I just ran into my former dog walker, a 30-ish guy, good looking with Ray Bans and a full biker style beard. He was swinging a massive bulk of metal house keys. I looked down at his steel package, then back up to his grin. He nodded, “yeahhh.” I considered a provocative comeback, but why guild what was already thick in the air.
It’s the c*ck metaphor. All men have them. The obvious ones: the bikes, the Italian sports cars, or the schwing of a revved up power tool; overt as a thick bulge of faded denim. But hugeness also hides elsewhere.
Bank accounts. Intellectual prowess. Better kitchen knives. Masterful skills with plumbing. It’s all in the mascara’d eye of the beholder. A man can be huge in any woman’s eyes, and only the small-minded rely on what hangs in foreskin.
I can’t say what fills my loins, there is no one thing. I find size in places that are always surprising to me. It can be more obvious, like the way a man hammers around corners in a car of any make, or it can be small, like the planting of bulbs in anticipation of the big payoff come Spring. It could simply be Coke over Pepsi, one towering over the next. Anything can be erotic, but at the end of the day, a c*ck is just a c*ck, and every guy has one.
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