Believe me…Size DOES matter

Allow me to get right to the point: my wife’s vagina is freaking HUGE. We’re talking Lincoln Tunnel big. You ever go to the Grand Canyon and toss a hot dog over the side? That’s kind of what it’s like to fuck my wife.

Hey, and guess when I discovered this partially relevant, somewhat significant little tidbit? If you answered “on your honeymoon” you’re a grand prize winner! And I’m a complete loser. What a gigantic douchebag I am. Possibly big enough to quench my new wife’s galactically enormous pussy, but I’m not sure. Probably not, because as I believe I’ve mentioned already, it’s really, really big. Seriously, after five minutes of fruitless pumping the first and only time she’s let me near her, I had to go finish myself off in the toilet.

But it doesn’t end there. It might even be okay that my wife’s vagina is large enough to accomodate a 747 if she compensated with her oral skills, but no. The woman went down on me like my dick was a frozen flagpole – one tentative lick, a sigh of relief, and back up she came. Ridiculous.

So what’s the moral of the story? Sample the merchandise before you buy. You wouldn’t buy a car without test driving it first, would you? After all, you might end up with a lemon – or in my case, a wife whose genitalia have sixty years to go before they could accurately be described as acting their age.

I am in hell.

I’m not going to hell

As a person who respects herself, the sanctity of marriage, and above all else the Lord Jesus Christ, I never considered for an instant the idea of “going all the way” before my wedding day, and guess what? I didn’t! Yay me! Yes sir, I waited nineteen years (the last few being the hardest) until my high school sweetheart Derrick finally popped the question and we got married, and although the first time we “did it” was so awful I haven’t let him touch me since, I can at least take consolation in the fact that I’m not going to hell.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life with my husband, and I’ll let him make love to me again whenever I’m ovulating and want a baby, but as I’ve already established, sex with him just wasn’t that great. Kind of like going to the doctor or dentist.

First of all, he wanted me to take my nightgown completely off, which I rejected right away, and whereas he had kissed me with his tongue once or twice for a couple of seconds while we were dating, he seemed intent on sucking the fillings right out of my teeth on our honeymoon! Yikes! And if that wasn’t gross enough, he wanted me to perform oral favors on him (or as he put it, “Kiss my thing”), which I initially resisted citing my lack of knowledge regarding Jesus’s position on such activity, but eventually relented to after enduring about 10 minutes of his begging.

So I pulled down his shorts, and oh my God, I know it was kind of bad of me to do, but I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it though – it was the first time I’d seen a penis in real life and it looked kind of funny! Suffice it to say, Derrick didn’t see the humour and prodded me on to do what he’d asked, so in an attempt to be an obliging wife I gave it a couple short licks, but that’s all I could stand. It was just so icky!

Finally, when we got down to real business (and I have to admit, I was shaking with anticipation) it turned out to all be for nothing. I mean, after an initial twinge when he first put his thing in me, I could hardly feel anything, and before long it was over and Derrick disappeared into the bathroom. Puh-leeze. I am sooo glad I waited until marriage.

A decade of marital bliss

I am sure many of the women are wondering why there are so many married men on here. First an overview of married life for the typical male and you should be able to piece together your own conclusions.

Year one: Sex, sex, sex. All you could want. On the floor, in the woods, the car, the beach. Every time you’re alone, you’re banging like rabbits. Nothing is off limits. Nowhere either one of you won’t lick, tickle or tease. Each time you look at her naked body, you are filled with gratitude that God has given you this woman.

Year two: It slows down, but you try to keep it hot just out of fear. You don’t want to become one of those couples. But now there’s no more spontaneous blowjobs. Things are more routine, but that’s OK because you’re still getting it regular and you’re happy.

Years 3-5: Along comes the house and kids. Through it all, you find less and less time or reason to have sex. You go from 7 or more orgasms a week down to probably once a month. You get a bloated beer belly and your love handles turn into big bulges. She gets flabby with baby weight that just won’t go away. The second kid is even worse. She refuses to get stitched up after the second kid and so she’s now so loose you can’t even come inside her. When you do have sex, it’s like fucking a bowl of pudding.

Years 5-7: You decide to get back in shape, to try to revive your sex life. You get trimmed down at the gym, almost to where you were before marriage. She gives it a half-hearted effort, but can’t make much progress. She refuses to wear any lingerie you buy her, instead coming to bed in a T-shirt (if you’re lucky) or a torn up set of PJs. And you now have to beg and schedule sex, which is cold and automatic. You now are masturbating regularly. In the shower, in the bathroom at work, anywhere, anytime you have a private moment. But the effect is minimal and you are constantly horny. For the first time, you will contemplate divorce. You’ll visit web sites about it and perhaps skim a book in the bookstore about divorce.

Years 7-9: You find yourself staring in amazement at this woman and trying to remember when she was hot. Want a preview? Picture your girlfriend, now thicken up her arms by a third. Picture her ass all flattened and her legs thicker and more muscular. When you do convince her to make love, she usually quickly gets on her knees for you to enter her from behind and asks you not to fuck up her cold cream while you’re doing her. She’s dry as a bone and the scent of unwashed ass wafts up as you’re trying to bang her. She is hoping for another baby, but it seems unlikely. Your stomach churns at just the thought. By now you’ve had an affair or two. Maybe a crazy chick at the office or a couple hookers now and then, but the stress of it is too much. You are in disbelief that you are actually now masturbating in bed beside her as she snores.

Year 9: It’s over. You occasionally score some outside poontang, but it’s expensive. Your wife now openly scorns any advances you make. If you suggest she get in shape, she labels you a woman-hater. Real men like women with curves, not sticks. Curves, sure, you think, but not roll after roll of blubber. She has stopped shaving, so that if you try to go down on her the hair is everywhere, matted and full of snarls. You hope to God she’s banging someone on the side, but you know it’s unlikely. You try to titty fuck her, but she doesn’t like that. There’s now no way to have an orgasm while you’re actually touching her.

Year 10: You can’t sleep through the night. Even masturbating doesn’t help. You surf the Web or drink into the wee hours, praying for death’s sweet release to come and take you or her. You’ve talked with a lawyer, but after he lays out the reality for you, you know that can’t afford divorce unless you’re prepared to live in your parent’s basement while all your income goes toward maintaining your wife and kids. Plus, you love the kids. You can’t bear the thought of splitting up their family. Your future stretches before you like a desert, baking and sucking the life out of anything that tries to cross it.