By Molly Freedenberg
I have a healthy appreciation for the male anatomy, especially that scene stealer, the penis. (Too bad, testicles. Apologies, anus. You're always going to play bit parts as long as Dick's in the movie.) That said, I'm not particular about size. Or rather, there are so many other factors that are more important to me: color, shape, the feel of the skin, and perhaps most important, the body (and soul) it's attached to.
In short? To me, size matters much less than just about everything else.
I realize, however, that not everyone shares my opinion. Case in point? The girl I recently overheard talking about her newest lover. (Names and places omitted to protect the guilty.)
This lovely little Latina with a delightfully filthy mouth was discussing, in detail, her new partner's member. Both long and wide, it was perhaps the biggest she'd ever seen. And oh, did she like it. Much better than a thin penis, which she called "pencil dick," or a short stubby one. "What is that, an eraser?"
That is, until it was inside her. She'd passed out before he came to bed, and he woke her up with coitus. "I couldn't see it, but I could feel it," she said. The sensation wasn't entirely pleasant. As she explained, it was "pain, passion, discomfort, disbelief...big trouble in little Mexican Pussy!" Combine that with the fact that she called him a douche, and I assumed she wouldn't see him again.
But when her friend asked that same question, she answered emphatically that she would see him again. She simply planned to put one foot against his torso, so that if he went too deep, she could push him away. Then she finished, "I must tame the penis!"
Funny, I thought, I'd rather have the penis tame me.