One of the cruelest genetic jokes known to man is being born with a small penis. Anyone who is cursed with a diminutive-sized pecker has a seventy-five percent chance of being a pedophile. Why? Because little kids don’t know the difference between a ridiculous pee pee and a manly-sized dong that any true Viking would be proud of. Men with tiny penises recognize children’s incapacity to aptly identify an ineffective tool. Thus, guys with puny peters prey upon kids to avoid getting laughed at by women once they drop their drawers to expose their thumb-sized prick. Those who do not turn to molesting children start batting for the other team and typically become pole-smokers. After all, small-dicked men get horny too. So they often hook up with other inadequate fellows to share in their misery

Quite frankly, I can understand how some guys become child molesters or start sucking schlong. Having a little wee-wee leaves them with few other alternatives. But if it were me, I would shamefully hide inside my house, never to go outside, if I had anything less than nine inches swinging between my legs. And although I wouldn’t be biting pillows or feeling on little kids, I sure as hell wouldn’t feel confident enough to get naked in front of any fine female if I knew that I couldn’t properly stuff her snatch when the moment arose. But, as my fortune would have it, I was favored by the dick gods and blessed with a dinosauric cock with wonderfully thick proportions.

The exact form and function of my love equipment is best compared to a Pringles chip can. My male manifestation is a long, thick tube and, like a Pringles can, once I pop you can’t stop. Pedophiles envy me. Flaming twinks crave me. Even bugs think I’m sexy. But, with all of the fan fare of having a huge reproduction organ aside, it is not always a good thing to be so well endowed. Firstly, it’s rather cumbersome to heft my meat monstrosity around with me all day long. I can’t wear tight jeans and I gave up trying to cross my legs over two decades ago. Secondly, although most women like to have their gates of heaven opened wide by a thick man tube, not all girls can take it. Such was the case with Amaya.

Shortly after I graduated from the rink dink community college in southern Utah, I moved to upstate New York where I attended Cornell University. Like most other Ivy League preppy bastards, I resided in a Tudor mansion fraternity house while I finished out a bachelor’s degree. It was at this fraternity house where I met many interesting people, most of whom were Jewish or New England natives. Given my high fluting frat boy status, I was afforded plentiful opportunities to interact with some of the finest sluts that an Ivy League educational experience can provide.

The night that I met Amaya began like most other weekends at the fraternity. There was a party at my house, as was commonplace throughout the strenuous semester, and I was enjoying the music of several live bands with my fraternity brother, Camel. Camel was a baby-faced, non-traditional student, who had been an undergraduate at Cornell for over six years before I came to New York. He was chronically intoxicated and when he was not at the local bars, Camel could usually be found mooching free beer at one of the surrounding fraternity houses after he depleted the liquid stock within our own.

After I mingled for a few hours with some sorority hotties while Camel negotiated various deals at the fraternity party, we retreated to the third floor of our house for a reprieve. I followed Camel into his upstairs bedroom where he could organize his purchases from the local drug dealers who regularly attended the house parties. As he began rolling a fatty with some purple haze that he had scored from the street pharmacists, I curiously investigated the contents of his room.

“When you gonna get a new mirror?” I asked Camel, pointing out the shattered, halved piece of a wall mirror that he had nailed to his bedroom wall.

“I don’t give a shit,” Camel replied, as he was fidgeting with some rolling papers and wadded up dollar bills by his bedside. “I got that thing out of a dumpster.”

“It looks like you got most of this stuff out of a dumpster,” I said, looking around at his dilapidated furniture.

Camel straightened out a short stack of small denominational bills over his knee. “I got that nigger bitch porn over in the T.V. if you want to check it out. It ain’t bad. There’s some real darkies on there but it’s all pink on the inside!”

“I’m alright, man,” I replied while taking special notice of Camel’s pellet rifle that he had leaning against the far wall. “I’m trying to cut down on my black porn intake.” Acquiring Camel’s pellet shooter, I began pumping air into the chamber, snapping the pump lever back and forth along its stock.

While Camel was concentrating on rolling a blunt, I opened his bedroom window and peered down at the drunken college students who littered the front lawn of the frat house below me. I then braced myself against the window frame, hunched down over the sights of the pellet rifle, and took aim at one of the persons down below. Breathing in slowly, I fired off a pellet at an intoxicated partygoer, striking him in his buttocks. The targeted guy instantly jumped forward, issuing a stream of profanity.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Camel called out, standing up from his bed and tossing his spliff aside.

“Hunting,” I calmly replied, pumping the pellet rifle full of air once more.

“Dude, are you nuts?”

“Nope, just bored,” I said, taking aim at another person down below.

“You’re gonna hurt somebody, man!”

I defiantly launched another round, shooting a second drunkard who was sprawled out across the lawn square in the back. “No, I’m not!” I responded. Camel reached for his rifle and I yanked it back from him. “Look, they’re drunk,” I said. “They don’t know what day it is, let alone what’s going on around them.