It was so big I almost cried

Mike Harper’s girlfriend was away for the weekend, and he found himself alone and at a loose end in their flat. He didn’t know what to do with himself and was bored when all of a sudden his eye fell upon one of his girlfriend’s women’s magazines. Out of curiosity he picked it up and started browsing.

He felt a secret thrill at surreptitiously reading it behind her back and became aroused as he delved inside what he had hither to only seen the front cover of. It was an experience to find himself caught up in this women’s world, and he felt a thrill at it, as though he were going through a girl’s underwear draw or as if he’d snuck into the ladies changing rooms. It was really quite kinky.

But by the by he came to one article in particular. It contained several pictures of a young attractive women – a celebrity who was being interviewed – and there were some extracts from the text in large, bold writing, written here and there across the page. One of these read ‘when I first saw his penis, I thought I was going to faint with happiness. It was so big I almost cried.’

He was outraged and incensed by this. He felt anger at hearing such sluttish talk. He had been browsing with a feeling of erotica as though he were spying on women getting changed. He was browsing to satisfy his own interest in women. But this! This was not flattering to him at all. He felt outraged, morally outraged to hear a women talk like that. What a total slut! He wanted to strangle her. Beat her to a pulp. It was disgusting, and he felt anger and bitterness toward that young girl. Who the hell did she think she was to speak like that! What an a arrogant piece of trash. He felt humiliated and cut out of the world of women. So this was what they were really like then?

Despite his anger, or perhaps precisely because of it, he made a point of thoroughly reading the entire article. He had never heard of the girl in question, but she was obviously a minor celebrity and the interview concerned her relationship with another minor celebrity.

‘Tell us about your relationship with Adam?’

‘We first met at the Blue Texan nightclub. From the moment I first laid eyes on him I wanted to sleep with him. I mean he was so good looking, very fit and with such a gorgeous face, everything a women could dream of in man. At the time I was single and was just enjoying myself playing the field and having one night stands. It happened that a friend of a friend introduced me to Adam, we got chatting and he asked me out on a date. Although I’m the sort of girl who likes to go to bed on a first date, most of the time the sex is so crap. But with Adam it was like, amazing, we both knew what we wanted.’

‘What did he think of your job as a lap dancer?’

‘He was totally cool about it. Some guys really have a problem with it, but Adam just loved it, he finds it a turn on. It even got to the point where he wanted me to dance for him and we had a lot of saucy sex sessions. I’ve always practiced lap dancing, ever since I was a little girl, and it comes in really handy when you want to control a man. They all sit up and take notice when you dance. I would recommend pole dancing to all women, it’s a great way to keep fit. And I was happy to please Adam. He’s hung like a donkey, and I haven’t had to use a vibrator to orgasm since I met him.’

And despite himself Mike read the whole article. He was enraged by it, felt belittled and was shocked that a woman should talk like that about men, as if he were just a sex object who was either satisfactory or not; either something worth having or a useless reject.

That evening in the pub, he stood chatting with his mate:

‘What a bunch of slags women are. They’ve got tests you know, to find out how big your penis is. No, I’m serious. These magazines of theirs are full of it. That’s why they’re so avidly reading them all of the time. To find out ways of working out how big your penis is when they first meet you. So that they know if they want to sleep with you or not. They’ve got tests’ he said bitterly.

‘Women can have sex whenever they like’ he continued ‘it’s easy for them they simply find a man and drop their knickers. And when they’ve had their satisfaction they say thank you, you’re no good anymore. I’m moving on to someone else now, that was rubbish sex we just had, I need a man with a bigger penis. And then they get into bed with someone else.’

‘Men reach their sexual peak at twenty-one and after that they drop off. But women are just as much at their sexual peak at forty as they were when they were sixteen. That’s why they’re always having sex, why they’re so obsessed with it and why they’re always reading about it, about how to achieve an orgasm. That’s all they ever think about, how they’re going to have an orgasm. The silly bunch of cows.’

And so he went on, bitterly, angrily and dissatisfied, ranting to his friend. He was really out of sorts.

He was twenty-four and lived with his girlfriend. He was tall, well-built, dark and handsome. And he was incredibly egotistical. He wasn’t given to smiling much, but always appeared uptight and dissatisfied with his life. He was one of the lads, liked to drink in the pub and drove a fancy little red sports car. He worked as a management consultant, made good money and was always dressed to kill, looking lean, mean and dangerous in his sexy suit, and incredibly scary as well. People, women especially, were terrified of him, and he seemed oblivious of things such as common courtesy, was stingy with his pleases and thankyous, and people, for example shop assistants, were often annoyed by his rudeness and arrogance, especially since he was so dark and sexy. Women, if they felt they had a chance with him, found him incredibly attractive, being so arrogant, sullen and oblivious of everyone else, so thoughtless; if they didn’t feel they had any chance with him, they hated his guts for lacking any form of gentlemanly conduct. His world seemed to be centred around shallow affairs, such as money, cars, drinking and women. He sort of wasn’t switched on to other things, was caught up in his own world, and had no idea that people around him disliked him so much.

He read glossy lad magazines, looked at pictures of women with oversized breasts and loved to see naked women sprawled over a Mercedes Benz or a Bentley. He bore a perpetual look of dissatisfaction and was low and miserable as if he’d just masturbated. He lusted after beautiful women and had every chance to satisfy this lust, yet he in no way seemed contented or fulfilled, but rather the reverse; and in time, as he got older, you felt he would just became a cantankerous and lecherous old man, reeking of testosterone and manly bile, sort of like a sex addict, unable to retain the high of his former years, his mind being to narrow to conceive of any alternative forms of satisfaction. At night he would often sit with a beer in his hand and watch comedy shows, his especial favourite being one in which a man went around insulting ordinary members of the public, quite a lot of whom happened to be women. He would sit there loudly guffawing as the man insulted a middle-aged, unattractive woman to her face asking if she was a lesbian, even though it was just an everyday, decent women who wasn’t aware that the presenter was just winding her up for a laugh. It was disgusting really, totally humiliating to have an honest and unassuming woman poked fun at and insulted, simply for the crime of being unattractive; a pathetic and cheap way of making a joke, and a slap in the face of human decency, but in fact the show was spot on, since Mike found it hilariously funny and sat there in stitches laughing.

He hated ugly women, didn’t have a kind word for them and would often stare at them if they really aroused his hate. He would often joke about them, spoke of fat cows and ugly mingers, and dismissed certain women as lesbians, crudely suggesting they had hairy armpits and moustaches, and that it made him sick.

As for his girlfriend, she was a secretary, young and incredibly beautiful. Although she was a decent enough person if you met her or had some small dealings with her, at heart she was pretty shallow and consumed by fairly lightweight affairs. The following evening she arrived home. When she got inside the flat Mike was waiting for her. He sat with his feet up drinking beer, looking at the TV and not at her.

‘Back from your little slag’s weekend are you? I hope you enjoyed yourself you little slut’ he stated peevishly after a while. His girlfriend looked at him with questioning eyes: they shone, bemused, like a little vixen’s. She was totally perplexed by this attitude of his and was scared.

‘Have you been cheating on me you little tart? Eh?’ he said threateningly, standing up and grabbing a hold of her skinny little arm roughly. She was terrified and didn’t know what he was talking about. There was a look of terror on her face.

‘Of course not’ she said ‘what’s wrong with you?’

‘What’s wrong with me?’ he shouted angrily, shaking her violently so that she shrieked. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. I’m sick of sluts like you dropping your bloody knickers, left right and centre for every man you see. Well you’re not going away on any more of your dirty weekends, you little slag.’

His girlfriend had utterly no idea what this was about, was terrified, and he got angrier and angrier by the second. They had a long, long argument that night, his girlfriend breaking into tears and becoming hysterical, totally oblivious to what this was about, whilst he vented his spleen, yet it in no way cheered him up and at the end of the night he only felt worse.