My Big, Huge, Enormous Penis Problem
My Big, Huge, Enormous Penis Problem by David Toussaint
The sexiest man I ever met didn’t need to advertise anything you couldn’t see while clothed. Latin, intense brown eyes, thick black hair, a slim, structured body, and lips that beckoned you over before he did, Dan nevertheless “flirted” in a way so forward it shocked as much as it titillated. “I want to f*** you with my enormous uncut Cuban c***!” he would announce when we’d meet, as both an invitation and an introduction. Dan was a package deal, but he knew his package could seal any deal.
Isn’t that sad?
Dan got any man he wanted, never worked, and ended up with the richest guy in Chelsea, a hunky blond with two homes and a Fire Island share and so little sense he had no clue his boyfriend was having several affairs. I’m sure Dan was never truly happy knowing that his popularity arose from his endowment.
I feel his pain.
You see, I too suffer from Dan’s affliction, only a little thicker and cut, which is pretty much considered perfect if you go by what most men look for in gay porn and imaginary boyfriends and when they close their eyes to masturbate. I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, unless you count numerous chat rooms and in that interview I did for Inches, but I’ve decided to finally open up, if not for me, then for the 1 percent or so of the male population as unfortunate as I am. Metaphorically anyway, I will not stay zipped up.
Just as Michael Fassbender is furious that people insist on talking about the large penis he was paid to display in the movie Shame, I’m furious at the sizeaphobes who feel they must bring me down a notch just because I am physically superior to them. Anne Hathaway has experienced less venom.
For those of you who are less-advantageous in the penis department, which is most of you, feel blessed for your teeny weenie. Contrary to what you believe about people like me and high-rent male escorts and Jon Hamm, it ain’t all hunky-dory. In fact, it’s hell.
Yes, you’re the butt of most gay jokes, the “Irish Curse” guys, the ones who gets gossiped about at the bitch brunch when all the size-queens tell everyone within ear shot that you tried to do Cock in a Sock but it kept falling off, who have to turn the light off during sex because you’re not a true man, but you are so much more lucky than I am. You may be inadequate, and you are probably not desired, but you are loved.
I’m the one those same guys gawk at when I walk past, who brag about seeing “it,” having “it,” worshipping “it”; I’m the one who unfortunately-sized men follow into the locker room just to see if the bulge is real; who automatically finds himself among an active entourage if I escape into the steam room for much-needed privacy, who can’t even go commando in extra tight jeans for fear folks will assume it’s hard, which, because of all the hot men I have throwing themselves at me, it usually is.
When Matthew McConaughey said that his sex symbol image got in the way of being taken seriously, I could completely relate. Unfortunately, I could lose 10, 20, even 50 pounds and there it would still be, only seemingly even larger due to the decreased size of the rest of my build. For me, sadly, anorexia is not an option.
When I was younger, my disability — because that’s what it is, people — wasn’t as enormous of a problem as it is today. Living in Chelsea, the hotbed of beautiful men, I got used to the attention, the muscle jocks who never looked at my face or smile or even knew the color of my eyes. Were I on a date or walking down the street or simply talking to one of those Colt models who were always asking if they could use me for practice, the men just looked down at my waist.
No one cared about what I had to say or if I had a personality or what my thoughts were on the Monica Lewinsky scandal. And why should they? In their eyes I was just another Bill Clinton to their oral-struck Gap dress girl. Instead, they just threw money in my direction and asked me if I would go to their place. My head went to a lot of dark places back then, and a lot of them weren’t even well decorated.
We are all victims, those of us with sexual attributes that everyone wants. The difference between my problem and the problem for big-breasted women is that the world can see their enormity and sympathize. Women like Sofia Vergara are allowed to wear tight sweaters and skimpy bras and be sexually harassed. I suffer in silence. We plus-size men are told it’s not proper to display our bulges in public, or to post artistic pictures of them online, or to pull them out randomly at office functions. Not only am I victim, I am a victim of a double-standard society that says women are allowed, even encouraged, to be objectified. Not so with me. Sometimes I feel as if I should throw a burka over my penis and move to Afghanistan.
Some of you smaller men might snicker and say that at least we can wear skimpy Speedos so as to display our goods, but the true measure of a man’s penis is in the erect position—besides, Speedos don’t’ look good if you stretch out the front fabric so much the back goes up your crack. Should I feel the need to prove my point, I am forced to take selfies of my manhood in full bloom and send them to random strangers on the Internet who refuse to believe my claims. To date, I have sent more of those pictures than I can possibly count, and yet I still get haters saying they won’t be convinced unless I send more. I oblige, of course, not because I enjoy it, but because my dignity will not be compromised.
As I’ve gotten older, my victimhood has only gotten worse. I assumed, like what happened to most of you, that as the body and face suffered the ravages of time, I’d become less desirable. Not so. I’ve put on a few pounds and have a few more wrinkles and less hair, but, sadly, our gay world is so shallow that all I have to do is tell a guy I’ve got a big one and he wants me. I’m like the sitcom actor so brilliant in a specific role no one will cast him in anything else. But I don’t get royalties.
The young jocks I meet today don’t really care about my personality, and at this point, what’s the use in developing one? For a while I tried putting a picture of my face on Grindr, with a caption that said, “Older Guy With Great Heart,” but my reputation has become so well known that not a single man responded. So I was forced to show a photo of an erect bulge and write “The Hung Guy.” Yep, it worked. They all flocked, like homing pigeons coming back to roost. I can only sympathize when I hear Gwyneth Paltrowcomplain about being famous. Like her, my life would be so much easier if I was one of you, below average and common.
As for relationships, do you know how difficult it is to date a man with a smaller penis? There was a time I actually believed I didn’t date much because of something I lacked, like a sense of humor or a big ego. Now I know the truth; it’s because of my massive, thick, tremendous, throbbing cock.
At first the men you meet are thrilled at the new “super hero” in their life; they brag to friends and give it cute nicknames and address it directly and build silly shrines and volunteer to pay for everything as a thank-you. But when it comes to “private time” your mate will only resent you. He will drag out a ruler and demand to compare, then be (rightfully) so embarrassed that any versatile claims will go out the window. He may be butch and muscular, with one of those exceptional rear ends you see on the beaches of Brazil or on any given “True Blood” episode, but he will refuse to take a dominant role. If I weren’t so naturally gifted in the active department my love life would be nil. I am forced to only date super-sized men or be the one who constantly gets the attention. I don’t have a choice: Men want me to be selfish.
Can you blame them? Look around at the world. Everything is about the big penis. The digital retouching that adds extra inches to models’ bulges, the celebrities going commando in hopes someone will Photoshop a bigger package. The “Biggest Porn Dicks,” the “Cities with the Biggest Dicks,” the “Celebrities with the Biggest Dicks,” new underwear and bathing suits that add padding to make you more manly, the phallic skyscrapers and cigars and suckers and stripper poles and Boogie Nights and Dick’s sporting goods store. The Daily Package, the Weekly Bulge, the Big Penis books, the Penis Enlargement operations, the Big Black Dick, Mr. Big, and Shrinkage terror. The Parker Stevenson “Big One,” the David Beckham envy and his “very happy” wife, and Milton Berle’s “anaconda.” Everyone wants the biggest penis, and when they don’t have it, they want war. Or, in Alec Baldwin’s case, suffer so much rage they turn the word itself into an object of hate.
Small men get big cars, big motorcycles, big belt buckles, big muscles, big ranches, and big jobs where they can fire big people. If you’re exceptionally small, do yourself a favor and date someone who works for the NRA or on Wall Street or one of the Koch brothers—you won’t feel so alone. Big battles are started by little people, like the appropriately named George Bush, and “Puny Putin,” as his disappeared friends called him. If history has taught us anything, it’s that peace will never prevail until men learn to live with the measly little gift that God bestowed on you. I may be discriminated against, but I am more at peace that almost any man on the planet.
While I write this next to my lover, Dan, who now owns a solar-powered Caribbean island and who truly is one in a million, and who finally dumped his blond, tiny ex for me—if the shoe box fits—the most important gift I can give you as a send-off is to let you know that, not unlike Mary J. Blige, who has suffered more than any of her fans so she can help them through their insignificant, trivial travails, I too have faced immeasurable obstacles and am here to help the less fortunate. Don’t envy me; pray for me. Most men prefer to do it on their knees.
David Toussaint’s latest book is DJ: The Dog Who Rescued Me. He is the author of four books, including The Gay Couples Guide to Wedding Planning and TOUSSAINT! Toussaint is also a professional playwright and actor. He resides in Manhattan. You can reach him on Facebook.
Originally posted at: http://hsss.tv/archives/2872
Posted on July 16, 2014, in Dating, Lifestyle and tagged big cock, cock too big, David Toussaint, Enormous Penis Problem, Huge Enormous Penis Problem, Irish Curse, large penis, lgbt, love big dick, size queens, Toussaint, well endowed. Bookmark the permalink. Comments Off on My Big, Huge, Enormous Penis Problem.