January 27th, 2006
Love of the Almighty Appendage
By Kim Alvarez
I am not a whore and although certain friends affectionately call me a gutterslut, I am really much too discriminating. It is just my worship, mostly oral, of the male appendage that drives me to distraction.
In my experience, the face of a man can whisper a hint of what their penis may look like. If a man’s face is unshaven, he is usually unshaven elsewhere. Not to my liking, but I can overlook that in some instances. I can handle a five o’clock shadow much better than a wooly mammoth, which I won’t handle at all. The old adage that the shoe size and/or height of a man can reveal the size of his penis can be true, but not always. I have known short to average men with thick and ample offerings, and yet tall, thin men with nothing to write home about at all.
Size does not always matter; talent has to be shown as well. However, it does play into the mix, as I once felt compelled to ask, “is it in yet?”. The key word here is once. (I am the proclaimed Queen of Kegel exercises and men should know how do use theirs too.) I dated a monstrous and spectacular penis for only a very short while. It was a gorgeous specimen, sleek and heady, but I was forced, by moral imperative, to toss him aside. He simply lacked the knowledge on the subject of how to use his own organ.
Long and thin penile properties are very satisfying for filling all my orifices and without an excruciating amount of pain. The beer-can varieties are full with gush-awaiting girth and oh so lovely. Some of them having beautiful, blue, protruding veins, their thick shafts bulging with authority, a mouthful of challenge. Large, straight, soft skinned, mushroom-headed meat whistles are my personal favorite. Ah, the voluminous vision of stomach muscles working, forcing a distinctive dick dance. That slippery slickness of anticipation inviting my lips to wrap around it’s flesh, sinking itself down… down the back of my throat. Bang my uvula. That reverie brings up taste, the taste of ejaculate (pun intended). Each and every pulse spews forth a unique and savory sauce. A man’s diet is always apparent by the taste of his cum. What you ingest makes a difference, be it man or woman. Tasting my sweet self on the skin of a penis sends me somewhere right over the rainbow and I completely appreciate a man with the same flavor enhanced protein.
I absolutely love the penis; the whole concept is amazing. The variety of shades and colors they emerge with is a truly an extraordinary thing; dark crimson and grab-it grape, white with strain and brown with exhaustion, ebony wands and olive hued hangers, and everything in between. Amazing. The tangible textures, those wickedly bulging veins that stretch along the length, throbbing with wanton release, like giant tubes of lipstick summoning my lips. I long for a long one myself, surgically attached for just a day, maybe a week. I want a stick-straight penis with a round set of balls, a sack I can shave bald, admire, stroke and nurture. Although I have a loving bond with my strap-on, it just cannot be the same. I dream — slipping into a surreal sense of what is must feel like — of a heated load coming up from the depths of my spine, seeing it spew out that tiny, animated hole. The shooting, the saturated splashing, the incredibly intense explosion of my own little rocket.
Oh, how I love the penis; that overwhelming organ and it’s skills of ripe wonderment, the way they grow, fast as lightening and furiously solid, anxious and playful yet soft as a silk worm. The diversity, the sensitivity, the shape of sex itself. I inhale, almost ingest, the salacious scent of an arousing rod, like a swimmer fresh from a chlorine pool. Breathing deep, letting it envelope all that I am, I suck, long lip-hugged strokes, tonguey and hard, adoring each moment like it may be the last. I vow to continually worship the phallus, religiously on my knees… until the day I die.