In one of my previous posts, I asserted that I am, in fact, a size queen. I am also queen-size, but that’s a different post for a different time.

Suffice it to say that when I made my claim to size-queen-dom, there were many who objected to my saying it and felt that it a) was not a body-positive comment to make and b) made it seem as if the only good penises were large penises. I want to expand on and perhaps correct my stance on that if possible.

I love big dicks and I cannot lie. There is nothing in the world quite like the feeling of a man with both length and girth filling you up until you can’t take anymore. It’s a thing.

That said, as much as I love a man with a big bat, you gotta be able to hit that shit out of the park. How the fuck are you going to be out here with the ultimate Louisville Slugger, bunting your way through life? It’s an oxymoron.



One day in September, I asked the ladies of the Twitter timeline to tell me of their worst experience of a dude with a big one not being up for the challenge, and I got a lot of responses, but this one in particular sums it all up:

In short (heh), size only matters if you know what the fuck you are doing with it. You can’t be out here wasting women’s time with your big thang if you have no stroke game—or worst yet, a quick fucking draw.



There is a gentleman I had to kick off my hotation roster earlier this year because he was guilty of the big-bat-strikeout crime.

This man was working with a smooth 9 1/2 inches of girthy, godly goodness and had the weakest stroke imaginable. That shit was equivalent to a Facebook poke—that is to say, it was fucking nonexistent.


I was so disappointed. I wanted him to be great. He, apparently, did not want himself to be great. How do you reach 40 years of age with all that pipe and not learn how to use it? This man had been married, for fuck’s sake. Twice! I just don’t get it.

And here’s another thing: Don’t be out here catfishing us on the size of your dick or your stroke game. You are asking for giggles and chuckles in the bedroom with that shit. Let me give you an example.


All right, so boom. I used to work with this guy who had a really nice body. He was muscular, but not overly so. He was the right amount of thick. He looked like he would be able to handle this load if I were to throw it on his ass. I was curious, and after a while, I found out he was, too.

After we spent a month or so flirting back and forth, his comments began to get more and more overtly sexual. He kept saying he was going to “break my back” and things like that. In retrospect, that should have been my first clue. Most dudes with big thangs and good stroke don’t have to do a whole lot of talking about it. The proof is in the pudding.

In any case, after about the 20,340,239,840,238,420,348th comment about how good he could give it to me, I was like, “OK, you don’t have to talk me to damn death. What’s good?”


We made arrangements for him to come over to my apartment after his shift at work.

I went home and did the usual prep. I scented my sheets, changed the light bulb, bathed and got myself all lotioned up and smelling good, and waited for him to arrive.


When he did, we didn’t waste any time, because why? We went right into my bedroom to do what he came to do.

As we are lying there and he is fumbling his way through a most mediocre foreplay performance (ooh, another post idea for another day, ’cause some of y’all fucking suck at foreplay), I reach my hand down to his crotch to give it the size test.

I am alarmed, because I don’t feel much of anything. I think to myself that maybe he just isn’t very aroused yet—and then I feel insulted because, bitch, I’m ME.


But whatever. I push forward. I tell him to take his pants off, and he does, providing me with better access to the anaconda he is supposedly wielding. I reach down to grab it, and the slippery little worm is barely worth me using all my fingers to hold. I could have legit just rubbed him with my thumb and forefinger and he would have been just fine. Now I’m pissed.

He starts to get harder, if that is even such a thing for someone with his limited scope, and apparently he is ready because he asks me, “Do you have any condoms?”


Without missing a beat, I say, “Yes, but they’re Magnums.”

My smart-ass comment flies over his head the way size flew over his dick, and he asks me to give him one.

I do it, against my better judgment.

He gets a good six or seven strokes in before he blows his load, just like he is blowing this sexual experience for me. Then, to add insult to injury, he pulls out—pulling his miniature member out of the condom as he does so. The condom, having done its job the best it could, dangles out of me lifelessly.


“Oops,” he says, “my bad,” and quickly grabs it.

I smack my lips, and my pussy smacks her lips too, like, can you believe this shit?

He has the nerve to ask, “Did you come?”


Sir. Could you not?

I hit him with the smooth, “So whatchu ’bout to do?”

He takes the hint and puts his pants back on.

I escorted him out of my door so quickly, I don’t think I even said “bye.” Just pushed him out, locked my apartment, got my vibrator and finished the fucking job myself.


I cannot with you poseurs.

(As a sidenote, me and @steenfox were discussing starting a #ReclaimingMyPussyTime movement. This really needs to happen.)


So, here’s the deal. No, size does not always matter. There are big dicks that suck just as much as, if not more than, little dicks.

Stroke matters. Longevity matters. Stamina matters.

Focus on those things, and we won’t care how big it is. There is some truth to the old saying, “It’s not the size of the ship; it’s the motion of the ocean.”


We love big dicks. We love looking at big prints.

We don’t, however, love big dicks that lie.