PENIS REDUCTION

A True Story - Cock Rings

Remember that guy Big Tony who was in that Tom Hanks' movie "Bachelor Party," you know, the Chippendale's dancer with the monster Bratwurst who placed it in a hot dog bun for the prude lady to gag on? Well, that was me. No, not Big Tony. But I'm built the same way in the cockus erectus department. "You're big as a Clydesdale!" dudes have told me in the shower. "Ya didn't get that from my side," claimed my Dad. The fairer sex always smacked their lips whenever I wore my skin tight pants and sauntered into a bar. "Cheesus," a Gwyneth Paltrow lookalike once said as she eyed me, "that love muscle must have its own zip code."

A Beastus Maximus is what most guys want but I'm here to tell you my life was a living hell, especially when it came to sex. My blonde girlfriend with the ponytails and the sweet mango boobs dropped me for her English professor because she said the prof didn't probe her innards the way that I did. Every time I pushed my Big Jim and the Twins, she screamed like a banshee. And that screaming wasn't because of an orgasm, I'll tell you that much. "Bastard," she'd say, "get the hell off of me!" Then she refused to go oral on my anaconda because I'd already ruined the mood by trying to do her. How can you have fun in bed when the one you love is suffering? It's a no-win situation. Sure, after our breakup, it was easy to lure babes into bed, but once we got naked, those same women watched me inflate to Hulkish proportions and I saw genuine fear in their eyes. "Lordy," said a Baptist woman before blessing my bulbulous big-knob and running for the door. Seeing that fear got me out of the mood pronto. "You're a beast," said this one married lady with silicon lips as I tried tugging on a condom. "You kill me with Chi Zi Wang!" blurted the Asian mail lady. A Catholic cutie ran from my bald-headed Jesus. Then this redhead in the Jacuzzi with a killer bod saw my custard cannon pushing out from inside my trunks; when I asked her out, she said she wasn't that hungry. Do you catch my drift? I'm too big for my own good. All that jazz about "size does matter" is a load of hooey. I felt like a freak of nature and my potential sex partners weren't helping matters any. Sometimes I think women could be a little more sensitive, know what I'm saying?

Oh, and erections weren't the only problem-even when I was limp as a noodle I was still bigger than most guys fully aroused. People standing in lines with me at Safeway and Baskin Robbins thought I was catching a chubby when all I was doing was minding my own beeswax thinking about something a million or so miles away from giving a hottie a cream spritzer. Sometimes I did get horny watching the girl cashiers pull meat and stuff over the scanner or scoop out balls of fluorescent ice cream from big fat tubs and that's when I was forced to take my mind off sex by thinking about paying taxes and imagining some jerk puncturing all my tires out in the parking lot and then me going to jail for breaking the jerk's jawbone. All my size just got in the way-why, it was like being an elephant trying not to get your trunk caught in the wrong place. I accidentally slammed my dangling participle in a kitchen drawer, had foreskin caught in a zipper, and then got my Daddy Long-stroke shoved into a turnstile at Disneyland. OUCH! Mini Mouse came running over as I squirmed on the ground in pain. "Walt wouldn't approve of this behavior," Mini told me. "Shove off," I replied, "you bitchy mouse!" For that retort, I was escorted back to the Bambi Section of the Disneyland parking lot by security.

Before my reduction, it seemed the only action I was getting was cruising porn sites and imagining these hot blonde porn stars fighting over one another to lay claim to my blue-veined Bob Dole. I mean, a guy gets horny after a day of catcalls from women who think they want sex and then change their minds when the Big Burrito comes out.

Thank the Lord for my reduction. No more worries about being too large for women. No more phobias about drawers, turnstiles, and zippers. I'm just right now. Even when I get hot it doesn't look like I'm propping up a tent. And remember my blonde girlfriend with the pigtails and sweet mangoes? Well, she dumped her married professor and we're back together. There's no more screaming and she loves playing top and bottom with my Tom Jones and I'm getting close to popping the question.

Ain't life grand?

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