We sat at the kitchen table, having a quick breakfast before we left for our respective jobs. Patti was checking her make-up and I was trying to finish my coffee, as well as the sports section, before I hit the road.
"How long is your cock, Matt?" she asked. I avoided the spray of coffee all over the table like you see in the slapstick comedies, but some caffeine did dribble out my nose as I tried to stifle my reaction.
I cleaned my upper lip with a napkin and stared at my wife.
"What the hell kind of question is that?" I demanded.
I learned a long time ago that the best defense is a good offense. Twenty years ago I was quite proud of the little guy, but he seemed less impressive all the time.
"You know how we ladies sit around the clubhouse and have a couple drinks after our golf league on Wednesdays? Last night the discussion got around to our husband's cocks and how long they were. Most of us had no idea how long our husband's cocks were. I mean we know how long they are, but not the actual measurement," admitted Patti. "It just made me wonder how long, in inches, your cock is."
I didn't just fall off a load of turnips. I have heard how a group of women can be more coarse and crude than a bunch of guys. I also knew they would be more honest. Men expect other men to lie. We all do it and accept it. It makes us all feel better about ourselves, and our place in the cosmic plan. We lie about the fish we catch, the golf scores we shoot, the sex we have, the money we make and the size of our cocks. When a guy talks about his eight inches, it is understood that he has about six. It is a collective, ego boosting, confidence-building thing we agree on. It isn't written down anyplace, but we all know the rule.
As some point we hit an age where we turn it around and tell the other guys how small it is. If we call it a little four-inch stub, the other guys figure around six inches. It is a language that men understand and it has worked since Adam. The only kicker is the occasional goddamn freak that actually packs eight inches or more. These men are feared and hated by the rest. Somehow, everyone knows when he talks about his eight inches; it really is eight inches. This is a real curve breaker for the rest of us. These men are shunned and avoided, at least by other men. And they enjoy it.
I was on the horns of a dilemma. Should I tell the real truth, or the truth as us guys know it to be? Somehow it seemed better to err on the side of large. That was an instinctual decision that I believe most men would make.
"I never really measured it," I lied. Shit, I had a ruler on that puppy every day from the time I hit fourteen to about eighteen. "If I were to guess, I would say about eight inches. You will respect my privacy in this, won't you?"
It suddenly occurred to me this was not something I wanted repeated in the clubhouse. I could see no up side to a discussion on the length by of my cock by women in a bar.
"What do you think, Matt?" laughed Patti. "Do you think I'm going to be telling the other women how long your cock is? What if their husbands' cocks are only seven inches? They may be chasing you for that big cock and I would be responsible for it."
Fat chance of any women chasing me for my big cock! That was a fantasy that had died when I was eighteen and saw Sam "The Big Salami" Reynolds in the shower after our first baseball practice senior year. I had always chuckled at his nickname. That was a good joke on the guy, or so I thought. When he stepped from the shower and walked to his locker, the other guys sort of moved their towels around to be sure they own weapons were not on display. No one wanted to be the subject of a comparison with Sam.
It became a weird ritual. After practice and games, Sam always strolled the locker room with his cock hanging majestically from between his legs. The rest of us were like smaller bulls and always backed up and deferred to him. He was the cock of the walk when he was naked. Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. Instinctively, we yielded to what we perceived as a better man, when he was naked. Dressed, he was no longer anything special. He wasn't even a very good ball player. I think that was why he flaunted his one gift when he could.
It's a good thing Patti only asked about length, I thought to myself as I drove to work a little later. More amazing than the length of Sam's salami was the thickness. The handle of my Louisville Slugger was not as thick, and that was carved from a goddamn ash tree! From that first day on, none of the rest of us on the team ever boasted about our cocks or how they pleased the girls. Sam had taken that fantasy from us, and we secretly hated him for it. Everyone was glad when he moved to New Mexico.
As I sat at my desk, I started putting a few things together. Patti had been pretty aggressive when she came home a little after dark. She insisted we go to bed early. She had even made our two teens go to bed so they wouldn't hear any unusual noises from our bedroom.
She held and fondled my cock much longer than usual. She sucked it and jacked it. I remember thinking it was odd that she left a lamp on low. We always turned the lights out when we had sex. She had been sizing my cock up! The conversation must have been pretty graphic at the clubhouse! Patti rode me to her orgasm and then dismounted and got me off with her hand, watching cum spurt from my cock.
Now I wondered if there was a discussion on volume and distance of their husbands' ejaculations. What about the size of our balls? The curve of our cocks? We were being treated like so much meat, going through inspection. Why couldn't women just accept us as individuals with feelings and needs, and not treat us like cattle?
The week went well enough and the sex was pretty good, but I kept the lights out most of the time. If Patti insisted having a light on, I would spend a lot of time eating her pussy and manually stimulating her. It didn't seem to discourage her at all, though. I could see it would not be easy to beat her at her own game.
There I sat, reading the paper the next Thursday morning, after a grueling night of raw sex. Patti had come home burning with desire. I saw it in her eyes after she put her clubs in the closet and turned to me. The kids saw it, too, and went to bed without being told. Patti rode me, and then had me drill her doggy style and then the good old missionary position. I don't know how many times she came, but I managed three orgasms. I just couldn't fire anything after that, though I did get hard, with some encouragement from Patti's incredible lips, long enough to get her off one final time.
She had been more verbal than usual, too. She kept urging me deeper and deeper. She wanted it faster and she actually suggested I put her legs on my shoulders so I could feed a little more into her steaming snatch.
The ladies golf league was only about half way through the season and I was having serious reservations about surviving to the end. If the sex kept increasing exponentially, I would be gone before August.
"Tonight I want to measure your cock," Patti smiled.
"Jesus H Christ!" I shot back. "Do you think you wore a few inches off it last night? Was that your goal?"
"Matt, it is like a pig's snout. The more you use it, the tougher it gets," chuckled Patti.
Where the hell did she get that saying? Besides, that was supposed to be about pussies, damn it!
"I'll measure it today and let you know, okay?" I countered.
"Last night, after golf, every wife there said her husband claimed he had eight inches. Everyone but Sandy, that is. She claimed her husband was nine inches and she had measured it herself," Patti revealed.
"Sandy defied us to actually measure our husbands' cocks. It was her contention that it was very unlikely anyone would be within two inches of her husband," giggled Patti. "We all agreed to make it an assignment to measure our husbands' cocks. We even agreed on the way we would do it so we had a uniform method."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing! These bitches need a life. My mind raced for a solution. How could I make my dick longer in a day? Try as I would to think of a way, I drew a blank.
"Patti, you can hurt men's egos by pursuing this. Some guys may have exaggerated a little and the truth could scar them emotionally. Why don't you forget it, or just call in sick next week?" I suggested.
"Matt, I am sure your cock will be up there with the best of them!" chided Patti. "It isn't just the men you know. We are in this together. I have pride, too. I want us to be well represented in this. I am sure our cock will be among the leaders, if not the very top cock!"
"I can't believe we are having this conversation!" I whined. "You know that 'our cock' hasn't let us down yet. Why make it some kind of competition?"
"That Sandy Reynolds is so smug. The other women and I want to bring her down a peg. Her husband's dick can't be that much bigger than everyone else's," reasoned Patti.
"Did you say 'Reynolds', Patti," I asked. "I didn't know you had any Reynolds in your league."
"They just moved into a development along the river a couple months ago," responded Patti. "Sandy said that Sam went to high school here before he moved to New Mexico."
Why wasn't I surprised? The son-of-a-bitch was like a nightmare... like that fucking Freddie Kruger; only he was coming after me with a giant cock instead of razors in his fingers! You think you kill him, but the fucker is there for the sequel, spreading fear amongst the normal-cocked population.
.... There is more of this story ...