Why I Hate My Giant Dong

I’ve got a big penis. This is my tale of woe.

I lost my virginity to my high school girlfriend, Claire. She had amazing skin and wild blonde hair. She also had a friend, Anna, who had a problem with us dating and made it her mission to harass me. I don’t remember how sex felt that first time, whether I came, or how long it lasted. I do remember being made fun of for the size of my penis a few days later.

Only a teenage girl could turn that revelation into a source of shame and embarrassment. Anna sauntered up to my lunch table where I sat, witless and surrounded by friends. “So, Charlie,” Anna announced to the table, “Claire was just telling us you’ve got a big cock!”

Our culture is built on the notion that bigger is better, and (depending on who your analyst is) the male reproductive organ is the root of it all. There are very few negative stereotypes associated with a sizable schlong. A large cock confers unflappable confidence in life. Sexual prowess is no problem for the well-endowed man; just a glimpse of his tumescence will send women everywhere into orgasmic fits.

Of course, the reality’s very different.

***

The most immediate problems are anatomical. On a personal level, the circumference of my head while erect slightly exceeds the comfortable limits of my foreskin. That’s most inconvenient when masturbating, as the skin gets pulled up and down on the head to varying degrees. During colder months, when my skin is dryer, I’ve masturbated my way to tiny lacerations around the edge of my foreskin.

During sexytime, I need to be on guard. A misdirected thrust can end congress for the night. Even just easing my entire penis into a vagina has caused the not-sexy kind of pain. I’ve also been told, without any preamble, that anal sex would never be on the menu. It wasn’t a huge blow. But to my hung brothers with posterior proclivities, I sympathize.

Then there are the accessories. If compression shorts cost as little as cotton briefs, I’d be wrapping up tight every day. Bouncy bouncy, fellas! Speaking of wraps, condoms pinch like Houdini’s handcuffs. Sure, normal-sized guys also complain about them, but I’m guessing that putting them on and taking them off isn’t supposed to actually hurt like it does. I also suspect that the pain and constriction contributes to my tendency to … overstay my welcome at times.

So: Magnums. Two hang-ups consistently prevent me from picking them up. A girlfriend suggested them numerous times when I complained about the pinch, but I was afraid Magnums would be too big — and that she’d be disappointed and/or turned off to find that her man wasn’t as big as she thought.

The second reason is that I simply do not want to be That Guy.

***

That Guy is my biggest problem with my biggest digit. All of those wonderful huge-dick stereotypes don’t apply unless everyone knows your big secret — and that’s just not going to happen. There is no casual way to spread the word that you’ve got a plus-size penis. Any attempt to disseminate information regarding your Richard will — nay, must — be met with skepticism, pity, and annoyance. At best people will assume you’re lying; at worst they’ll believe you and think you’re bragging. You look like a tool either way.

So, of course, I’m constantly tempted to be naked at inappropriate moments. I’ll convince myself that whipping it out is the end-all-be-all answer to certain problems. When my self-esteem takes a hit, it hides between my legs. Get turned down for coffee? If only she’d known about the stir-stick. How impressive is that guy’s six-pack? I bet he’s only got a six-inch.

Denying my atavistic urges creates a lot of stress. Even if someone finds out in the most ideal way — having sex with me — I get weirded out if she says anything about my cock outside of coitus. At my craziest, I fear that hearing it too many times will subconsciously turn me into a man content to let his fairer attributes wither away, left with the unearned sense of entitlement a titanic trouser trunk bestows.

In my day-to-day, I get by pretty well. I take time to get to know my partners inside and out before going Dirk Diggler on them. My underpants are supportive and affordable. I’ve learned to limit my onanism. I have even learned to accept compliments gracefully.

Looking at it this way I can appreciate how my penis has helped me. I’m more self-aware than I’d be if I’d been graced with an average member. OK, in all honesty, I don’t hate my big penis. I just hate what having a big penis means to everyone else.

This post originally appeared on The Good Men Project. Republished with permission.

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