When my swim coach called me into his office the morning after the first meet of my sophomore year, I was pretty sure I was going to get cut. I’d jumped the gun against Bishop Blanchet the night before, I’d skipped three practices in two weeks because I was fucking around with the only other closeted kid at our school in the back of his dad’s plumber van, and my flip turns looked like a rusty gate. Even when I went, most of my time during practices was spent running goggled eyes over whichever Speedo-clad torso happened to be in the next lane. Ask any gay guy why he joined the swim team in high school, and he’ll tell you the same thing: Spank Bank material and shaving parties.
He was a late-20s college dropout, with a dirty-blonde hipster beard and an extra 15 pounds most long-distance swimmers maintain for buoyancy. He looked pained as he greeted me and invited me to pop a squat on the couch in his office. I hadn’t bothered changing into my jammers, the thigh-length practice suits most of us wore on non-meet days. It probably wasn’t going to leave my gym bag after today until some slutty college theme party, anyway.
Coach clicked his teeth a few times, the personification of discomfort. “So. About yesterday’s meet.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked at the floor. Jesus, man, it’s not like I drowned. Just cut me so I can go text Michael and see if he’s down for a Newport Hills Park hookup sesh.
He bent forward in his seat, either due to the sensitivity of the conversation or out of intestinal discomfort, I couldn’t tell. He screwed his eyes shut and plunged. “I know that the dress code states that you’re required to wear the Speedos on meet days but I think that it’d be best for everyone if you’d just swim in your jammers because of the way your…” He faltered. “You’re distracting…” Or maybe he said ‘your distracting’? He waved a hand in the general area of my crotch. As both of our faces reddened and I hunted for a blunt instrument to end his distress, my mortification, and both of our misery, he finally said it.
“You’re too big, man.”
I should have known in the sixth grade, when my mom suggested that my 501s needed to go up a size or two now that I was, "Well, growing." Or in middle school, when a poorly concealed locker-room hard-on simultaneously outed me and earned me the nickname “Bludger.” Even after Coach’s one-man anti-bulge ukase, it wasn't until my first fumbling, beer-fogged college hookup that I finally got it.
"Oh my god."
"The legends are true."
I have to cup my junk when I'm sitting on the toilet so my cock doesn't touch the bowl. I don't own sweatpants. I’m suspicious that anyone who is able to deepthroat me has undergone uvulopalatopharyngoplasty. Becoming a cast member in "Puppetry of the Penis" is a legitimate career possibility. In short: I've got a big dick.
According to Kinsey's studies on average penis size, I'm three standard deviations above the mean – even when you account for the fact that gay guys have bigger tools, on average, than breeders – which means that if my cock were in the NBA, it'd be somewhere between Kareem Abdul Jabbar and Yao Ming. My nose, thumbs, and feet don't raise any suspicion, but despite avoiding linen pants and going commando, (more power to ya, Jon Hamm, but I stick to the tightiest whities I can find), the good news always seems to travel fast. Joining a gay kickball league did more for my cock’s reputation than a year’s worth of one-night stands. Friends make jokes about putting your pants on three legs at a time with a tone that almost covers up what they're really saying: "You lucky bitch."
Ask the nearest brunch table of obnoxious homosexuals about the prospect of sitting on a knee-chipper and you’ll be greeted with a labradorian eagerness. Until the Calvins come off. Once a prospective playmate gets a good look (stare) at what they’re in for, it's a coin-flip between porn-tastic zeal and, "There's no way that's going in me." And when it does work out, well, let’s just say that caution’s the name of the game; nothing kills a hard-on faster than the idea that your cock's going to pull a chestburster.
From Ron Jeremy to Dirk Diggler, guys with big dicks are portrayed as, well, big dicks, and to be fair, there's no Mastadonic Penis Club for Men to keep you from getting obsessed with your wang. But that's why God gave us big-breasted friends; an equally endowed girlfriend – whose gifts are a lot more in-your-face than mine – told me, “Size only matters if you let it matter.”
And when you're considering getting in on this square-cut bathing suit fad.
Image by Dianna McDougall
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