This post has been inspired by Kate Orman's Living with the Girls post here. I was originally going to write about something else, but the story of "Mary" and the problems that have come from people's perceptions of her because of her breasts, plus the various people who also wrote with their experiences, prompted me to write this one up earlier than intended.
It's probably one of the most personal posts I can put up.
Ok, for a very, very long time, I have hated my penis. I had no problems with it in the early years, in fact it was and still is my favourite plaything... next to my Sonic Screwdriver. But then I hit puberty early and it grew.
Now to put things in perspective, I was a scrawny runt. From the age of 10 all the way through to 28, even wringing wet I never weighed much more than 8 stone (52 kilos). Big fat blokes and muscle builders often seem to have small cocks because the rest of them is so large, muscle or fat helping make an average sized pork-sword look diminutive.
So, take a short, thin guy, whack a wang on him, and it can't help but look large. Add to that, my length when flaccid is often around 3-4 inches, unless it's really cold, in which case Little Dan becomes barely thumb-sized and hidden inside its foreskin, but that is rare. Erect length is only 6 inches, so I'm dead on average length. Width is another matter entirely, which I'll come to in due course.
So, small guy with what looks like a large package. Let me take you through my early years... going swimming at the channel with my uncles, aunts and cousins, wearing ordinary swimming togs, that's when the comments started coming. 'Oh my gawd!' says one of my aunts on seeing me in my togs, 'Hey Barry, have you seen your son? His wife's in for a shock!'
There's nothing quite like having your family discuss your donger in front of the female cousin you have a massive crush on, for making you feel two inches tall. Such conversation was the norm for my family. It wasn't just me, it's like they are totally lacking any ability to understand that maybe a guy doesn't want his willy talked about, or maybe a girl doesn't want her breasts to be a topic of conversation.
Pretty soon I had the nickname Donkey Dick. If it had only been used around the family, I wouldn't have minded, but it was used around people I'd just met. In some ways this wasn't that bad. It's a cultural thing and while it may be a bit insensitive, it's not meant to be hurtful. It's the norm to tease and embarrass one another, it's what makes you family. I've done my share, but I've tried, not always successfully, to be aware of people's feelings. Most of these folks simply can't understand why you wouldn't be proud of being known to have a big dick, why you wouldn't want the word out. They don't get that it's embarrassing. It's certainly no worse than the people who scar us cruelly through the years with deliberately hurtful comments, but it's often not that much better either.
Now if all this had started later, at age 16 or 18, I probably would have coped much better. As it was, I got very good at disarming them before it could go on too long. You quickly agree, make a joke, then change subject, it works suprisingly well, at least for me.
Now, my uncle was known to the local community for, amongst other things, being hung. It's a family trait for his line. So one year, at the town show, the locals gave him the blue ribbon in the stud bull category. Wind forward a few years, along comes little old me. I'm short, scrawny and, as far as anyone is concerned, in possession of massive trouser snake. So the blue ribbon got passed along to me. I was and still am strangely proud and embarrassed by this one. I kind of like having the blue ribbon... I just wish the whole town hadn't been told.
When I started meat-working/droving, things got worse. The first time I walked into the showers, it started. The opening comment, if I remember correctly, was 'Jesus Christ, look at the cock on that!' And my reputation grew from there. And here is where it gets strange. Because after months and months of every second shower time being the unofficial time to talk about Danny's dong, I noticed one of the other guys really was hung. He was six foot plus, well muscled and his penis must have been seven inches long in its flaccid state. Joy! I saw my chance to get them talking about someone else!
Over the next day or two, I timed myself to enter the showers at the same time as my saviour. Biding my time, I waited for the first comment. Eventually I got a comment along the lines of 'Do you want a second bar of soap for your dick?' and I leapt.
'I don't known why you buggers are always going on about me. I don't even compare to Pete! It looks like a baby's arm hanging out of a pram!'
No luck. See, Pete was a big tall guy with a massive meat truncheon, but I was a little guy with what they perceived to be a sizable schlong, I still won. I was still the talking point.
I got the comments and nicknames... Drover's Dog (all ribs and prick), Donkey Dick, buy it a shoe and make it do its share of the walking, it didn't grow on him, he grew on it, etc. The Maoris called me Rahu Nui (I have no idea if that's the correct spelling), it means Big Dick. Even the women in the lunch room joked with me about it.
And so I grew to hate my cock. It was becoming something that was only a source of embarrassment and, as many women will appreciate, it's not nice to have all the attention focused on one part of your anatomy to the exclusion of all else. Nothing like the assumptions people make based on a body part, either. That I must like sex, have lots of it, be great in the sack, always looking for a root, acting on that, etc. Now, parts of this are true, but parts are totally wrong. But it never mattered what I said or did, that perception remained.
Big dick = big sex drive = no morals.
So my teenage years wore on, I had a few mild dalliances with girls and eventually got a girlfriend who I decided to go all the way with. I'd been saving intercourse for the right girl, who finally came along at age 19. We had a wonderful sex life, but still the stigma of my pink lightsabre followed me.
At some point, reading an article about male genitalia, we found a thing on average sizes. Great we grab the tape measure... erect length 6 inches, average male length when erect... 6 inches! I can't tell you how happy I was. I was average! Not huge, not a donkey dick, average! Okay, so girth at widest point 6 inches, average male girth... 3 inches...
I've since seen studies that put average male girth at 3.5 to 4.5 inches, which is a little better. But at the time it was crushing. Double average width, gee, I really wanted that. It made it all seem true. I was nothing more than a cock on legs.
To make matters worse, we realised that a girth of 6 inches meant that my penis was as thick as my wrist. Girls talk. This led to girls coming up to me, wrapping their fingers around my wrist, boggling or going 'Oh my God!' and running off to natter and giggle. You can, by now, imagine how much I loved that. I would probably have been less mortified if some of the young ladies had expressed some desire or interest in me, but I actually got to overhear more than one say 'How do you cope? That's just too big!'
It was around this time, and for probably the next fifteen or so years, that I started to seriously consider surgery to reduce my penis size. I wish I were joking. I didn't want to be put under the knife, but I really started to hate my purple-headed womb-broom. It may have been the source of hours of personal entertainment and joy, but when it wasn't directly involved in those pursuits, I found it nothing but a huge embarrassment.
Another example. Same girlfriend and I, experimenting with a threesome. Things are going well in the dark. A new hand reaches out to explore my privates in the dark, she grasps my beef bayonet and says loudly to my girlfriend "Oh Wow! You are so lucky!" I just wanted to crawl away and hide.
Some of you may recall the story of my time in the sex shop, when the vibrators came in that were a pretty good copy of my penis. The thing I haven't mentioned until now is the comment from one of my co-workers. We were talking about stock, bad pricing, bad decisions, etc. He gestures towards the rack chock-a-block with my penis in various colours and says 'And why do we have so many of those? They'll never all sell, no-one wants them!' I couldn't help but inquire as to why they wouldn't sell. 'They're over-priced and way too big. No-one wants something that big up them!'
Apart from my last sale to two young ladies, I hated it when customers even wanted to look at that model.
Now, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like the compliments and attention my penis got occasionally. There are times where I couldn't help but smile, or blush but still be a little proud or happy. And there was one female friend who called me Donkey Dick, but I actually liked it as it was a genuine term of affection from her. Having no experience of men, I'd let her examine my penis and talked her through a few basics, with no strings attached and no push to do something for me. She was aware of my senstivity on the subject, and always careful to only call me Donkey in private... or on Christmas cards *grin*
But overall, it was a huge negative. And here's why.
As mentioned in another post, the first person to say that they liked my body as a whole, or that they liked my face and found me good looking, didn't appear until four years ago. My parents, various girlfriends, friends, lovers, and even my wife... no-one had ever told me that they found me attractive. Talented, clever, funny... never good looking.
But I had quite a few women compliment me on my cock, tell me it was gorgeous, wonderful etc. While I was ignored, a fucking piece of hydraulic meat hanging from my groin got compliments and praise for two-thirds of my life. So if you're wondering how I could have grown to hate it so much that I considered surgery, well, that's a pretty big reason right there.
And then I still remember the embarrassment when the first time a particular lover tried to mount me and couldn't get me in more than part way because of my girth. Both desperate for sex and it wasn't working. Rationally, I know all the reasons it didn't work, there were issues of her tightness due to a dry spell of a couple of years, and in her haste to hop on top, she probably wasn't as relaxed and lubricated as she could have been. We ended up giving up and going to sleep. And while things worked out spectacularly well later, I still can't help but remember how awful that time was, at all the irrational self-blame and the wish I was smaller.
And then there's my wife. She has trouble accommodating me. Just the way she's built compared to the way I'm built, added to the infrequency. Even with four hours of foreplay and a slow introduction, she finds me a little uncomfortable. So, yet another reason to hate my pecker and feel awful because of it.
However, in the last few years there's been a change.
I've gradually begun to like my willy more often than I hate it. This is in no small part down to my mistress, Kali. Kali loves my penis, loves my size, often calls it beautiful. But here's the important turning point - she also calls me beautiful. She compliments my hair, my face, my smile, my mind, my body, the way I move and carry myself, at least as often as she compliments Mr. Wobbly. She wants to pimp me out to other women, not because I have a thick willy, but because she thinks I'm good in the sack and worth being with. That I have more to offer than a lump of flesh.
And that's made me feel good about myself, and my penis. For the first time I actually felt something like genuine pride in percy, because she made me feel good about the rest of myself, too. I deal better with the comments and compliments now - the couple of young ladies that have requested a look, I actually felt okay with - because there is at least one person out there who takes the time to notice the rest of me. I still get embarrased, but often feel happy too, glad others like it.
But it still took years for her to break through the conditioned hatred I have felt for my penis. A hatred that need never have existed if people had looked beyond the one physical attribute and watched the pain in my eyes even as I laughed along with them. The times I was honest, asked them to stop, they weren't able to comprehend how I could dislike their compliments and jokes. They couldn't understand that being admired as a person is different to being admired for a body part. That if they had shown at least some of the same interest and enthusiasm for the rest of me, or at least in my achievements, then maybe I wouldn't have spent a quarter of a century hating part of myself.
It can sometimes be hard to feel good about something when that's the only thing that gets attention. But these days, at last, I can say I like my cock. I appreciate its size and shape, I enjoy the sensitivity (though I sometimes wish it was a little less sensitive), the smoothness of the skin... And I can enjoy the appreciation it sometimes gets as well, though I'm still shy about it
Learning to like that part of myself has probably been one of the most difficult changes I've gone through as a person.
And this has been, far and away, the most difficult post I've ever written.
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I love having a nice smooth freshly shaved face. Nothing like smooth skin, no stubble, that has a great appeal. The problem I have is that within a few hours of shaving, I have killer stubble.
So I need to shave once more. Scrape, scrape, scrape...
It's a waste of time, and a waste of water. I find it hard to get my face feeling smooth, it often taking a couple of runs with the razor before I'm happy, and I hate dragging a piece of sharpened metal accross my face to begin with. It's smooth for a few short hours, then my face starts to turn part cactus. To maintain my facial hair at the level I'm happy with, I'd need to shave two to three times a day, lest I remove layers of skin from the ladies in my life. And of course, shaving regularly makes my face sensitive and sore.
Electric razors don't give me a close enough shave, my facial hair regrows quickly, it kind of sucks. Especially that we live in a society where, in most public sector work, beards are frowned upon. You can have them, but it's made clear in many jobs that they prefer you to be clean shaven. Plus there's all the push for a 'nice, clean shave.'
That's right, because having hair on your face is dirty. You should spend lots of time and money on getting your face smooth, smelling right, using the right razor. Women will only want you if your face is smooth. Oh, and ladies, no-one will ever want you if you have hairy pits, apparently. Bah!
If I was playing Santa this year, I'd be experimenting with dye or spray-on white colouring for my beard. I usually shave for Father Christmas, because I like to stick the beard onto my skin with double-sided wig tape to hold it stable. But within half a day, sweat and my own whiskers have started to push the tape off. Can't get away without shaving, or hiding my beard under the fake one, it becomes too slippery, the fake beard sliding off whenever I talk in my test runs.
And Kringle talks a bit.
So while it's bad, not getting to play St. Nick, I don't have to shave. Haven't shaved since Swancon this year. I'm rejoicing in letting my beard grow. Three inches long, I'm hoping to go the full Ned Kelly! A big bushy beard where I can store food for the winter, hide a family of possums, and generally look more and more like my inner-curmudgeondy, old bush-bastard self.
Plus, it's soft! Maybe not puppy fur soft or anything, but compared to old razor-wire cheeks, it's like cotton wool. Sharon likes it because it doesn't hurt, Kali likes to nuzzle into it, I'm on a winner folks!
And best of all... no scrape, scrape, scrape...
Well, maybe next Christmas...