A Man Who Has it All...?

“FROM A VERY YOUNG AGE, my straight neighbors would do circle jerks, and my junk was as big as theirs. They were 16 and I was 12. The only difference was that they had pubic hair and I had none. I remember that three of the boys were brothers.”

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.”