Page 2 of The Fed Sex Man

I didn’t find hand waving sexy. In fact, I found hand-talkers to be annoying. “That drives me nuts,” I said. “What are the other two?”

“Number two.” She extended her middle finger. “He’s got to be gifted in the dick department.” She raised her eyebrows and ring finger at the same time. “And, number three, he’s got to be loyal.”

“It’s that easy, huh?”

“Easy?” She laughed. “Guys who tell good stories never have big dicks, and from what I can tell, nobody in this state is loyal to anything other than football.”

I had no experience with big-dicked storytellers, but I couldn’t argue the loyalty issue. During football season, the only thing that mattered to the citizens of Allen, Texas was football. It consumed my father entirely from August until February, leaving only a small window of time for him to pay attention to me during my childhood.

I had a great relationship with my father, but because of what I felt I forfeited so he could enjoy the sport, I detested football and those who devoted any measurable portion of their life to it.

“Those are tough shoes to fill,” I said. “Football is all people seem think about.”

“Here?” she said. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“You mean in Allen?”

“In Texas.” She pursed her lips and looked away, but quickly returned her gaze to meet mine. “Not in other places, though. Arizona wasn’t like this, I can tell you that much. I think the men here have shriveled hearts, great big egos, and little bitty dicks.”

“Is that statement made based on experience?” I asked with a laugh.

“It is,” she responded. “I’ve had two sexual experiences since I moved here. Both guys had tiny cocks and huge attitudes.”

“So, everything’s not big in Texas?”

“The first guy?” She held her thumb and index finger about two inches apart. “It was the size of one of those weird-shaped tomatoes.”

I laughed out loud. “A Roma?”

“Yeah. A freaking Roma. Or an egg. It could have passed for either.” She shook her head in clear disgust. “Second guy was just as bad, but his wasn’t as thick as the other guy. His was the size of my thumb. I think I hate this state. If I didn’t like working here so much, I’d probably go to Alabama or Arkansas.”

“Arkansas and Alabama?” I gave her a crazy-eyed look. “What’s there?”

“Nothing. But, I’m guessing if the arrogant egomaniacs in Texas have small dicks, the hillbillies in either of those states have got to be hung like horses. Humble and hung, that’s what I’m thinking.”

I mentally laughed at her theory but couldn’t help but agree with her logic. “You know what? You’re probably right.”

She adjusted her bun and grinned. “I’d take a well-hung hillbilly in a twenty-year-old Mustang over one of these cowboy hat wearing egg-dicked jerks in a new pickup truck any day.”

“Just because he’s hung doesn’t mean—”

“A big cock is a prerequisite,” she insisted. “A guy with a little dick and a great personality will never do it for me. Ever.”

Although I’d read enough to qualify for having a lifetime of relationships, I had minimal real-world experience with men. Through reading, I’d deduced that well-endowed men came with no guarantees, other than an assurance of multiple orgasms and earth-shattering sex.

“You don’t think that’s shallow?” I asked.

“Shallow?” She laughed. “Not at all. Being boned by a guy who’s packing a pencil is like being finger-banged, only there’s some idiot on top of you breathing heavily. I can finger myself, I don’t need someone to do it with his dick.”

Any dick was a good dick, as far as I was concerned. I was a book nerd in high school and remained a book nerd. Men’s lack of interest in women like me made sure my dick well was constantly dry. I’d take any dick I could get my eager hands on, big or small.

“So, if you met the perfect guy, but he had the Roma tomato thing going on, you wouldn’t give him a chance?” I asked. “You couldn’t love him?”

“Nope.”

“Even if he was perfect?”

“If he had a little dick, he wouldn’t be perfect,” she insisted. “He’d be a guy with a fabulous personality and a little dick.”