"While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack or the barn door Stoutly struts his dames before."
Revelations and Circle Jerks
He looks out at the rain and laughs.
It is a typical Carolina March—not the kind Sherman had in mind; this one is all thundershowers and Sweet 16 tourneys. And true to form, it’s storming outside, with raindrops as big as redneck loogies pelting anything in their sights. It’s storming in the living room also, in the form of Connecticut and Missouri. It’s easy not to mind a little rain (or a customary lot) when there’s college basketball to idle away the next 40 days and nights.
But that’s the living room. We are seated in a sparsely furnished Florida room—chairs, table, and a litany of oddballish ashtrays of varying fullness. Not to mention the smoke—two smokers smoking and drinking and smoking and talking and smoking, to the extent that the words just hang there on thickly-curled tresses of smoke.
“And boy, did they stare.”
This is Orlando. He’s always this talkative. That’s one of the reasons people love him so much—a cocktail in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His voice is somewhat animated, but his body is all loose, partially slumped in his chair with a randy shit-eating grin, like a modern day Bacchus in near-repose. Orlando presents a study in gleefully marked contrasts: in his early 40s and living out most of his days with the unrestrained delight of a teenager with keys to his dad’s beloved Mercedes. Born and bred a good southern boy, he’s a man of ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’, but with enough standoffish cool to go cosmopolitan at a moment’s notice. Gay since forever, but with the deep and abiding understanding that growing up gay in rural Carolina has left its share of scars. He likes dogs, rare steaks, and half-naked boys at poolside. He’s an unrepentant slob who runs a world-class salon.
And he’s kind of famous around these parts.
Normally I’d love to visit with him and discuss new and interesting ways to promote the legalization of marijuana, but today’s visit is different. I am here specifically to learn what it is like to have been kissed by the gods.
I am here to learn what it is like to have a great big dick. And Orlando, in short, has a big cock. For the record—when I say ‘big’, I really mean to say that it’s a cock that elicits a kind of sexual schadenfreude: straight men salute it the way soldiers salute a WWII memorial (though the soldiers don’t feel compelled to immediately self-explode their genitals in a conflagration of penis-pumps); women alternately gape, whimper, and shut their legs a bit more tightly; and gay men—well, gay men have made Orlando somewhat of a legend.
So if he was (figuratively and/or literally) blowing the minds of other boys at the supposedly precocious age of 12—then just how big is it now?
“Maybe 9.5, 10 inches, with a thick mushroom head…proportional all over. Pretty, if you will.” He talks with a lazy southern lilt, as if his words weren’t being constructed gutturally, but instead, issuing forth on a stream of blackstrap molasses. “I never measured it until the online thing, you know—or if someone asked. When you're big, you just kind of know you are. No need for a tape measure.”
Coming from genetic mediocrity personally, it’s kind of hard to contain myself—after all, there’s the inherently furrowed-brow male need to know: What’s it like? Do you have a fan club? and, Can I leech off your cockly greatness?
But as we get down to the, er, meat of the matter, things take on a slightly darker tone, because ultimately, the questions pretty much all come down to: ‘What’s it like?’
Orlando pauses, teasing his hair again. “For the online thing…it's my calling card, you know?” he says, his normally lax posture drawing up a bit more tightly. “Or like my face picture—it may as well be my face.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is less salt-and-pepper than fire-and-pepper; tufts of red interspersed freely with light patches of gray. “Because a lot of guys, they’ll never get past my cock.”
But, deep down, isn’t cock worship what most men really want?
“Cock worshiping...it's good for a few nights but then...” his voice trails off as another gust of rain announces itself. “Dude, I get bored! They're a dime a dozen, you know?”
Orlando launches into a soliloquy on the art of picking up tricks. Straight and sheltered as I am, I have to stop him halfway through to ask what a ‘trick’ is.
“That’s what we call guys we pick up online—tricks. Like, I never fuck a trick on the first night. But, the bigger or more hung you are, the more you’ll probably gravitate toward bottoms and cocksuckers and cock worshippers.”
So, you don’t get off on cock worship?
“Oh, yeah, sometimes—if I’m in the right mood or in a relationship, maybe. Otherwise I feel like I’m just a dick, you know? Then again, I’ve had guys drive all the way from Raleigh, Winston-Salem, or Charlotte (hours), just to suck me off. You know, when extended an offer to come, distance isn’t really an issue when they see a big dick. They’ll go out of their way for it.”
He returns to the Florida, refreshed drink in hand. “Okay—you wanna know something? I’ll tell you something about having a big cock.” He positions himself in the doorway, his hips jutting out, one leg half-lifted. “A big cock and a pee-hard-on—they don’t work together so well,” he says, pushing his hips out further. “I mean, it's really hard to pee some mornings, you know. Believe it or not, sometimes I have to stand in the shower for a good arc to hit the toilet.”
So if you can barely pee, then how do guys take it?
“Well, yeah—that’s the thing. Sometimes guys are just not equipped for my size, and I get bored with the process of making it happen and it gets soft. It's not like you can just yell 'take it, bitch!' and plow on in, you know? But guys I care about; I take the time.”
Inevitably the talk turns to size queens, and Orlando’s tone becomes faintly rueful.
“They’re hard to weed out, dude. I mean, that is all they talk about. You pick up on that really fast. It's superficial. If they are into big dicks, they're usually blunt and to the point. Sometimes they’ll grab it, in a club, if they’ve been drinking or whatever. I don't really get offended, but...it's annoying.
“Can people size me up? Yes. They can see the outline. Without underwear, you can see the head poking right out.”
Do you often not wear underwear?
He breaks into a half-giggle and an overarticulated shrug. “What can I say? I hate the confinement.
“Yeah, I sometimes get hard in public—or when I’m doing up someone’s hair. My nipples are incredibly, sometimes annoyingly sensitive, and the two are wired together. A stiff breeze across my shirt and there it goes. Underwear on or off, same thing: see something (visual) a hot guy or client coming on to me, guys accidentally rubbing my dick through the salon cape, and I get hard.
“One time—a friend of mine—she said she was giving me a Claritin—turns out she was playing a practical joke on me, ‘cause it was really a Cialis. I spent the rest of the day working—all female clients—old ladies, one and all—with a giant hard dick poking out from my pants, and poking into the client’s salon cape.”
Were you wearing underwear?
“I wasn’t when the day started. By lunchtime, I had to throw a pair on just to keep from accidentally poking the old ladies in the back of their heads!”
Tom Waits once said that there are two things a songwriter should always try to incorporate into his music: weather, and food. Because you never know when you’ll need a raincoat; and with all the angst of modern pop music, you’re bound to get hungry in the midst of all that wailing and whinging.
It can also be said that sex is much like a song—there’s a beginning, middle, and a crescendo before a slow-fade ending or collapse into sonorous sleep. As for the weather, it’s still raining—the Carolinas really only have two seasons to speak of —hot and wet, cold and wet – yet somehow we are always in the midst of a drought. And food? Well, we’re both smoking, aren’t we?
It’s been hypothesized that having a big penis is like any other genetic happenstance—two strands of genetic glop are smacked together, shook up just right, and a kind of perfection is born of accident rather than will: large breasts; ample buttocks; pretty face; naturally thick, luxurious hair…and ten-inch penises.
“I guess it’s sort of like being a pretty girl. I mean, it certainly has never hurt. I have had some very beautiful men want me because of it. I don't know that it makes me feel any prettier, but it does give me a kind of swagger, I guess. Is that the same thing?”
So, is it more of a blessing or a curse?
“What are you, on crack?” Orlando throws his head back and laughs. “It's both, actually. Kind of like winning the lottery—you can have a lot of fun with it, but it also makes you popular for maybe the wrong reasons.”
What about dating and sex—do you use the Internet regularly?
“Yeah, I use Manhunt a lot—I mean, a lot. I don’t do Craigslist though; that’s just too crazy for me.”
With that, Orlando flips open his laptop and pecks away at it for a moment. “C’mere,” he says, and shows me his Manhunt account. It’s filled out in staggering detail, with very little talk about sex—in fact, it’s very frank—in terms of emotion. Then he shows me its pièce de résistance—a full-sized photograph of his cock at full attention. It’s so stupendously large that it threatens to consume the ‘hun’ in the Manhunt logo at the top of the page.
“I get a lot of compliments on it. People want to meet me strictly because of it. It’s funny—I’ll talk to guys who aren’t looking for sex—on sites that aren’t even geared toward sex; they’re looking for a long-term relationship, right? But the conversation always comes back around to my cock.”
Orlando pecks away at the keypad again and brings up an account from another gay personals site. “Like, I have this one guy here; he’s always messaging me, every week—he’s offering me $200 if I let him suck me off.”
Have you or will you accept his offer?
“No. That’s prostitution. And it’s just gross.”
So, having a cock of that size, how do you go about choosing a partner, especially online?
“Well, it all depends on what I’m looking for. Sometimes the regular cock worshippers are fine. But I tend to avoid power bottoms.”
Trying not to be rude, I have the irrepressible urge to raise my hand again—excuse me; what, pray tell is a ‘power bottom’?
“Oh, a power bottom is someone who’s really super into it and very much used to it. They’re not much fun, because all they really want is something stuck up in them, you know? It’s kind of like fucking by rote. Like Craigslist—Craigslist is all power bottoms and married guys. And other assorted crazy shit.”
Where do the married men fall? Most of us assume that they’re the ones simultaneously posting in m4w and m4w, just to make sure that every base is covered.
“Married guys—blow and go all the way. They’re way more impersonal about it. They don’t undress. They don’t ask what I look like. They just love big beautiful dick, and that’s what they’re coming for. Like I said, they’re blow and gos. They do their business and they get out of there.”
So, good for a quickie, but not good for dating then?
“Right. And that’s kind of the problem with having a big dick—because everybody wants a piece of it, and it’s harder to make a real personal connection out of just being a big walking dick, you know?
“Like the power bottoms, you can sniff ’em out; they’re pretty easy to spot. Lots of telltale signs—like the fact that all they can talk about is my dick and how bad they want it. And then the big rush to jump straight to that stuff. I guess kind of like going on a first date, and all your date says is ‘Hey, let’s fuck’…before dinner and everything, I mean.
I stay away from them. I mean, who else has fucked them, you know?
“Younger guys online, all they want is to suck dick. They love it. As soon as they see my picture (the cock picture) online, they kind of fall in love with it.”
Are you looking for a relationship now?
“Yeah. Sort of. I don’t know, dude. It’s hard out there.”
Are you going out tonight?