Tits and Ask: Small Penis, Big Problems

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“So yes, dear, size matters. Until you prove it doesn’t.”

Dear Ken and Ariel: I’ll cut right to the chase: I’ve got a small dick. I know it, the women I date know it. The thing is: I always hear about how “size doesn’t matter; it’s how you use it.” Am I wrong to think that’s a lot of crap? Or do women REALLY not give a damn about size?

KEN SAYS: As a hetero guy whose primary penis knowledge is based solely on my own penis, I’m going to say, “I sure as fuck hope they don’t.”

Sure, women’s insecurities get a lot more publicity. But that moment a woman snakes her hand down the front of my boxer briefs and wraps her hand around my John Thomas is only slightly less anxiety-inducing than being blindfolded by a Mexican drug cartel.

Let’s face it; when it comes to sex, women simply bring a lot more to the party. Whether you’re a boob guy, a leg fan or an ass fetishist, chances are the object of your desire has already got you hypnotized by one or more of those things long before she ever unlocks her thighs.

Guys, on the other hand, just bring a penis. Sure, some of us are blessed with a great sense of humor or well-chisled biceps or the wisdom to not belch out loud or punctuate every one of your sentences with, “That’s what she said!” during the courtship stage. But at the end of the day, we know that nothing looks better on our resumes than the fact that we have cock. And I’ve been around the block enough to know that if it doesn’t hit those hard-to-reach spaces within the mystical, confusing world of a woman’s nether regions, I probably won’t be getting a second interview.

Does this mean all hope is lost? Fuck, no. Look, early on in life, when I realized the size of my cock wasn’t got to land me any jobs in porno flicks, I started honing some other talents. Like eating pussy. Sure, it’s no substitute for the Big D, but I’ve found that delivering a solid hour of torturous tongue-screwing can get a woman so flabbergasted, she’s still riding that high by the time I introduce Little Ken. To little or no fanfare.

Bottom line is that there are other tools in your arsenal. Use ’em all. Because nothing flatlines the mood like unzipping your pants with a hearty, “I’d like to apologize in advance.”

ARIEL SAYS: You know, I would love to be the official spokeswoman for women. For ALL women. It would be fucking awesome. I’d be all, “Attention, marketers and advertisers! I could give two shits about household cleaning products and phony-phallic-aphrodesiac chocolate bars. Nor do I care to see anorexic models laughing and giggling and chomping mass-produced, chemical-laden and shit-tainted fast food hamburgers while probably-non-hetero dudes use their acting skills to look longingly at their tiny boobs. Just hand me a large bag of Doritos Cool Ranch, some sort of magical wand that removes body and facial hair without third-degree burns and/or scarring, and give me…yes, I hate to say this dude, but here it comes: a large dick.”

I do give a damn about size. I have to! It’s the way God made me. And perhaps also years of banging practice. But yes, it’s true. There, I’ve said it.

Now, now! All is not lost. And by no means do you have to feel that you must therefore pack your bags and head for the pristine isles of Celebatia. Screw that!

Here’s the thing: there are a lot of people, places, and things I thought I knew and had figured out, only to be proven wrong. For example, did you know hyperbole is not pronounced “hyper-BOWL” and is also NOT an after-hours rave for annoying tweakers? I had no idea! And did you know the guy with the Beemer who is really moving up in the world and mom and dad and all my girlfriends really, really like him and he seems decent and nice is suddenly PATRICK BATEMAN after we’ve had sex? WTF?!? I thought I knew him!

So maybe, just maybe, I THINK I won’t get any pleasure from a rather limited version of a rocket pop. Hey, I also didn’t think I was into bald dudes until I was fucked to infinity by one. I don’t know if it was because of an overabundance of testosterone or what, but the next thing I know I was plastering my wall with Vin Diesel posters.

So, long story short (sorry), you may have not been given a gift, but you have been given a responsibility: to disprove this hypothesis. You are basically going to have to show us that what you may lack in length, you make up for in insane creativity and freak-in-the-sheets-ness. Use everything else you got; and when I’m invoking God and Allah and Zod and Zaphod Beeblebrox, shit, I don’t care if your package is the size of a paperclip, I’m staying for breakfast and possibly the next decade.

So yes, dear, size matters. Until you prove it doesn’t. And I have a very, very strong feeling you will.

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