I love big, fat dicks.

Sue me, I do.  I love the way they stretch me and fill me, the way they pick me up from the inside and move me from this place in time to that place in time like a fleshy warp drive.  I love fearing them, sucking on them, and weeping upon them.  I revel in their rarity and their beauty.  I’m an unapologetic Size Queen: big, fat dicks are my friends.

And so is Remington.

After being a proper 25-year-old shit back in July he reached out and apologized and my old 41-year-old ass accepted.  Life’s too short for not forgiving someone with whom you really click.  Proper grammar, too.

He was right on time, all smiles, like a coat hanger stretched his face.  We had much to catch up on, some shit talking to do.  Long and lanky, goofy and sexy, he lay on my couch as I fed him wine and thought disgusting things about his body.  His soft skin, his big, fat cock, his youth.  Fuck: his youth.

Yet Remington is wise beyond his years somehow.  His drive, his ambition.  It sets him apart from other dipshits his age.  I mean, he’s still a dipshit — only dipshits don’t show up to things he’s promised to do– but he’s a brilliant, savage, delicious young man and it somehow makes it all part of the man.

We played Mastermind and when he knew he’d lost, instead of going down in flames he leaned across the table and kissed me.  Deeply and passionately with his coat-hanger smile.

I smiled back into him and climbed onto his lap.  We quickly removed my clothes and pressed my breasts into his face then I slid quietly between his legs, unwrapped his goodies and began to suck.

The glans’ ridge caught on my lips while I serviced it like an obedient piston; the warm, round helmet hit the back of my throat and I fought the gags with great pleasure.

We stood almost as if we shared a mind and stumbled into my candlelit room hand in hand.

I rustled in my drawer since he’d left his condoms in his Mustang convertible until I found some condoms.  “Do you need Magnums?”

“Yes.”

Rip, peel, roll, push, ahhhhh.

We nipped and kissed each other’s lips, jaws, and necks.  I greedily held his hips against mine.  “No.  Stay,” I whispered, desperate.  He held still and we breathed each other’s breath.

We moved and flipped, groaned and gripped, and all too soon it was over with a mad bashing against my ass.

We collapsed on the bed and moved to the pillows and quickly fell asleep.  I was vaguely aware of his soft snores and his hand on my hip.  I wondered if he fit in my bed, but fell back asleep before the worry fully woke me.

Some time in the night, long before dawn, I reached for the soft, warm meat between his thighs and felt it grow turgid in my grip.  The Christmas lights in my window cast a warm glow over the swell of his hip and legs, his cock pulsed and twitched in my hand.  And then I fell asleep and the tickle of his retreating, shrinking cock shivered me out of my slumber for a second or two until he — and I — were both fully asleep again.

I did not get to stuff his beautiful largeness back inside of me.

The morning was a mad dash because he overslept.  He shoved his feet into his leather boat shoes, grabbed his bag, pulled on his crumpled jeans and kissed me once, twice, three times before rushing out the door.

Later, he informed me he’d beaten his CTO to work so it was as if it’d never happened.  I might have congratulated him on his good luck and silently lamented at my own bad luck.  I had really wanted more of him.

He’s so much more than just the good fortune between his legs — he is not reduced to only his penis — but I would be lying if I pretended it wasn’t a cherry on the Young Man Sundae that is Remington.   A delicious, big cocked, smiling man-dessert.  And fuck… I do love me some fat, yummy man meat.

I love big dicks and I cannot lie.

I talk about cock size a lot.  When I was on Tinder it was in my profile under something coy like, “I prefer gold wrappers,” or some such.  On Adult Friend Finder I’m explicit with my fantasy penis.  I want a guy who’s at least 7″ and girthy, like 5″+ around.

I’ve been called childish and rude and told I’m missing out on what a smaller guy can do for me.  The men who meet my preferences give me high fives and thank me for my honesty.  They like a woman who knows what she wants.

So why do I like them bigger? 

I find big cocks hot as fuck

I don’t know if I’m a product of the current state of society which seems to laud hung men or if I come by it naturally, but I am in love with big dicks.

They titillate and challenge me, they make me feel proud that I get to have it and that I can take it; I feel overwhelmed with desire when I see it jut at me, throbbing and bulging with veins so beautiful I want to cry for want of it.

When my hand wraps around it and my fingertips can only just barely touch my pussy pulses and my heart quickens.  I cannot help my physical response to a big cock — I simply cannot — and it feels good, oh so good.  Just the response, I’m not even talking about how it feels in me.

For many years I wasn’t cognizant of my preference.  I knew smaller ones felt different and often would think, “I wish I felt… more,” but couldn’t put my finger on it.  Then one day the stars aligned: I met Troy.

We lay in his bright living room the first Monday we ever knew one another and as I knelt at his feet and deftly unbuckled his pants he sprung out and my eyes widened.  “What?” he said.

“Um… you’re really big,” I said and fell onto him with my eager mouth.  I was old enough to know the difference and sexually awake enough to appreciate it.

He’d never cum from a blowjob until that day.  He didn’t know he was hung until that day.  It was a turning point for the both of us.

Size Queens

Troy had his own preferences and introduced me to the term “size queen.”   He launched a search for men on AFF to play with us who were bigger than him.  He’d watch me get fucked by these fellas and impatiently wait his turn to suck my juices off their long, engorged members.  Troy was a master at deepthroat and I’d watch in awe as the men would disappear down his throat like a sword.   Jack, Ryan, Max.  When he and I were over I knew I had a thing.  I was a size queen, too.

The Neighbor was bigger than Troy and even more talented with it.  I squirmed with glee when I noticed his bulge hardening under his silky basketball shorts, from the feel of his heat in my hand.  I loved that it made his jeans fit funny and that he couldn’t hide his size from the world, as if to say, Fuck you. I’ve got a huge cock.

I know lots of women — a majority, actually — who don’t care about dick size and prefer smaller and thinner penises inside of them than I do.   Big ones intimidate them or hurt once inside.  I don’t have either of those problems.

I’m built for big cock

Five years ago, at the tender age of 35 I was set loose on the world of men with a broken heart and a raging sexual appetite.  Together, Troy and I discovered the wonders of my body and I became a wet and willing partner at the drop of a hat.  His hands, his kiss, his breath on my neck.  It didn’t take much and my pussy would be soaking and he’d slip right in.  I eschewed lube and we never used it.  Instead I savored the stretch until he slipped around inside of me as I came and squirted around him, ruining our beds, rugs, blankets, and couches in the process.

After Troy there was Phillip who was a monster.  He’s the first man whose cock made me a little afraid, but I trusted him and it was spectacular.  He called me his dirty little Girl Scout and I came from the filthy words and being hung up on his staff.  The man barely had to move and I was writhing.  With Kent, it was different.  He was enormous, too, but the curve of his cock also hit my G-spot and I just sobbed into my pillows as he rode me to his climax.   And I could feel The Neighbor in my throat and skull through my pussy as he’d fill me up and take me to faraway places attached to his thrusting hips.

The thing with all of them was I got wickedly wet and lost my goddamned mind and if it weren’t for their size they would have been lost to me completely.  Physiologically, as a woman becomes more aroused, her vagina expands and cervix lifts up and out of the way essentially expanding rather than constricting.  I don’t know if I have some giant hallway-sized pussy or something, all I know is that my intense wetness creates a severe loss of sensation for me, so unless his cock is big, I’m not feeling him.  I’m told my pussy feels amazing.  I’m glad they can feel something while I’m lost in sloppy pussy outer space.

In addition to wetness, there’s also vagina depth.  The average is 3-4 inches in length unaroused, aroused it can nearly double.  I must have a deeper one than most if a man who’s 10″+ can fit in there with little to no pain.  Just the thought of taking in something that huge turns me on and, whether it’s true or not, it makes me feel special.

Size has nothing to do with character

How a man reacts to my size preferences, however, does speak to his character and self-esteem.  Calling me names and telling me I’m short-sighted is more about the man than it is about me.  I know what I want and I want it to be amazing for the both of us.  I want him to be excited by my excitement and for him to see the lust in my eyes, not veiled disappointment because I was told to expect something different. I want to feel him in me — I’m naturally desperate for it during the act of sex — and a man with a baby arm between his legs rockets me off the planet like no other.

When a man states very clearly that he likes a petite woman who’s fit I don’t call him names.  I just know I’m not the woman for him.  At best, I’m softly athletic, of average height with big, mushy tits — I’m an athlete in bed, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me — but he doesn’t need to know that.  I’m not going to argue with a guy who has a whole truckload of reasons behind his stated preference.  He’s entitled to it.  I also don’t want a man to settle for me.  Physically speaking, I want the man who wants me, just the way I am.  The man who wants a softer partner, with pendulous breasts that swing and bounce, and an ass that jiggles as he slams into it.

I want men to be ok with me not wanting them if their cocks are average or smaller.  Let me go find a guy who’s bigger and wish me well on my search.  I’ll wish him well on his search for a woman who thinks he’s perfect, too.  I’m not doing it to be exclusive, I’m doing it because it’s just what I want.  No one should shame someone because they have a preference be it for fake tits or BBW, hairy men or older blokes.  We all want what we want.  There’s no need to make it personal.

Love vs Cock vs Good Times

I’ve essentially shot myself in the foot having this ridiculous thing about me, this preference, because I also want a man who’s intelligent, funny, and kind, successful in his career, and above all else, interested in me.  Add to it the general ambiguity of dating, the trials and misfires and it’s an exhausting endeavor, which is why I’ve essentially taken myself off the fucking market (pun intended).  I’m tired of it all.

I’m tired of the emotional math necessary for sending texts or making calls, tired of the hoping and the waiting, tired of trying to untangle mixed messages and shot-down hopes, tired of looking for a man who wants me who also has a nice, giant meaty cock.  It seems vaguely impossible; I might as well buy a lottery ticket.

Luckily, I’m perfectly capable of just chillin’ and fully enjoying myself with a man who isn’t related to a donkey.  I’ve had some really pleasurable evenings with these guys and walked away sated, smiling like a fool.  I’m an equal-opportunity dater, I just have a preference.  It doesn’t mean you have to be my dream cock.  If you’re a great guy, I’ll still think you’re great and you might even win my heart.

I’ll never rule out love with someone based on the size of his penis, but it would certainly be a boon for me if I loved a man who had one that was made for me.

I don’t know what other size queens think about their needs and wants, I only know about mine.  It’s born out of lust, pride, and physiological necessity.  It’s not meant to make anyone feel badly.  It’s only meant to make me feel good, both inside and out.  I sincerely hope that we all find our perfect match in whatever sizes we want.