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 11 - CRUISIN'
I hit the one and only gay bar in town like a starving man would attack a banquet table - ravenously hungry. I was still under the legal drinking age of 21 in that state, but managed to circumvent that little problem by procuring a well-made false ID from a guy who specialized in such things around campus. And he did really good work apparently because it was never questioned, even with my obviously under-aged face.
I was every bit young, dumb, and full of cum. What I lacked in 'people smarts' and perhaps common sense I more than made up for with enthusiastic horniness, at least initially - and not unlike most other young fellows discovering the enticements of a gay bar for their very first time, I suspect. Being a small town club, the clientele was very demographically limited and mostly locals. I'd never seen the place even crowded. Of course I didn't know at that time what 'fresh meat' was, but looking back I was unquestionably the living definition. Before long I found myself getting picked up with ever-increasing frequency. I admit this thrilled me, too, at least in the very beginning. Unfortunately, not long afterwards I realized I'd also apparently developed a reputation among the small crowd of regulars. This gossip spread like a wild fire; moreover, my sudden popularity was based completely on these innuendoes. Everyone wanted to buy 'the rumor' a beer.
And of course every guy I went home with was older than me. I was, after all, still underage. They were also much more experienced with sex, and at least I started acquiring a few 'techniques' and other useful things.
But a few other things became all-too-quickly apparent. While some of these men were certainly good-looking, they all had one trait in common. They were on the thin side. Some were on the skinnier side of thin. A few looked like their freezers were stocked with Lean Buleme dinners with the secret ingredient syrup of epicac. "Tastes as good coming up as it does going down." I'd concluded the kind of men that instantly set my heart aflutter never patronized gay bars. It seemed like some inexplicably cruel conspiracy. And it was also becoming clear that these guys who picked me up had eyes bigger than their... abilities.
So more often than not, the sex was unfulfilling. Sometimes it was pitiful and humiliating. I had guys go down on me like I was being attacked by some crazed animal. Others seemed maniacally determined to get thoroughly plowed before I would be released from my sexual obligations. Still others would snort a whole bottle of 'video head cleaner' trying to somehow cram me into their eager asses - and boy, try they definitely did. But in spite of their unbridled enthusiasm, their attempts to accommodate me were predictably futile. I began to notice they often wouldn't look at my face, let alone into my eyes. Eventually some would give up and just hold me like a club in their hands, looking sheepish and certainly disappointed. Others, failing to get me even through their gauntlet of teeth, would end up licking me like some kind of lollypop while they jerked off. Still others got unexplainably outright indignant and pissed off.
I would hear comments like, "Hey, I like big poles, but that's a damn sequoia you've got there," and, "Just what the hell do you actually expect me to DO with that thing anyway!" And worst of all, on one occasion I even heard, "God, your daddy must've been an elephant...."
That particular phrase had a way of coming back to haunt me, as if I had it tattooed on my forehead. I developed a bad habit of drifting off into my own thoughts as I lay like a lump of coal watching my 'host for the night' obsessively trying to miraculously perform the impossible. I'd picture my cock and balls sitting in a large jar of formaldehyde somewhere in the Smithsonian Institute, prominently labeled, "Son of The Elephant Man's Gonads."
I was close to my final straw however when one particular guy started to laugh hysterically after he got a good look at my woody, and then he said, "You've got to be kidding me, right? Just... just leave, please...." That was it. I was summarily dismissed.
By the end of most encounters, I was sorry and my host was just sore. So that's the way it typically went for me. Within all-to-short a period of time, my experiences with man-to-man sex were rapidly becoming an endless string of disappointments reminding me yet again I was very much a freak. The faces changed but the story inevitably remained the same. If there's one thing I hated more than a little dick, it was a size queen. I was convinced I was destined to be forever alone - and that revelation increasingly brought a profound sense of dejection. But I was about to be proven wrong in the very biggest of ways.