Hi. You’ve probably heard about me, even if you haven’t read about me in Time, Newsweek, People or the National Enquirer. You may have even seen me on 60 Minutes, 20/20, Hard Copy or Oprah.
Yep, that’s me. The guy with the 17-inch cock.
The way I figure it, it’s time you heard my side of the story without all the studio props or out-of-context quotes. I’ve been answering questions all my life, but none of the interviewers has ever seemed interested in anything more than what’s hanging between my legs down to my knees.
Let’s start with the numbers so I can get them out of the way. The 17-inch measurement that’s generally tossed around is when I’m not aroused—and believe me, when you’ve got a bunch of doctors poking and prodding and scratching down notes, you’re not exactly in the mood for arousal. The more practical numbers are 21 inches from the top of the base of my cock to the tip, a diameter of 2-1/2 to 3 inches, and a circumference of 8 or 9 inches. Those numbers are in effect most of the time, because I am a major fan of men.
During my life, I’ve been called everything from “Holy Shit!” to the life-support system for one of the world’s largest dicks. People stop me in malls to call me a prick, then laugh like they’re the first ones to ever think of such a witty line. You can call me Matt, though, because that’s what my parents named me some 35 years ago.
Back in those days, ultrasound scannings before birth were something out of science fiction, so everybody stood around waiting to see what gender the baby would be. In my case, they had a clue during the delivery because I was born with a hard-on and they nearly had to cut my mother open to get me out. Mom says that right after the doctor smacked me on the back, one of the nurses tried to use my adult-sized shaft for a pacifier.
See, that’s another one of the problems I’ve lived with. It’s not just the size of the bulge in my pants that sets off men, it’s some kind of animal attraction. I can be wearing baggy pants, be facing the other way and still have even straight guys clawing at me like it was mating season at the mink farm. Guys touch me, rub my back and arms, drape their arms around me all the time. I barely know what it’s like not to be touched anymore, even given that for some reason the amount I attract guys is directly connected to how hot they are—ugly guys ignore me, 10s and 11s are literally all over me, back and front. I can just be standing on the subway and suddenly become a hunk sandwich. And if I look the guy in front of me in the eyes—he starts kissing me without even realizing it, I swear. Maybe it’s pheromones—you know, like they use in some of the newer colognes and perfumes—or perhaps it creates some sort of biological magnetic field. I don’t know, and neither do a couple of people who have pulled down PhD’s with their research on it. Whatever it is, though, it works—and it works in spades.
As you can imagine, that’s come in handy any number of times over the years. What you may not be able to imagine is how difficult it can make ordinary day-to-day life. For example, I wanted to be a gymnast, and I got pretty good at it—during practice, that is. The coach eventually asked me to drop off the team because there were too many disruptions in the stands every time I walked out onto the floor in my skin-tight outfit during meets. Then, too, there was always the near-fatal danger of any miscalculation while working on the horizontal bar or pommel horse.
The same thing happened to my swimming career. I wanted to be a diver because I could use my gymnastic skills, but Speedos don’t even begin to provide cover. It’s kind of like asking Dolly Parton to use a hanky for a bra. Jams weren’t available in the early ‘70s, and boxer trunks gave too many opportunities for my cock to thrill the crowd as it snuck out a leg. We even tried some of the wrestler’s outfits, but gave up in the battle of the bulge. Especially since the team was stretching out their Speedos with their own boners whenever I was around.
Baseball was much the same. I got on base a lot because opposing pitchers would get distracted—or pissed—and throw the ball at my crotch. I’ve got some permanent dents in my left side from twisting away from a fastball, but the experience gave me great reflexes—and a terrific batting average.
Football? Ha! Try finding a cup that big, and then try fitting it under a pair of football pants. And then try keeping opposing linemen from trying to bury the top of their helmets below your navel.
But you aren’t here to listen my list of problems, and I’d rather not dwell too much on them. There are advantages to cocks the size of mine, though, and I’ll get to some of those in a minute.
By the time I was a teenager, teams of doctors had built their reputations with the help of my penis. The medical libraries of the country have had to add extra shelving just to accommodate the reams of dissertations and books that have been written about my genitalia. I remember doctors showing me pornography as they tried to measure how long it would take me to become fully erect, but I didn’t really relate well to that as a child. They evidently had other plans in mind, too, but my parents wouldn’t let them fuck around with me until I was old enough to understand what they were doing.
To give you a perspective, I was born with 4 inches. By the time I got my first bike at 5, I had 10 inches—and had to get a boy’s model because my dad was afraid of what might happen otherwise. By the time I entered junior high and started growing pubic hair, I was carrying 14 inches of meat between my thighs. I topped out at 17 inches about the time I got my driver’s license. Those are all soft.
My horny jock brother had noticed these changes, and had been working on any number of plans that would let him satiate the desires that had been building as he matured from a boy to a man. Vince was and is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever known; he’s three years older than me and strongly resembles a more muscular teen Brad Pitt in all aspects. And once I caught his eye he started working out even harder to try to attract mine. Though he was afraid to do more than hug me whenever he saw me and sit real close when we watched TV.
He was quite frustrated, too, because my dad kept a close watch on whom he dated and when he got home and all the other things that dads are supposed to do to keep their teenage sons out of trouble. At some point—and from what he tells me now, that happened a lot earlier than I had suspected—Vince turned his attention to me in earnest.
That meant more frustration for him, because we were a tightly-knit family that lived in a fairly small home and did everything together. He had no opportunity to try any of him plans—until my mom won a sweepstakes one spring that awarded an all-expense-paid trip for two to New York City. Vince was 16 then, and old enough to watch over me and the house while my folks took advantage of the prize during mid-July.
I was just maturing enough to notice boys the way they’re meant to be noticed, as I discovered the Saturday evening my folks left for New York. I was sitting in our living room watching TV when Vince strolled into the doorway wearing a just his boxers. That wasn’t too unusual, because Vince ran around the house a lot that way. What was unusual, though, is that this time the boxers were the kind with a button on the fly, and he’d left them completely unbuttoned as he stood there with his shoulder-length brown hair casually draped over him left shoulder and him right hand resting lightly on the doorframe. The light from the setting sun was to his back, and transformed the think boxers into gossamer, haloing his figure and outlining in deep pastels every inch of his man’s body.
“What’re you watching, Matt?” he asked, in a voice far more husky than I had ever heard before. “Up to a second ago,” I said, “I was looking at TV. All of a sudden, though, the sunset has my undivided attention.” (I was a precocious little bastard, and it got me into a lot of trouble with teachers.)
I don’t remember much more of our conversation, but I remember in vivid detail every moment for the next hour or so. I remember noticing that Vince was crisp, clean boxers that I had never seen in the laundry. I remember Vince sitting on the couch next to me, and I remember that he smelled good in the way he did before he went out on a date. I remember staring a lot at him as he talked to me, and letting my eyes drift to his massive, slightly hairy teen pecs.
We looked into each other’s eyes, and he gulped, and he opened his arms and pulled me to him. I could feel the firmness of his pecs on my chest—and I was aware that my cock had become fully erect. Vince obviously noticed it, too, for he pulled back a moment, looked at me again, and then closed his eyes and moved in for my first full-fledged erotic kiss. As the warmth of the breath from his open mouth let me know there was more to a kiss than what an aunt produced, his right hand moved to my knee and he began stroking my thigh through my levis.
As Vince’s hand moved higher, I became even more aroused and my cock pushed through at the waist of my levis under my T-shirt. His fingertips found the base of my cock, and we both gasped as we kissed. Vince’s hand closed around my hard-on, and he began to slide it up the 18 inches of solid muscle, letting his hand slip beneath my T-shirt as he moved upward. As his hand made contact with the bare skin of my penis, I could feel his body tense and his kissing become deeper and more frenzied, as though he needed all the air in my body. I could feel his tongue exploring deep in my mouth, and I responded instinctively.
As he reached the head of my cock high on my chest, he shuddered and moaned, then pulled away to look at me with a newfound understanding and awareness of what his body had been requesting for so long. Vince sat back and guided my hands to his full pecs, all the while watching my eyes to see how I was responding. As I caressed his chest, I could see his nipples hardening, and I could feel them press against my hands.
I started to move my hands down a little, but he stopped me with a surprisingly shy smile, then stood and pulled his boxers down his hips, uncovering his thick brown thatch of pubic hair that spread neatly up to his belly. I could see that it tapered rapidly into a thin line that ran between his firm abs to his navel. A navel I had seen many times but yet had never seen before. Emerging from this was an already-hard cock that while less than half the length of mine, was not that much narrower. It looked mouth sized, I realized with a start, amazed at the constant barrage of new cock-stiffening thoughts.
I was getting that better view as he let his boxers drop down his long golden legs. As Vince stood erect, he looked down at me and playfully posed by running his hands across his muscles and turning from side to side. When he slowly turned to show me his perfect ass, I could smell his perfume more strongly as his body heated with anticipation, and I could sense another, less familiar musk mingled with it.
“Your turn, Matt,” he teased as he reached for my T-shirt. His pecs flexed with the movement, and I reacted as though he were trying to hypnotize me with them. I let him tug at my shirt for a moment before I reached down and pulled it up over my head. As my dick came into view, I could see Vince’s face flush and his eyes devour every inch of it. One of his hands unconsciously moved to his left pec and began to softly caress it; the other dropped to his cock and his fingertips began a soft, slow rhythmic up-and-down movement that I’m not even sure he was aware of.
“I want to see it all,” he whispered in a husky voice nearly choked off with lust. “Take your pants off for me, Matt. Please take your pants off.” That sounded like a great idea, if for no other reason than to relieve the pain from the thrust of my erection. I stood up, unclasped my belt, unzipped my pants and let them drop to the floor.
As I stepped out of them and pulled off my socks, Vince moved closer and hooked his fingers in the waistband of my underwear, pulling them down as he sank to his knees in front of me. I stepped free of them, and Vince moved his fingers to cup my balls and cock as though he were handling a fragile and priceless artifact. He left his right hand clasped around my balls and began a slow stroking movement with his left hand up my shaft. The sound of my staccato breathing filled the room as he excited me to levels I had never even dreamed of before, and Vince’s sharp gasps punctuated the gaps.
I was aware of colors and textures and the almost-overpowering scent rising from Vince’s body. As he teased and played and explored, I stared at his pecs and their glorious nipples, and at the perfect cock he was pointing at me. My body was rigid as I reacted to the touch of his fingertips, and I began to feel an unfamiliar stirring within me.
Vince slowly stood, keeping his grasp on my groin, and moved against me, kissing me deeply and passionately as he picked up where we had left off. He pulled his hands away as though he had been forced to do it, then put his arms around me and pulled me tight against his body. Reaching down with his hands, he cupped both cheeks and pulled our hips as tightly together as my erect penis would allow.
In each other’s arms, we began a slow circling dance that kept us in contact while moving against each other. The pressure finally became too much for me to stand, so I stepped back slightly, reached down and moved my cock to a horizontal position. Vince responded immediately by opening his legs and straddling my hard-on as though he were riding a horse. I could feel the heat pouring from his anus as he straddled me, and from his iron-hard cock against my abs. We moved back together and continued our dance of desire as Vince and I kissed in the way that new lovers have defined over the ages.
I could feel Vince spasm as we danced, and his breathing become more irregular. He slowed the dance to a standstill, then began stroking his anus across my cock ever more quickly. The more quickly he moved, the harder he buried his face in my shoulder, biting and crying out in pleasure. “Matt, I’m coming on you,” he gasped, “I’m pre-coming all over your abs. Can you feel me?”
As he cried out louder and louder, I could feel him pouring wetness down my abs, and I pulled him tighter to me. I could also feel my cock curling around behind him into the crack of his ass, and the sensation was almost more than I could stand.
“What do we do now?” I asked as he quivered again and again. “I want you inside me. I want you deep inside me,” Vince whispered. “Come with me to my bedroom.”
I didn’t want the sensation to stop while we walked to his bedroom, so I told Vince to wrap his long legs around me and hold onto my neck. With my cock as a support, I carried him that way to the bedroom and rolled him back as gently as I could onto the bed. Vince moved farther onto the bed, pulled some lube out of a drawer and spread his legs, pulling his anus open with his fingers as he did and gently smearing it with a clear gel. “Put your cock in here, Matt. Slide the tip into me—but do it slowly. Thanks to daddy, I’m still a virgin.”
What could I do? What could I say? I stared at his anus spread wide before me and felt a responding throbbing in my cock. It was where my cock belonged. I bent forward and knelt onto the bed, then moved between his legs. As I lowered myself to him, I kissed Vince’s pecs and sucked at the nipples. He gasped with delight at the sensation, but pulled at me urgently. His hands moved between us, and he took a firm hold on my dick to guide it into him.
As the tip of it touched the lips of his anus, all of the tension seemed to rush from his body, and his hips rose to meet me. I slid forward to thrust into him, and Vince recoiled slightly with a stifled sob as I touched his most sensitive spot. I pulled back, thinking I had hurt him, but he pulled at me hungrily to continue.
I felt his tight heat envelop me, and the muscles in his anus grasping at the intruder in their midst. He took me in for about 4 or 5 inches, then released and drew back. We began to develop our rhythm from his response, and I was able to reach deeper with each thrust until I met resistance about half way in. By this point, Vince was crying out and shuddering with near orgasms on nearly every movement. As I stopped, he gave a great heaving convulsion and, through clenched teeth, inhaled an “Oh, Matt……”
I continued to stroke, letting the pleasure build as his anus stimulated the top half of my cock and his hands caressed the lower half and my balls. At some point, the head of my cock surged past the narrow spot into what felt like another anus. The sensation overpowered me, and I began to erupt within him. He could feel the cum pulsing through my cock on its way to the inside of his body, and he could feel me exploding deep within him. I screamed as I came, and he moved in rhythm with me as I spurted again and again and again. As my vision cleared, even while I was still cumming, I saw Vince’s abs were covered in cum and at first thought wildly that my cum had somehow pushed through his skin—but I realized Vince had come massively without ever touching himself.
Vince continued his rhythm as I ran out of air from the violence of the experience. As he moved, I first learned of the sensitivity a man experiences after orgasm, and I pulled free with a yowl of pain. I explained that he hadn’t hurt me, that the pain was a good kind of pain, but that I needed a minute or two to calm down and catch my breath.
As I gasped that out, Vince watched my cock continue to twitch and spurt with the aftershock, then reached over with his fingers to touch my cum. Quite tentatively, he touched it to his tongue, then exclaimed, “Hey, this is salty—but I like it. And, look down here—your cum is leaking out of my anus.” He reached for a Kleenex to dry himself with one hand; with the other, he began to tease my cock again.
We continued to experiment for the rest of the night. I found I was able to recover in about 5 to 10 minutes, and that Vince was nearly insatiable. Near dawn, we fell asleep in each other’s arms and—appropriately enough—with my cock deep inside his anus. When the phone rang about two hours later, we were able to quite honestly tell our parents that everything was going fine and that they could stop worrying and enjoy the rest of their week in New York.
As it turned out, they did—and so did we.