Her First Big Penis

Her First Big Penis

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Since dick size threads seem to be so scarce on here,

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Since dick size threads seem to be so scarce on here, I thought I'd ask: ladies, what was it like when you had your first "big one"?

What was your reaction when you first saw,it? Once it was in? After it was done?

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Biggest one ive had was probably around 8.5-9.... meh he definitely was not the best ive had. I like doggy a lot and that just seemed to be unpleasant... i also like it rough and that too needed to much prep or concentration. He wasnt great otherwise either (foreplay, oral, adventurous)

Long story short, nothing memorable
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Discussion in ' Genitalia ' started by MisterE , Jan 4, 2017 .

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"He was a big penis with a big penis."
I dated a dude who was packing a footlong. T he sex was uncomfortable, at best, and he refused to go down on me. I dumped him after a year of making up excuses to not have sex. The crazy part was that he had no clue that he was big — every time we talked about his size, he couldn't believe he was anything more than average.
As a gay lady, I haven’t seen many penises since I lost my virginity at 17. But my first experience with someone of the opposite sex was with a guy who, to date, has the biggest penis I have ever seen. We were camping with a large group, tents and horses, down by the Suwannee River in Florida. My high school boyfriend and I retired early to my tent where we commenced a hot and heavy petting session. After attaining my permission, he whipped out a very long, rock-solid, and extremely girthy penis.
We spent the next 10 minutes simply working on getting the tip in. It was exhausting and painful, but he was determined and I was battling “I don’t want to be gay” syndrome so I was patient, despite the agony of having my lady bits spread beyond their expectations. It didn’t take long once he was finally in, much to my relief. But sometimes when I dredge up this memory I can still feel the force of that massive appendage pressing its way into tender flesh. I won’t say the experience turned me off men completely — I think that was already a done deal — but it definitely made me appreciate the wonders of lube.
A little while ago I was pretty much IN LOVE with this guy that appeared on my favorite reality TV show. I was a fan and would watch his Instagram live every chance I got. One day he noticed me from a comment I made and sent me a DM. We exchanged numbers and ended up developing a long-distance relationship, and he sent me a dick pic that pretty much made me choke on my coffee. I thought he'd be average size judging by his height but he was PACKING. I was sure he'd break me in half. Unfortunately we broke things off before I was set to fly to see him for a weekend. That was the dick that got away.
I was grabbing drinks with my best mate and he brought along a buddy. We had to use the restroom around the same time, and long story short it was big enough that he had to use two hands to pee. I wasn't even jealous at that point, just afraid.
I met a guy on Tinder, and after one of our dates we ended up back at his place. I honestly went in trying to resist, but I couldn’t help myself and clothes went flying. My go-to move is to hang my head off the edge of the bed and undo their pants while they stand over me before I give them head. When I pulled his boxers down his dick hit my forehead and I fucking almost choked on the thought of that thing in my throat. I don’t think I got more than an inch of that sucker in my mouth, and the sex was almost unenjoyable. ALMOST, because the girth on that log cock was nuts. Needless to say, sometimes when I’m feeling brave, I’ll hit him up.
When I was in school there was this guy that tried to get with me for months. He kept telling me "my dick is the size of a keyboard" and I continuously ignored him. Eventually I changed my mind I guess and I was in his bedroom and when he pulled it out, my first thought was "Oh my god, it really is the size of a child's toy keyboard." I was ready to take on the challenge but quickly realized it was too big for me. He could barely get the tip in without me whining about it hurting and it basically slipping out. One time it slipped out and in between my thighs, I just squeezed my thighs super, super tight and let him fuck that thinking that was my vagina 'cause there was no way his dick was fitting in me.
Ex-boyfriend was around 11 inches. He was a giant penis, so I guess it stood to reason he had one too.
It was my sophomore year of college and I was a virgin. This guy in one of my classes and I had been flirting and one night he invited me over. Of course at the time when I first saw it I thought it was regular because I hadn’t seen many penises before, but I could barely get my mouth around it. When he tried to put it in only the tip fit. I was so embarrassed because I thought it was my fault. He was a good sport about it, though. I found out later that he had been doing adult movies on the side to make some extra cash.
I met a dude while I was working at a shoe store. He was embarrassed about his large shoe size, to which I said saucily, “Well, you know what they say about big feet” with a wink. Fast forward. We start dating, and, man, did I find out how appropriate that joke was. Dude was HUGE! It was at least 11 inches. Sex was...difficult. I can remember him saying, “Yeah, guys always want a big dick, but it’s actually really annoying.”
I used to have an FWB situation with this guy and I shit you not, his dick was like a fucking can of Monster energy drink. I'm talking length and girth. The first time I saw it I honest to god gasped out loud. To this day the best sex I've ever had was with him. Sex with him had me feeling so full and it rode that fine and sweet line between pleasure and pain. Now I shed a tear for that glorious dick I lost when he moved across the country.
I hung out on a nude beach in Hawaii for a few months. One guy had the biggest penis on the beach — this huge, footlong, uncircumcised, monstrous-looking dong. He was so proud! He’d strut up and down the beach grinning about it.
My first one-night stand when I was 17. It was dark, I reached out to jerk him off, and thought I’d grabbed his forearm. He was so big he nearly broke me.
My ex's dick was like a baseball bat. Seriously — in length, girth, and shape. I mean, not seriously, but it was AT LEAST 10 inches. It had a larger head than shaft so it felt amaaaazing when he took his time and pulled all the way out and back in. But heaven help me when he got to pounding away, I could feel my cervix wincing.
Ten inches and as thick as my wrist. The problem? He thought his 10 inches was all he needed to bring to the bedroom to make the sex good. He just laid there like the physical incarnation of a yawn. Best sex I ever had? Five inches with a "throw me up against a wall" attitude that did. not. quit.
I went to a tiny Christian university and was dating a boy who grew up very religious. He's 6’5" and has a dick to match. Because we were both religious at the time we were not having penetrative sex. Boys and girls were not allowed in each other’s rooms, so we were always jerking each other off in closets, empty classrooms, and his RA office at night. I had never seen a penis in real life so when we first started messing around I didn’t think too much of the fact that he was at least 10 inches long when hard and that my hand couldn’t fit around the shaft. I just assumed this was normal. After a year and a half of dating we never had penetrating sex. I still wonder sometimes what it would have felt like, and feel a little relieved that the first dick inside of me wasn’t 10 inches long.
I was 18, and the guy I was seeing was this 6'7" football player, and when the time came to get naked, it was so big, I lied and said I was out of condoms so I could avoid trying to accommodate such a giant. My inexperience definitely contributed to my lack of confidence. Can't say I would have declined if I saw it today! He was BLESSED.
At the beginning of my sophomore year of college, I met this guy from another college who was visiting some friends. We ended up hooking up that night, and his penis was the biggest I had ever seen — at least 10 inches hard. Fast-forward to me going down on him, it was too big to fit in my mouth and it fell out, but when it fell out it flung back and smacked onto his stomach and made a really loud slapping noise. I started laughing so hard, I probably killed the mood.
Stories have been edited for length and clarity.
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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 mad
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