Does Size Matter?

Depends on what we’re talking about. And don’t worry, I’m going to get to male genitalia. But first, let’s talk about friendship.

I don’t have online friends or enemies. There are people who only “know” me online and consider me a friend or foe, but it’s one-sided.

I’m honored my words evoke love and hate from others. It used to scare me. I now understand it is an indication that I’m a writer. Writers are polarizing. Polarizing people are catalysts for change. Books have always shaped and transformed society. Just look at how the Bible has impacted people who never read it. Popular literature becomes part of the zeitgeist. Only polarizing books become popular. The rest become obsolete.

I used to be addicted to social media. Those of us who are geriatric millennials were the lab rats as children. We’re crack babies, doomed from the start.

My addiction to social media systematically destroyed every area of my life. Especially my personal relationships. For that reason, I will never stop talking about the dangers of social media. Especially Facebook. I was also exposed to porn at a young age by a groomer. Facebook addiction isn’t different from porn addiction. Take it from someone who overcame both.

You know who is personally offended whenever I talk about what these addictions are doing to our society and children? Addicts.

Recently, I experimented. I believe only a certain type of person reads every word of someone’s Vocal story or social media post, and then also reads through the comments, and also reads the replies to the comments. A curious person. A deep thinker. I am that type of person, so I thought I could spark conversation with like-minded individuals. I said some things in reply to a comment on my story as an invitation to conversation for all who took a peek.

Unfortunately, I turned off comments on the story because people refused to discuss it there. They wanted to comment from the safety of an echo chamber instead of replying to me.

I don’t say that to be judgmental. I understand. I was addicted to social media because I wanted that echo chamber. There’s safety in numbers, isn’t there? I was addicted to having a carefully curated “friends” list, a feed that never challenged me, and a block feature. How great it was to always feel supported no matter what I said or how dumb I was.

Then one day I woke up. I realized I had NO friends. Yes, I had thousands of followers on my private Instagram. Yes, I had people validating my every post with likes and comments, people kissing my ass in DM’s. But in reality, I was utterly alone.

I started thinking about what friendship means to me. What I want to contribute to friends. What tangible ways I need to be supported by friends.

I also thought about how important friendship is in romantic relationships, and how it changes the dynamics of sex. See, I told you I’d get there.

I started thinking about female pleasure. Orgasms. Just as the size of my “friends” list doesn’t correlate with how supported I feel, the size of a man’s penis doesn’t indicate the amount of pleasure I’ll have.

My last boyfriend was so big you’d think I was lying if I told you how big. And I had no way of knowing initially. Well, other than stereotypes. He was from Africa. But I never pay attention to stuff like that, because my other ex who was just as huge was half Polish, half German.

Yes, as a serial monogamist, I’ve had several well-endowed boyfriends. More than I can count on one hand. I don’t know why I attract that type. Maybe because they’re more aggressive. For years, I had social anxiety, hence my social media addiction. The only men who stood a chance with me were those who aggressively pursued me. Men with small penises probably feared rejection too much to chase after me.

Back to my most recent ex, he with the legendary eggplant of mythic proportions: Worst sex of my entire life.

I’m a woman who comes fast and hard. I had a boyfriend joke how embarrassing that would be for me if I were a man. But as a woman I keep going and going even after I’ve “finished.” I have multiple orgasms. And the men I’m with benefit from it, because those orgasms cause contractions.

I have limitless energy, so if a man doesn’t last with me I don’t even care. We’ll go several rounds. Sometimes… sometimes I even want a man to come in less time than a Beatles song. I want him to lose control of his own body because of me.

I am an incredibly patient and tenacious person. I’ve been told that by more than a few people. I tried everything with my ex. We were together off and on for a year, and when we would break up, I would refuse to sleep with other people. Sure, he was sleeping around. But I wanted him to know I loved him. I was very attracted to him too. Other men became invisible to me.

Part of me liked when he slept around. I knew those other women would never experience the parts of him that I got to. They’d never see him vulnerable. I let him cry in my arms, and tell me things no one else knew. Things I’ll never repeat, even though he did me dirty.

The ironic thing is that he came harder with me than he ever had before. One time it scared him. He said it was too intense. He said, “We’re never doing that again.”

For an entire year, I couldn’t get no satisfaction. All I wanted was to feel close to my lover. I thought if we could fix the sexual issue, there’d be no issues. I was wrong. The sexual issue was symptomatic of an underlying problem. He didn’t want to feel close to me.

Yet, he already did. He told me he loved me like he loved his mother and daughter, and he’d never loved a woman he was sexually involved with like that. I know what he said was true because I could feel it. I could also feel his detachment during sex.

Consent is sexy. My ex wouldn’t fully consent to me. He would with his body, but not with his heart. He’d turn off his emotions during sex as easily as if there were some valve for it. His mind was elsewhere. He’d consent with his body, but swiftly leave his body. How could I orgasm from rejection?

The best sex I ever had was with my ex Erik. Not because he had a gigantic eggplant. But because he gave me his presence. He was so there with me, in every moment. We had real conversations. We were vulnerable and strong with one another. It was like I was his mother, and he was my father, and we were playful children together—all at the same time.

He watched Coraline in bed with me, on my laptop, because it’s one of my favorite films. The joy I felt watching it became his joy. We laughed together constantly, because being together made us high. When you’re high, everything becomes hysterical. We were high on one another. Shortly after we started dating he told his brother about me. I’ll never forget the words he used to describe me.

He really saw me. He was proud of me, and not in a trophy kind of way. He saw my physical beauty but also saw past it. That’s when the male gaze becomes empowering instead of dehumanizing. He saw what actually makes me beautiful as a human being, which is not my appearance. But he did that while worshipping at the temple that is my body and getting me off.

The way my most recent ex saw me was a different kind of exploitation than what I went through as a sex worker. It was different, but just as draining. He saw my inner beauty but blinded himself to my body and sensuality, especially during sex. He only saw half of me. He used me to nurture himself. He didn’t empower me in return. He didn’t make me feel wanted or safe. Being with him was emotionally and physically exhausting, and it did a number on me.

I started to think I was the problem. Because I’d just gotten out of a sexless marriage to a man who first met me while I was on stage at a strip club. He was crazy about me in the beginning. He loved the sex we were having. He loved the sailors on his boat knowing I was his beautiful lady. He promised me the world and proposed marriage to me. He married me six months after we met, and he promptly begged me to stop taking my birth control. He said he wanted me to be the mother of his child. Then his Madonna-Whore Complex reared it’s ugly head when I became that mother. He projected his mommy issues onto me and sought to destroy me.

After my divorce and my year of dissatisfaction, I started to think, “I’ve lost it. I’m not sexy anymore, and no one wants to have sex with me. They just want to go through the motions of masturbating on top of me like I’m not there.”

It was true. I wasn’t sexy anymore. I lost myself.

Sexiness isn’t about age or appearance. It’s about being fully present in what you’re doing, radiating so much energy through your direct focus. That energy becomes magnetic to others. For some, sexiness happens on stage. Rock stars, strippers, actors. It’s in the craftsmanship of the performance. For others, all the world is a stage. Authenticity shines.

I lost my sexiness when I started living for other people, and giving up parts of who I am.

Shortly after a traumatic breakup with my most recent ex, I went on Tindr for some strange. It’s not something I normally do, but I needed to see if I could still orgasm. I can. Oh, how I can.

I met this African guy from out of town. I lived in Portland. He was visiting from Seattle for the weekend. He reminded me of my ex. They both had beautiful dreadlocks, and they’d both been fully Americanized from living here so long.

(Let me say, it’s hard to date someone from a foreign country unless they’ve lived in yours since childhood. It’s even harder than interracial relationships. And as a biracial woman, I feel like all my relationships are interracial to some extent.)

This Tindr date was fresh out of a relationship too, and I could tell. I could feel it. We had incredible sex all weekend long. I still to this day get turned on when I remember it. It was healing. It was the catalyst that led me to be celibate for 4 years.

I had nothing left to prove to myself or anyone else. I can still have great sex. I don’t want great sex with strangers. I want to be deeply in love with someone who adores me. I want the kind of chemistry with someone that everyone around us feels when we enter a room. I want companionship. I want something I can’t find on the internet with clicks or swipes.

***

Recently, Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock wrote Goodbye and Goodbye, Part 2. I highly recommend both, like seriously go read them right now. He wrote about how male insecurities about penis size can harm romantic relationships.

I’m going to share my comments from both:

“This is quite the interesting topic. While I don’t think it is kind to laugh at someone’s body, or make jokes calling it a “third nipple”… I do think that men should be upfront if they have this issue. Especially if waiting until marriage for sex.

I think waiting is a beautiful thing, but this would be an absolute deal breaker for me, and grounds for annulment. So I wouldn’t want it to be a surprise. I know this is a sensitive subject, but I also believe there is a lid for every pot, and no one should feel bad about admitting that a person is not their person. So now Chi can find the woman he’s actually meant to be with.”

“So I have to come back and comment more, because your story is so good that I’m still thinking about it, two hours later!

I love how complex these characters were. At first I sympathized with the woman when she said, “That’s not what I signed up for!” I really felt that. Like what an awful thing to keep a secret. I once had a man I was talking to warn me before we got together that he was exceptionally small. I appreciated the warning and gave him a chance anyways. I learned my lesson that I just… cannot. That wasn’t the only reason it couldn’t work, but it was one of the reasons. It wasn’t meant to be, regardless.

But the more I think about this story, the more I think the woman is an evil person. Not for ending the marriage, but for stringing her best friend along… and then putting him in such an awkward position. Suddenly, she’s always loved him. Now that her first choice didn’t work out. And knowing it would destroy his friendship with her husband.

Even if the protagonist wasn’t made to feel small (sorry, couldn’t resist the pun), she had no right to come onto him, or to talk about the intimate details with him. So he is the only person I truly sympathize with in this story.”

“I love that you gave us a part two, but I still don’t like Qui. This actually made me hate her more.”

“I think every man alive is sensitive to talk about penises. Average sized men think they’re small. And a lot of large men have serious issues, because they wrap their entire self-worth up in it. It’s like women who are exceptionally beautiful. Society gets so hung up on their looks that they don’t think they have any value outside of their appearance.

I’m mad Qui straight up lied! She knew the whole time.”

“I’ve never laughed at anyone’s body. And I’m constantly laughing. I can’t wrap my head around that one. But I understand why you want people to be more fair to your characters.”

“Everyone tells stories from their own perspective, and everyone reads stories through their own personal lens. I probably hate Qui because I had a partner body shame me. One thing is for sure—you have a gift! I think every writer would love to create characters that people have such strong reactions to.”

Randy inspired me to dig deeper into my own sexual history. I’m still celibate, but no longer wanting to be. I feel ready to meet someone. I don’t want that someone to have the same issues which caused my previous relationships to fall apart.

Just to provide some context here—my most recent ex was the one who body shamed me for being skinny. I’m naturally slender, and I’m physically active. I walk 4-6 miles a day. I’m training for a race. In the winter, I was doing hot yoga or barre fitness for an hour every day in addition to walking through blizzards. I’m never not going to be tiny.

He was insecure. He was five feet and five inches, and he hated that about himself. Even though I’m only five feet, I’ll admit he wasn’t my type. He didn’t reveal his height on his dating profile. It was an unpleasant surprise when we met. I like tall guys, and won’t even match with short guys online. But he had a great face, and a nice soccer player body, and we were already on our date. I gave him a chance. Our first date was on the 4th of July. It lasted 12 hours. Walking through the city, holding hands, I thought we were cute together. He walked me home after we watched the fireworks. I let him spent the night.

Keep in mind, I was fresh out of my sexless marriage. I hadn’t really had great sex in seven years. He was much younger than me. Charismatic. Getting attention from women we walked by. We climbed in my bed to cuddle, but he got very handsy. I got handsy back. I grabbed his eggplant, and I literally shouted “OMG” at the size.

The sex was bad because he was insecure, and didn’t want to build me up as a woman. He only wanted to tear me down. He wanted me to think he was the best I could do.

He used to say to me, “Let’s never break up.”

He used to say if we broke up we should stay friends, because then we’d get back together. But we were never friends. I was his shoulder to cry on, his warm body to get himself off on top of. There was no genuine reciprocity.

Several of my boyfriends who were well endowed were messed up in the head. We had good sex, and they assumed I was only with them because of it. Maybe I was. Maybe I was lonely and addicted to touch. We had good sex but it was never great. We were never friends.

The small guy? The one who warned me beforehand? Really, really small. Really insecure. Really manipulative and emotionally abusive because he wanted me to feel small.

I guess size does matter to me, but not the way most would think. What I most want is an extraordinary man with an ordinary penis he doesn’t see as a defining trait of who he is.

I don’t want a partner. I don’t want someone to split the rent or mortgage with, and go through the motions with. I don’t want a temporary addiction to someone. I don’t want infatuation. I want whatever it is that happens between two people when they cut the shit and drop the masks. I want someone who makes all my walls come crashing down so we can rebuild together, with walls that encompass us both, and protect what we have as sacred.

I don’t even want friends, offline or online. I want kindred spirits I can change the world with. I think conversations sparked by my writing and my podcast could inspire entire groups of people I’ve never met to create change.

And maybe I’m crazy for believing I’ll have both someday—the love of a lifetime, and a real platform I can use in powerful ways. But crazy women are great in bed.