Big Dick Small Woman

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Big Dick Small Woman

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You might want to sit down for this
Ah, men. We're a simple creature sometimes. And we're never simpler than when we're thinking about size. Generally, one very particular size. There is not man out there who hasn't wondered, at some point, how their penis size measures up. Who hasn't measured their own, then questioned whether they're measuring from the correct point, and tried to steal an extra inch by sliding the ruler further down (for those in doubt, you do it from the top, starting where penis meets torso). Well, ideal-penis-size-questioning-men, you need wonder no more.
Sound the klaxons, scream it from the mountaintops, gather the villagers from their huts and clink every glass in the cabinet, for we have found the FINAL and official word on the ideal penis size and it is dogma.
It is 6.3 inches, or 6.4 inches for a one-time encounter. Six Point Three. Six Point Four.
That's the end of it. Stop Googling questions about penis size. You're done now.
A study from the University of California and the University of New Mexico took 75 women, aged between 18 and 65, and presented them with 33 different-sized 3D penis models made of rigid, odourless (very considerate), blue plastic to "minimise racial skin-colour cues."
The results found that the average preference was for a penis that measured 6.3 inches in length and 4.8 inches around. Whereas for a one-time sexual encounter, the average plastic penis the women chose was larger, measuring 6.4 inches and 5.0 inches in circumference.
Now, this isn't the best news for most men's egos, because the average male penis is 5.2 inches long and 4.6 inches around, as revealed in a global study of 15,000 members.
But don't worry too much. According to the same study, only 2.8 per cent of men have an abnormally small penis, so the chances are you should be ok.
And if you're not? Well, there's help out there .

Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Originally published June 4, 1992, in the Dallas Observer . Reprinted here with permission from the author, who has also provided an afterword about the response to her story.
I have one of the few jobs where the first thing people ask about is penises. Well, Reggie Jackson was my first. And yes, I was scared. I was 22 years old and the first woman ever to cover sports for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Up until then, my assignments had been small-time: high school games and features on father-daughter doubles teams and Hacky Sack demonstrations. But now it was late September, and my editor wanted me to interview Mr. October about what it was like not to make the playoffs.
I'd heard the stories: the tales of women who felt forced to make a stand at the clubhouse door; of the way you're supposed to never look down at your notepad, or a player might think you're snagging a glimpse at his crotch; about how you've always got to be prepared with a one-liner, even if it means worrying more about snappy comebacks than snappy stories.
Dressed in a pair of virgin white flats, I trudged through the Arlington Stadium tunnel—a conglomeration of dirt and spit and sunflower seeds, caked to the walkway like 10,000-year-old bat guano at Carlsbad Caverns—dreading the task before me. It would be the last day ever for those white shoes—and my first of many covering professional sports.
And there I was at the big red clubhouse door, dented and bashed in anger so many times it conjured up an image of stone-washed hemoglobin. I pushed open the door and gazed into the visitors' locker room, a big square chamber with locker cubicles lining its perimeter and tables and chairs scattered around the center. I walked over to the only Angel who didn't yet have on some form of clothing. Mr. October, known to be Mr. Horse's Heinie on occasion, was watching a college football game in a chair in the middle of it all—naked. I remember being scared because I hadn't known how the locker room was going to look or smell or who or what I would have to wade through—literally and figuratively—to find this man.
It was mostly worn, ectoplasm-green indoor-outdoor carpeting—and stares. But on top of it being my first foray behind the red door, I was scared because of who I was interviewing: a superstar with a surly streak. I fully expected trouble. This was baptism by back draft, not fire.
But I couldn't back out. In many ways, I had made a career choice when I walked through that locker room door.
"May I talk to you?" I asked Reggie, as everyone watched and listened.
"Can I talk to you for a minute," I said. Or at least that's what I thought I said. I might have actually said, "Can we talk about how your face looks like one of those ear-shaped potato chips that the lady from the Lay's factory brings on The Tonight Show once a year?"
Because his reaction to my question was to begin raising his voice to say, "There's no time."
He still didn't answer my question directly.
"Are you going to talk to me or not?" I asked.
A simple no would have sufficed. But instead, the man who is an idol to thousands of children launched into a verbal tirade loudly insulting my intelligence and shouting for someone to remove me from the clubhouse.
Here I was in my white flats, some fresh-out-of-college madras plaid skirt, one of those ridiculous spiked hairdos with tails we all wore back then, and probably enough add-a-beads to shame any Alpha Chi.
And there was Reggie, in nothing but sanitary socks.
His voice was growing louder. Mine, firmer.
Now almost everyone had stopped watching football and was watching me and Reggie. "Is she supposed to be here?" he demanded. "You can't be in here now."
"Are you going to talk to me or not?" I asked one more time interrupting.
"All right, heck with it then," I said. I spun around and walked out—past the staring faces, through the red door, down the 10,000-year-old bat-guano tunnel—and emerged into the dugout and the light of the real world, where I was nothing but a kid reporter who didn't get the story. It was the last time I would ever try to interview Reggie. And it was my first failure covering sports. But it wouldn't be my last.
Long before I was allowed to eat fish with bones, could go all night without peeing in my bed, or understood Gilligan's Island wasn't real, I loved baseball. It's the reason I'm a sportswriter, and I learned it from my dad. Back then, almost 30 years ago, passion for the national pastime was an heirloom fathers passed to their sons. But a little girl with blonde pin curls somehow slipped into the line of succession. I don't have a radio talk show yet, but I now make my living writing about sports—at the moment, mostly the Texas Rangers. Covering major league baseball fulltime is my goal.
Career ladders are never cushy for anybody, man or woman, unless of course your dad is president of GM or GE or whatever Nation's Bank is called this week. My dad was a buyer for Better Monkey Grip Rubber Company, and I'm not complaining. But the road has been anything but smooth. Family trips in an egg-shell-white Impala to see the cousins in Plainview took fewer rough turns.
I've wanted to write stories about baseball since I was 10 years old—to write words so good that people would read them twice. I used to write Dallas Cowboys columns in blue Crayola on a Big Chief tablet in the part of my sister's walk-in closet I had designated as the press box. Bell bottoms hung over my head as I berated Tom Landry for not getting rid of Mike Clark or praised Roger Staubach the way little kids now get all slobbery over Nolan Ryan.
I never told my friends. I always won the big awards in elementary school, went to football games, and performed in talent shows. What kind of a goob would they take me for if they knew? But after getting home from school, I'd quickly skip back to the sports section of the evening Star-Telegram to compare my work to that of the pros. Sometimes I'd turn the sound down on the TV and try to do baseball play-by-play, too. I can look back now and see I was sunk early, my heart hopelessly immersed in a severely codependent relationship with a kids' game played by grown-ups.
It began when I was 3 and my daddy took me to Turnpike Stadium—now Arlington Stadium—to see the old minor-league Spurs. We lived in Arlington, about five miles from the ball park. He carried me to the back of the outfield wall and climbed the slatted boards with his right arm and clutched me in his left. Then he held my head over the top of the wall in center. And there, not 1,000 days after I had emerged from the darkness of the womb, hundreds of bright light bulbs made me squint as I watched the first half-inning of my life, the last three outs of a Spurs game.
All I remember is green and light and the security of my daddy's arms.
We were a middle-class family of four with one kid just a few years from college and another a few years from kindergarten. We never wanted for anything we really needed, but my parents, raised in the Depression, were cautious about spending.
Buying ball tickets to as many games as my dad and I wanted to see was out of the question, so we climbed the wall in the late innings or sat in those free grassy spots behind the Cyclone fence.
There were nights in the stands, too, where, just so I could enjoy the game more, my daddy patiently tried to teach the basics of scoring to a child not yet versed in addition.
One night in the stands, I had my Helen-Keller-at-the-well experience. Suddenly it all made sense: the way the numbers went across in a line on a scoreboard, what the three numbers at the end of the nine meant, even why the shortstop didn't have a bag. "He just doesn't" was suddenly sufficient and I knew a grown-up secret, like writing checks, making babies, or reading words.
My daddy and I saw our first major-league game together on Opening Night here in 1972. Some summers we went to 20 games; others we went to about 56.
Sometimes we'd just watch any game on the TV. Other summer nights we sat on the back porch and listened to the Rangers on the radio. If my mom made us go to Wyatt's for supper, my father would wear his primitive Walkman through the serving line, once scaring the meat lady by hollering, "Dadgum Toby Harrah!" when she asked if he'd like brown gravy or cream.
He'd pull me out of school at lunch once a year to go to the spring baseball luncheon and take me to games early so I could collect autographs. The balls with the signatures still sit on my mantel, most reading like the tombstones of major-league also-rans.
When I was 14, I heard from a friend that the Rangers would soon be hiring ball girls. The rumor was bogus, but it planted an idea. I began a one-kid campaign to institute ball girls at Arlington Stadium as well as to become the first.
I wrote management repeatedly. The executive types weren't too hot on the idea. So when I was about 16, I wrote every major-league club with ball girls and asked about the pros and cons. I sent copies of their responses to the Rangers' front office. I corresponded with them for another two years before the call finally came.
They picked three—Cindy, because she was a perky cheerleader at the University of Texas at Arlington; Jamie, because she had modeling experience; and me, because I was a pest.
We shagged foul balls, but in retrospect, I guess we were more decorative than functional. They used to have us dance to the "Cotton-Eyed Joe" in the seventh inning, and for a while we shook pom-poms during rallies—acts I now, as a baseball purist, consider heresy. But hey, I was the center of attention on a baseball field; I could sell out for that.
The next year, I was booted because I couldn't do back flips.
But by then I had gotten to know the sportswriters and broadcasters, and the Star-Telegram offered me a job—in sports—typing in scores and answering the phone.
I dropped my plans to go to the University of Texas and study broadcasting. I had enough natural talent, I felt certain, that with one high heel in the door, I could work my way into a writer's job—maybe even someday cover baseball.
The realities of the corporate world and the attitudes of Texas high school and college coaches quickly clouded my idealistic vision of a quick ascent from 18-year-old ball-girl phenom to big-league ace baseball writer.
You see, folks in the world of sports weren't used to working with a "fee-male." And you know, they all say that word so well.
I started out in the office, taking scores on the phone and taking heat from the guys. Writing this the other night, tears filled my eyes, and I got that precry phlegm in my throat. I was surprised to realize that some of the wounds still hurt.
It wasn't Reggie or pro-locker-room banter.
It was an area high school coach who routinely tried to get me to drop by his house when his wife was out of town; when I refused for the third time, he refused to provide any more than perfunctory answers to my story questions.
It was when all the guys were inside doing interviews, and I was standing in the rain, makeup peeling, outside the high school locker room at Fort Worth's Farrington Field, waiting beneath the six-foot-long "No Women" sign for the players to come to the doorway. It was walking into the football locker room at the University of Texas in Austin and having a large man with burnt-orange pants and dark white face pick me up by my underarms and deposit me outside the door.
I have complained little through the years because the last thing I ever wanted to do was to single myself out from the guys. I didn't want to be branded as some woman on a crusade. I've never been on any campaign to debunk the myth that testicles are somehow inherent to a full understanding of balls. I just wanted to cover sports.
But much of the early abuse came from the place I least expected it—my own paper.
Like a lot of kids starting out, I'd do office work all week and help cover games on the weekends—anything for a chance to prove my worth as a sportswriter. During my first four years at the Star-Telegram I took one day off to model at an auto show and five days off to get married. Those years were perhaps the most trying. There was a sports editor who would stop by every time he saw me eating, stare at me, and say in all seriousness, "Jenn, if you get fat, we won't love you no more." I could see my worth resided within the confines of a B cup and size six jeans. I wanted to cry each time he said that.
The guys screamed at me and demanded to know if I was "on the rag" when I was surly; yet they could scream and be surly at me all they wanted.
One editor in the chain of sports command kept trying to get me to check into the Worthington Hotel with him after work. Another superior had his assistant let me off early so he could be waiting for me in the parking lot.
He said he wanted to talk. I got in the car.
"Jenn," he asked, "do you want to be treated like an 18-year-old kid or a woman?"
At first, I thought he meant on the job. He meant on the bed.
I never went near a bedroom with any of them, but I told him "a woman" because I didn't know how answering "18" to this loaded question would affect my precarious career.
I was quite confused. My most innocent comments were greeted with sexual innuendo. I'm no wimp; I can take a lot. I know people make sexual comments to one another, and they are not always inappropriate. But this was something else.
All the culprits are either long gone or have actually apologized, saying they just didn't know better at the time.
But how was I supposed to do my job with all that crap going on? I had to think as much about how to handle the next unwanted advance or suggestive quip as I did trying to figure the Mavericks' averages.
Some readers had similar problems accepting a woman. I can't remember the number of times I've picked up the phone in the sports department, answered some trivia question, and, when the answer didn't win the guy a bar bet, had the caller demand, "Put a man on this phone." Some simply called me a "stupid bitch" and hung up.
I know they don't know what they're talking about. But the remarks still hurt.
For years I was hopelessly mired in phone answering and score taking, watching as others in similar positions moved up and on. Once, after they'd let me try my hand at writing for a year or so, editors told me I'd never make a writer. I was creative and funny, but I just couldn't write, they'd concluded. So I didn't write. For eight months, the editors refused to assign me any stories.
I was close to giving up. I seriously considered taking a job as a researcher for a law firm.
But one thing kept me in sports: I got a Rangers media pass every year. It was the lonely thread that tied me to my game.
In the arbitrary world of newspaper politics, the arrival of a new sports editor breathed life into my career. I began investigating the pay-for-play scandals of the Southwest Conference. I broke several stories, one of which won a national award for investigative sports reporting.
I remember hiding in a tree outside a North Dallas bank waiting for an SMU running back because we had heard this was where he picked up his money. Then there was the time we had a story about an SWC coach paying players, and I appeared one morning at the school where he was an assistant. Tipped off to my presence, the coach broke into a near run when I headed toward him in the hall. He ran into a dark office where I found him hiding under the desk.
Hey, this is pretty cool, I thought. When you've got dirt on them, all the condescending good-ol'-boy stuff goes out the window.
An SMU booster threatened to have my legs broken—and I was delighted. That's something he'd say to anyone, I realized.
While all this was going on, I began helping out with Dallas Cowboys sidebar articles and weekend coverage of the Rangers. I helped cover the team for the Associated Press.
And I was entering the peak of a seven-year stint as the masked wrestling columnist Betty Ann Stout—Fort Worth's equivalent of Joe Bob Briggs—whose unofficial duties included opening appliance stores, riding elephants when the circus came to town, and acting as rodeo Grand Marshal on the backs of large, hoofed animals.
Oh sure, little stuff happened, like the time one of the Oakland A's made a big point o
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