The Right Size

Size doesn't matter. It's how you use it that matters. Right?
That's the polite, I-love-you-just-the-way-you-are angle to play with a guy. I know that. I'm a guy.
But times change. Though face-to-face, I think females probably maintain their polite facade, but more and more, the media is abuzz with talk that is quite contrary. Size does matter.
With that in mind and a desire to buy Ginger, my girlfriend, a naughty surprise, I decided to look for a big- a really big- dildo at a nearby adult toy store.
My size is just fine. Really. At least that's what Ginger assures me and we fit together nicely.
Still, I'd been hearing bigger is better, and we enjoyed experimenting sexually, so I was looking for BIG. At the store, I went back and forth between two or three dildos that met my specs before making a decision to purchase the Chad Hunt 12" Super Cock. Yes. Twelve inches long and as thick around as a 10 oz. water bottle.
The dildo was flesh colored, rubbery soft, but firm. This erection wasn't going away. And it wasn't Antalya Travesti cheap either at about 80 bucks.
Carrying it out of the store, I realized how heavy it was. I laughed to myself thinking, if it was too big, she could always use it as a hand weight. When I arrived at her place and took it out of the bag, her eyes widened, and though she didn't say it, I'm sure she was thinking, "Are you kidding me?" It really was huge. Instead, she smiled, kissed and hugged me as though happy I 'd invited an intelligent guest to dinner. She's like that.
Still hugging me, she turned to look at it. "That's really big," she said, smirking. "Are guys cocks really that big? I mean, really?"
No, she hadn't watched a lot of porn. But I had. And to be honest I'd never seen a guy with a cock as big as this one. Well maybe once or twice.
"I don't think so," I replied. "I mean, there are a few. Maybe. I guess." Why was I stammering?
We both gawked, as if admiring it perched upon the nightstand. How well designed Konya Travesti it was, a light flesh color (I'm darker skinned) thrust straight up (I have a distinct left curve). It swayed slightly after being suctioned to her nightstand (I bob up and down when I stand).
I remember having an unexpected sense that this could be my replacement. I wasn't worried-not at all-really- but it's a little unnerving staring at a monstrous replica of a penis with the woman you adore, the woman you've fallen head over heels with, the woman you think about fucking almost every minute of the day. Okay that's an exaggeration. Kind of.
"I'm going to name him Clive," she said, running her fingertip over the faux urethra opening. At her touch, "Clive" swayed on the nightstand.
I might have grimaced, but at least I didn't say what I thought. "Isn't it too early in our relationship to give a dildo a name?" Anyway, what is the rule on when it's appropriate to name a dildo? Could it be, I was feeling pangs of jealousy over this hard İzmir Travesti rubber cock she'd just named Clive?
She looked at me, a twinkle in her eye, apparently sizing up my confidence and blurted, "You know, if I use Clive, he's going to stretch me out, and I might not feel you anymore."
I sighed, feeling demoralized. Clive? He? It was a damned rubber cock! I'd never considered the elasticity of her vagina to a particular cock. "Really?" I replied helplessly. Why did I feel I was competing with Clive?
"Maybe I should take it back?" I offered.
But Ginger shook her head and dug in. "You can't return cocks, Darling. I think we're stuck with Clive."
I sighed again, a little shrunken at her amusement.
"He's huge." she said, with a burst of you-can't-be-serious laughter. "Can we try him now?"
And so, we did. But Clive, in fact, was too big. Oh darn.
So what would we do with the $80 dildo named Clive? Should we mount him as a memento of a sexual escapade gone terribly wrong? Instead, we took a moral from our mishap.
Size does matter. The right size.
Today, Clive's final resting place is in a box shoved into the farthest nether regions of Ginger's closet, far behind clothes that she will probably never wear again.
And that's right where Clive belongs.