought they were just pimples or something for the longest time. Women talk about how they’re not told about their vaginas, but men aren’t really told about their penises either. But the pimples kept growing, and I eventually had to admit these were warts.
There weren’t many – one on one side of my dick and a group of three on the other. But I felt like they made my dick look like some decaying zombie cock. I had fucking warts on my cock. I could never show it to a girl again. I thought my life had changed forever. My sex life was over. No girl would ever love me now, I thought. Even if I wanted to hide my condition, I could never let a girl go down on me without learning I was dirty and diseased. Bad enough that I already had to explain my circus penis. Now I had a zombie circus penis. My manhood was something out of a horror movie.
I had to force myself to go to the school clinic. It wasn’t easy, telling the nurse. I looked away when I spoke the dreaded news. I wanted to cry but didn’t. She examined me and said the doctor would see me, in the same antiseptic intonation she must have used for everyone. I wondered what must have been going through her brain. I wanted her to reel back in horror, like the first girl I took home. Indifference, I thought, was worse.
The doctor called them cauliflower warts because of their bumpy texture. He said they saw this all the time, “more than I could imagine,” with this look on their faces like they’re on the front lines of a war or something. He lectured me about condoms. And he said I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but of course I was anyway. I was diseased. My fucking cock was diseased.
I went in periodically after that, and the shame wore away. The doctors would apply the freezing spray, never remarking upon the size of the organ they sprayed it on. The warts would blacken a little but never fell off like they were supposed to. No matter how times I went back, it never worked.
Maybe it was punishment. I cursed my ugly, diseased cock. At the same time, I thanked God that it wasn’t anything worse, like HIV or gonorrhea or syphilis or God knows what.
I’d have sex once or twice a year, when a girl came on to me and I really needed it. I always used a condom because I didn’t want to infect anyone (especially since they might tell). The condom never stretched down to the base, but at least it covered the warts. But I had to be careful to keep them from going down on me. I was the only guy they’d ever known who didn’t want a blowjob. I even had to move their hands away, as subtly as I could, when they reached down to caress me. I played shy. It was terrible, having to think of all of this, having to pretend, to be prepared to move her away at a moment’s notice to keep her from learning the terrible truth. To have to hide your ugliness even at your most intimate. To have to think about hiding, when you wanted to let go and enjoy yourself.
After college, I went home and got a job as a secretary at the same company my mother worked for. A bachelor’s degree didn’t mean an instant job the way they all talked about, and there weren’t exactly many biotech firms hiring in my small Midwestern home town. I never fucked anyone in the workplace, and no one seemed to know about my giant cock or its disease. For four years in my mid-twenties, the sexual prime of my life, I didn’t have sex with anyone at all. I just went to work, did my stupid job, and was another man with a boring life like all the others. I enjoyed my anonymity.
Occasionally, I’d meet an old high school friend who knew. We’d drink and catch up, and he’d ask to hear crazy stories about what I got up to at college with “that monster dong.” I’d lie and tell him what he wanted to hear, until it got boring and I couldn’t fake it anymore and I’d clam up. I was just glad word hadn’t spread. What everyone seems to know in high school, no one cares about the moment you’re gone.
A couple years after graduation, I finally got proactive about my infection. I’d gone to the family doctor a few times, maybe once a year, but their prescription pills and freezing chemicals didn’t do the trick. The doctors said many warts simply went away on their own, but mine apparently didn’t.
The doctors said not all treatments work on all people, that it’s random and I was just unlucky. They told me that literally almost everyone had HPV, the disease that causes the warts, but warts only develop in a few cases. In fact, so many people had it and it could hibernate so long before warts develop, if they ever do, that you could never know who gave them to you unless you’d only had one sexual partner.
This made me feel a little better, but it didn’t fix the problem. I felt haunted. I’d be walking down the street and smile at a girl only to realize that yes, I had warts on my dick. The thought would pop into my brain at odd times throughout the day. Over the water cooler. When I was zoning out while driving. Or when I’d hear another song about love and sex, things forever forbidden to me, forever limited by my affliction.
I bought some freezing chemical over the counter, including one designed for warts but specifying that it wasn’t meant for genital ones. Obviously, there were other people like me. But it didn’t work – just blackened the warts for a time before they healed.
Finally, I just took a razor blade and cut them off. It was horrifying, to look at my long cock in the mirror with a razor blade in hand. It does something to you to see this. By then, there were a couple more warts, and they’d all grown. I felt the adrenaline, that sick chemical nervousness you only know as you’re about to cut yourself on your most sensitive, personal parts, and you know it’ll hurt like hell.
It did hurt, but the anticipation was worse. I used alcohol on the wounds and carefully controlled the blood, knowing it was infected and could actually spread the warts to areas it touched.
I was still living with my parents, and I remember sitting in my bedroom, knowing my dick was bleeding and not telling anyone, not knowing how it would heal.
Afterwards, I had these thick black scars, and I worried the warts would grow back there. But within a month, they’d become normal scars – just these little brown areas on a part of the body that was expected to be a little discolored and veiny. Within a year, I couldn’t even find them anymore.
After four years of abstinence, I started dating a nice girl at work who had just started as a secretary. She wasn’t smart, but she wasn’t stupid either. And she was pretty enough. One time, I bought her a jumbo hot dog at the movies, and it looked so ridiculous, this dead meat going into her mouth, the ketchup all thick and dripping. After a while, she finally brought up sex. Apparently, she was confused as to why I wasn’t more eager, and thought I might be gay. I laughed and told her that I had a nine-inch cock. I knew a lot of girls were scared of it. “If you don’t want to have sex,” I told her, “I’ll understand.”
“I’ll be honest,” she told me. I thought she was about to say she had to end it. Instead, she said, “I am a little scared. But I’m willing to try.”
The sex was never that important to her, and we worked through it. There was some initial awkwardness, but we got over it. Or got used to it. In time, we each confessed our love, and a year or so later I proposed.
Instead of paying for a honeymoon, we put a down payment on a house instead. She got pregnant during our first year there, and we had Jonathan, a beautiful little boy. With a perfectly normal-sized penis. We have two more kids now, Samantha and Emily. Someday, sooner than I’d like, I’ll have to keep them away from the boys who say (or even think) they’re in love but really only want sex.
I think now that there are plenty of men walking around out there with nine-inch cocks, with eight-inch cocks, with ten inches or more, just hidden in their pants, beneath jeans or business suits. We’re out there, and we’re just like anyone else except for the outsized insemination tubes resting in our boxers or briefs. We have our problems. A dick that big fucks with your head growing up, but maybe all dicks do. For a while, it seemed to get in the way of everything. It’s no girl-magnet, no panacea, no ticket to some high life of porn and cocaine. For some, it may indeed be a blessing. But it’s also a curse. If you let it, it’ll get in the way of real relationships, or mix your idea of sex with pain and humiliation, instead of love. I’m glad my son is normal.
Maybe someday you’ll see me at the mall with my wife and kids and my graying hair, and I’ll be buying my kids ice cream or some toys, or shopping for clothes, and you’ll think how normal I am, how boring I look.
And you’ll be right. It’s all I ever wanted.
More than anything in a life my cock defined and fucked up for too long, this is my triumph and my reward.
My name is George, and this is my story.