Your Big Dick Can’t Save You Nowlisten to this story
It’s entirely your fault. There’s no question in your cracked-out mind. The meth, the gay porn with underage European boys, the fact neither of you made it to the bedroom before ravishing one another. Your hopes of anal penetration, feeling his admittedly average-sized cock inside your ass, start to dim as the encounter continues. No matter how often or with what skill you suck his ordinary cock, it won’t stay hard. He praises your skill sucking, but there’s no ignoring the evidence. You adjust your expectations. In between gasps and moans and calling him Daddy, you content yourself with what this man can offer: a thorough cock-sucking, a wish to converse after sex, blessed relief from the panoramic dread that descends when you’re high alone.
When you were younger, still desired by the slick-skinned predators at the bathhouse and the sad recluses from the websites, you believed your cock could solve any problem. A man no longer finds you attractive? Whip out the cock. A fight with the boyfriend? Whip out the cock. Desperate to broadcast over the webcam? Whip out the cock. Long ago, one of your tricks measured it. Was it truly the largest one he’d seen? Drum roll, please! Nine whopping inches. Nine inches of firm, unyielding flesh and muscle. Your trick slavishly wrapped his mouth around that gift from Jesus God and later allowed you to pound his ass with the ruthlessness of a linebacker.
Alas, fond memories cannot help you now. Too faded, too ephemeral. The young foreign boys fucking on the screen provide more reliable inspiration. You watch them over Daddy’s bouncing shoulder as he sucks. You like that big dick? you ask. You like sucking a long, hard one? Daddy mumbles, unwilling to stop and articulate an answer. Why do you need reassurance? You’ve fucked hundreds of men since your first blow job at age fourteen, and they all say the same thing, express the same slack-jawed wonder. Wouldn’t any other man become bored? Yes, I have a large cock, you tell yourself. My mother is dying of liver cancer. I stuttered as a child.
Daddy has started to lose the thread. He’s sliding off the radar. This surprises you. After all, he’s smoked meth his whole adult life. He must know the risk of becoming too high to fuck. Daddy struggles to regain his breath. Sweat glistens on his chest, his forehead. You’re beautiful, he tells you. I could worship that cock for hours. You should’ve made porn movies. Sorry I can’t fuck right now. Do you want me to stay? I’d love to stay a little longer.
As a lithe, blank-faced boy strolls across the screen, you wonder why God assigned you this absurd appendage. What can a large cock do besides attract men who never remember your face? Your large cock will not whisper advice on how to handle Daddy. He gazes with such longing, you crank up the movie’s volume. What are you looking at? you ask. Daddy smiles and says, You.
This answer disturbs you. The wonderful thing about men interested only in your cock is how easily you can dismiss them. Simply tuck the monster back in your briefs, and the man leaves, excuses and promises trailing behind him. Why can’t Daddy keep his focus on those nine inches? I’d like to stroke it myself a while, you tell him. You want me to watch? he asks. You shrug one shoulder and your gaze grows distant. Daddy takes the hint and returns to the recliner beside yours. You wrap your hand around your cock and stroke. It doesn’t feel wonderful. It doesn’t even feel good. You wonder if the men who worship your cock would attend your funeral.
Your hand cramps. You’re suddenly tired. Meth highs are tricky, no batch of dope precisely alike. The boys on-screen can’t speak English, but you watch anyway, unable to look at Daddy. Your cock softens, withers in your loose grip. Soon you will be alone. When you catch yourself in the mirror and see how your limp dick hangs between your thighs, you will want to die. And you will, but not all at once.
CHEAP TRICKSlisten to this story
Mr. Sutton invited boys to his ranch for what he called throw-downs. We were in junior high, nervous, loud, and desperate to please. My first time, I wore the slacks my mother had pressed and a button-down shirt with a stiff collar. I stood out in the pasture, hot dogs and burgers sizzling on the grill, and watched the other boys smoke cigarettes and sip the beer Mr. Sutton provided. I waited. Each time, I waited and waited and waited.
His rec room boasted an endless array of photos taken when he was on the college swim team twenty years ago. Image after image of long, lean young men with shaven bodies and toothy smiles. Not every boy was invited to this room. You had to be special. Perhaps that’s not the right word. While we mingled in the pasture like old women after a sermon, we wondered what Mr. Sutton called us when we weren’t there. When the last paper plate had been trashed, when his dog Apple barked after the last departing Suburban.
He knew magic. We realized these were cheap tricks, the sort of feats any moron could learn from the back of a magazine or a kit ordered over the phone. But when Mr. Sutton fanned a deck of cards before me and asked in his soothing, FM-dial voice to pick one, I did. I held the card facedown against my chest as he shuffled and scattered the other cards, promising me in his dulcet tone that he would guess the card I held. I bet it’s the queen of spades, he said. You look like you could handle a real woman. Come here, show me your hand.