BIG IS BETTER
By XH4M
This story is a fantasy. All characters in this story are fictional with no resemblance to any real persons implied. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males, who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should NOT read further. Copyright (c) 2000 XH4M. All rights, implicit or implied, except for distribution by this archive and personal use by the individual downloading the file, are reserved. Inquiries regarding publishing rights for this story should be directed to: xhuge4muscl@hotmail.com
PART 10 - TOTO, I DON'T THINK WERE IN LANCASTER COUNTY ANYMORE
So goodbye to overalls. Goodbye to horse-drawn buggies. Goodbye to reading by candlelight. Goodbye to starched plain white shirts and black pants, black coats and straw hats. Goodbye to getting up every morning at 4:30 AM to tend to the cows.
I left on a bus that Fall destined for college somewhere in an unknown land far to the northeast of Lancaster County, carrying all my worldly possessions, amounting to only a few clothes, in a makeshift 'suitcase' my mother had carefully crafted over many days from burlap potato sacks. It was a labor of love and it showed, meticulously embroidered in the finest Amish tradition - with even my name and address beautifully hand-stitched onto it so I'd never forget where home was. It's a work of pure art I've kept safely tucked away to this very day.
I was off to seek my fame and fortune among the Outlanders at last. Hello movies! Hello cars! Hello electricity, flush toilets, showers, cell phones, magazines, movies, stereos, television, VCR's and rock-n-roll. But most of all, I was thinking - HELLO MEN!
But in truth - my first semester was plainly awful. I was a fish totally out of water - the quintessential hayseed - and at times so homesick I thought I'd physically throw up. It was culture-shock on a scale I never was prepared for, regardless of what direction I turned. But I survived. I adapted and I learned quickly, too. I wanted to BE an Outlander. Failure was not an option.
It was also my incredibly good fortune to get John for my roommate during that freshman year. John was the proverbial heterosexual stud in my eyes, anyway. WHAT A MAN. Tall, dark, and good-looking (and fucking every coed in sight, I quickly gathered.) He was gregarious with a great sense of humor. For whatever reason, the two of us hit it off in short order. Maybe he found something involving about my so-very-backward countrified notions and ways. He'd even told me at one point early on he found me, "charming and quaint." Those were his words. My words would have been something more like "socially-retarded," especially during that 1st crucial semester. But plainly, John just liked me - or perhaps John liked 'plain' me.
I spent most of my time carefully observing everything and everyone, trying to figure out how life worked in this strange, new world. And every minute of my day offered something brand new to be assimilated. To mask my abundant ignorance, I developed the habit of smiling all-knowingly when confronted with references to things I knew nothing about, listening carefully and talking little, except with John that is. I talked with him endlessly and asked him questions non-stop. I suppose it goes without saying I was still locked ever-so-firmly in 'the closet.' But I made mental note of advertisements I saw for a campus gay organization and even a gay establishment in town - a bar.
Oh, yeah - I had to give up wearing those overalls of mine mighty fast. Talk about sticking out in a crowd. But the current teenage fashion trend luckily proved to be my invaluable ally. Baggy jeans and extra-large pullovers were perfect deterrents against unwanted attention.
Now please understand that my roomie John was as straight as an arrow. I always showered and did my bathroom routine when the dorm was the least occupied and John wasn't in our room either. One such afternoon, I was getting dressed and had just slipped into my Fruit of the Looms when John unexpectedly walked in. This was also the most exposed I'd ever been in front of him, more a testimony to just how careful and self-conscious I always was. John quickly scanned me from head to toe, but on the return trip his eyes suddenly stopped dead at my waist-level. Clearly staring at the profile of my crotch, he said wryly, "I'd ask you if you stuffed a sock in there, Pete - but in your case, I think you misplaced your bath towel."
"No... ahhh... well - that's just me," I said, automatically turning away from him and quickly grabbing for my sweatshirt on the back of a chair.
I heard him whistle and then came his skeptical comment, " Yeah, sure it is, Pete. So who's the chick you're trying to over-impress?"
Although his words weren't exactly the same, my mind flashed back to my first encounter with Gabe in the high school locker room. Well, I was quite happy to leave it all just at that. I immediately changed the conversation rather obviously, tugging my pullover down to my thighs defensively to further reinforce with John that the door had definitely closed on that topic.
John was a sophomore, worldly and wise - all-knowing in my eyes. I think I was completely in awe of him and I hung on his every word of advice. He was a handsome guy actually, but not exactly the kind of man who also put an instant bulge in my pants, thankfully. I wouldn't have known what to do with that back then.
During that first critical semester, John helped me fill in all 'my gaps.' Literally everything was overwhelmingly new. Beyond the whole mass media bombardment - television, radio and the like - there were the thornier issues of booze and drugs - and SEX of course - all of which were foreign territory for me. I was extraordinary vulnerable and could have quickly and hopelessly gotten lost down so many wrong paths. But miraculously, I did not - and I have mostly John to thank for guiding me through those potentially mine-filled waters of my first real taste of Rumspringa.
John quickly became a true friend and he seemed to genuinely care about my welfare. I think my backward ways shocked him initially though. But always the willing and available resource, he helped me adapt to my new life beyond the borders of Lancaster County. This was no small challenge for him either, but John was there for me every step of the way. I think he might have relished his self-appointed role, too - that of being my guide and mentor into the modern world - but most especially, into the world of sex. To him, I think I was 'a project' of sorts - a very rough, uncut gem to be formed and polished in his own image. Through our many long conversations, John eventually got the idea I was still more-or-less a virgin and I think he felt sorry for me in a way. He must have thought I was totally deprived of all normal masculine outlets, when what I was really deprived of was men. And John made it his personal crusade to have my membership in the '17 year-old Virgins Club' revoked as quickly as possible.
I was stunned when John announced to me out-of-the-blue I was to be de-flowered at a whorehouse the very next weekend and that he intended to drive me there and personally pick up the tab. What a friend. I was trapped between a rock and a hard place; not thinking I could really say no or come up with some plausible excuse, but also not wanting to tell him my cock got rock-hard for big men either. But contrary to what you might be thinking - my being gay and all - this unexpected situation didn't create any performance anxiety for me. Getting it up for a whore wasn't anything which would have worried me particularly. You see, I'd been getting it up several times a day often involuntarily since I was a 10 year-old man-boy. Getting it up was never a struggle - getting it to go down to avoid totally embarrassing myself was far more often my particular dilemma.
I'll tell you for now I was just perpetually horny, but I'd eventually discover there was more going on with me than just normal teenage male horniness. Having spontaneous hands-off organisms was perfectly normal to me, and it had always been that way. Moreover, with all the joking around I constantly heard from the other guys about 'spanking the monkey,' I'd assumed all males involuntarily deposited their seed around the countryside as often as I did.
The truth is - I got a hard-on just hearing the word 'sex'. And hearing the word 'fuck,' - well that was practically orgasmic. Get it? While I certainly had a crystal-clear gender preference myself, my dick's on-switch was essentially gender-less. Anyone's touch at all and my boner was fully-automatic and fully-guaranteed.
So the following Saturday night, John successfully orchestrated the loss of my virginity, exactly as he'd promised. He made sure I was well loosened up for starters with a six-pack of Bud. I was already three-sheets-to-the-wind when we headed off in John's VW to that 'little house of illicit love' located in a neighboring city. I was too inebriated to be even nervous about it by that point. The thought of finally getting laid was all my then single-tracked mind could think of. John wasn't planning to get laid himself, but once we were there he quickly reconsidered.
So cutting now to the chase - I stood there grinning like an imbecile trying not to teeter around to obviously while John did the requisite price negotiations. I heard him say to the House Madam, "he'll just need the basic," referring to the nature of the professional services I'd require; John, ever the last of the big-time spenders. In short order, we'd selected our 'dates' from the smorgasbord of available Ladies of the Night on duty, and off we went with our 'dates' to their private rooms. I was FINALLY - unbelievably - going to get laid.
My chosen perfume-drenched, grease-painted wench slipped off her slinky one-piece dress exposing her 'largest assets' - a set of quadruple "E" cup breasts which must have caused a spike in the market price of silicon the day she had that surgery.
"Here baby - you wanna feel my big boobies?" she asked coyly.
I have to admit her implants were so cartoonishly oversized I had an unexplainable desire to touch them. Only years later would I understand that was just an odd manifestation of my special relationship with 'size' expressing itself, rather than any real latent heterosexual proclivity. I was so sex-deprived that their outrageous size further 'stimulated' me at the time - and play with them, I definitely did. I grabbed onto them like a drunk on a lamp post to steady myself and started squeezing the living daylights out of them. She quickly seduced me into getting right down to the real business, thus skillfully avoiding the embarrassment of suffering simultaneous twin silicon-bladder ruptures.
"So, you wanna fuck me, stud?" she asked seductively.
Frankly, I was more expecting the, "Do you think I'm pretty," opener which Rebecca had used. The word 'fuck' though literally ignited my torch.
"Fuck... Yeah, fuck...."
The word swirled in my already swirling head. My dick started stiffening up for the challenge. As I stripped off my clothes as fast as I could, she laid back on the bed and spread her legs apart.
"Come here, stud. Let's FUCK."
Her fingers seemed to be pointing the way or maybe they were just opening the barn doors.. whatever... but I got a clear idea of the intended target zone even through my alcohol-fogged vision.
"Fuck my hot pussy...."
FUCK. The word was like a lightening bolt. It had magical properties. I swooned as my cock hardened like quickset concrete, barely making it over to the bed.
Like that Amish wench before, she actually had to rotate through several positions. I will say Madame X was a consummate professional though. Eventually she managed to get me inside, but she worked very hard for her money and must have gone through a whole tube of that 'lube stuff' in the process.
Man, what an incredibly tight fit! What followed wasn't exactly a marathon sex session - quite the opposite. I was so hot from the rapturous sensations my pump began firing short seconds after I penetrated her. But surprisingly, she seemed to really enjoy having intercourse with me. Being a pro who'd had untold numbers of anonymous John's previously, I hadn't expected that. As I continued fucking and cumming strongly, she took noticeably increasing interest. Her eyes opened wider.
Then she started practically screaming, "God .. Oh yes... Oh Ooohhhh... YES... Shit - I'm cumming! Oh, God... YEESSSSS... Oh fuck, you're big! Oooohhh , keep FUCKING!"
And always aiming to please, I did.
"I'm cuuummmiinnnnggg AGAIN!"
I guessed I must have been fucking her good. This professional female pleasure-giver had 3 orgasms to my one by the time I'd finally emptied my barrels.
And so my 'real' virginity became a page in history. Unfortunately however, it wasn't lost with the man of my dreams but with a hooker - and one with an unusually big smile on her face by the time I was done. Eventually I withdrew, and she propped herself up with her elbows on her pillow. Her slightly distended belly began to flatten out as all of my man-cream drained out of her puss, forming a large pool between her legs. That seminal lake was no stranger to me anyway. I'd seen it every morning for many years. She quizzically looked back at the condition of her working bed several times while she slipped into her dress again.
Then she reached into a dresser and pulled out a Polaroid camera, asking if she could take a picture of me for the house 'memorables' collection, whatever that was.
"Just that great dick. No face shot," she promised.
"Sure, go ahead," I said, far too drunk to really protest.
She snapped the photo, and then added, "Your Daddy must have been a bull elephant. I must have seen a thousand men, and I ain't never seen the likes of you. And I definitely ain't never seen the likes of that," gesturing toward the semen-soaked bed. "You're some kinda mighty big freak."
The fact she'd clearly intended this as a complement completely missed me. The alcoholic fog in my head caused a few second delay before the bomb detonated in my brain. But when it finally exploded, all I heard was the word "FREAK" again, as if being screamed over a PA system. The word slashed me like a knife. I felt almost ill and bolted the whorehouse.
When I got outside in the crisp night air, I felt suddenly quite sober - and very somber. John was already waiting in the car.
Sporting a broad grin, he asked excitedly, " So how WAS it, man? Was she hot?"
I said she - and 'it' - were both great, feigning far more enthusiasm than I actually felt. 'Freak' was still screaming in my head, as if what I'd always half-thought was now a proven fact. John read me like a book.
"Is something wrong, Pete? You're acting funny...."
"I got'ta see a doctor," was all I replied, somewhat coldly.
Naturally John asked why.
"God, Pete - this sounds serious, like it's a big deal or something!"
"Yes, it's a very big deal, John - and it's kinda personal, O.K.?"
I think it was the very next week I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, swallowed hard, and marched myself into the college infirmary. Scared almost witless, I stepped up to the receptionist and asked if I could see a real doctor rather than a nurse-practitioner. The receptionist indicated that would depend on what was wrong with me, and then proceeded to ask about the specific nature of my problem.
"It's personal. It's very important - but it's definitely personal...."
"Oh, I see," she said.
My immediate thought was, "Oh God, she sees? How could she see it? I'm standing up against a high counter!" But then it occurred to me she probably thought I had a venereal disease or something similar.
"Oh, it's not what you're thinking - It's NOTHING like THAT," I quickly blurted out. "I'm not sick or nothing. I've just got a - a thing - a kind of a big skin thing - I want to talk about with a real doctor."
"Like a growth?" she asked.
"Well yes, kinda - that too, I guess..." I squirmed, anxiously waiting for these questions to end.
She asked if I could show this to her, to which I responded instantly, "No. Definitely - NO!"
I eventually got in to see a male doctor. He was a fairly young guy dressed in jeans and a white coat, which made me feel slightly more at ease - well, just slightly...
When he asked me to show him my problem, I hesitated and then undid my buckle and tugged my jeans down to my knees. The doctor just looked at Little Johann and his Two Playmates - completely deadpan and expressionless - for the longest time.
To break the uncomfortable silence, I said, "It's all... well it seems to me like it's all just... just too much!"
The doctor sort of choked a bit and then, clearing his throat a few times, proceeded to confirm my "male genitalia did indeed appear on gross inspection to be unusual, but not deformed...."
I took that to mean I was oversized, but my stick and balls went proportionally well together.
"So, was your daddy a bull elephant?" he asked with a wry grin, intending to make light of it and just break the ice a bit.
He proceeded to take an extensive medical history and gave me a complete physical exam - the very first I'd ever had in my life, in fact. I slowly became somewhat more at ease, eventually telling him more of the sordid details - my age when this had all had started to happen to me, my nightly dreams and the ocean of cum I'd wake up swimming in routinely every morning. Then I even got up the nerve to mention my spontaneous erections occurred with alarming frequency and the uncontrollable cumming in my pants which too-often followed. In the end I'd told him everything remotely relevant I could think of. I never mentioned to the doctor I got hot over men however. That simply didn't seem related to the problem or any of his business particularly.
He sat down on a stool to do a thorough examination of my cock and balls while I stood there in front of him feeling like a fool. It also goes without saying as soon as he touched me, I sprang a boner. Although the doctor said, "Don't worry - that's a completely normal male reaction," my cock had a much bigger reaction than I think he was expecting. Feeling totally embarrassed now, I started apologizing, saying I couldn't seem to control it at all.
"That's just like what always happens to me," I complained.
"I see what you mean...."
As he continued to examine and manipulate me, my cock engorged dramatically - right up to the point where I think it would have eventually smacked him under his chin if he'd continued much longer. I really do believe he was a very straight (heterosexual) doc, actually. I certainly got no 'gay vibe' from him whatsoever, and he sported a wedding ring as well. But after awhile, even this doctor oddly began to bone up noticeably, as if in synchrony (if not even in sympathy) with my own massively-aroused piece of manhood.
He recomposed himself quickly enough though, saying, "I've seen enough now. You can get dressed again." Then he excused himself for a moment to get a drink of water.
I was dressed by the time he returned. He proceeded to tell me that he found no evidence of tumors and couldn't feel anything which seemed suspicious or out of the ordinary to him - well, other than the unusually large size of my gonads in general. But at least he'd finally confirmed aloud I was, indeed, an unusually big boy 'medically.' But otherwise, I appeared to him to be in excellent health. Then he added a more extensive evaluation was definitely warranted and he ordered a bunch of blood tests and a CAT scan of my brain as well. I was told to make another appointment with him in a week when he'd have all the test results back, which I did.
One week later I returned and got both good news and bad news. The good news was I had some clearer answers which finally explained my particular male genitalia. The bad news was there wasn't an immediate cure available either. There were no medications I could take - certainly nothing which could be done for me surgically, like a 'dick & ball' reduction. Although the doctor could really only speculate, he assumed my size was most likely caused by some unusual genetics - genes which I'd inherited from my father which were probably 'the norm' for the males in my particular family. He also discovered I had some circulating hormones which were 'off the charts' for normal males - 3 to 4 times the average amounts in some cases. Sometimes unusually high hormone levels are caused by brain tumors, but none were evident in my CAT scan, gratefully. The doctor's opinion was God just made me this way, but he added, "And after He made you, Pete, I think he broke the mold...." Those were his exact words. He further speculated that because I'd been under the daily influence of extraordinarily levels of these hormones since the onset of puberty, I'd developed exactly the heavy-duty male equipment these hormones were commanding my body to grow throughout my puberty.
"You should be smiling, Peter. You're practically a Superman!" the doctor said, trying again to make light of it all as well as to perhaps raise my spirits.
"So - I'm a freak then. That's what you're telling me," I responded.
He thought for awhile. "Think of yourself in more positive ways, Peter. You're a bright, young - and really - you're a good-looking guy. As an added bonus, you also just happen to be among the extraordinarily well-endowed males of our species - the real measure for manhood, I'd say," he chuckled. "And for Pete's sake- and I mean that very literally - stop beating yourself up and just enjoy the gift you've been given. Hell - I would be, if I were you!" he said, grinning from ear-to-ear.
The more I mulled this all over in my head during the immediate days that followed, the more it sounded like increasingly good advice. I decided I'd been isolated and alone long enough. It was time to start living my life as the person I was born to be - and that included a man who was attracted to other men, as well. It had been almost five years since I'd felt that special magic. It was definitely more than time.