I’m a man with a little dick. But that doesn’t stop women from fucking me – even women who say they want men with
big dicks. They fuck me because I give them what they need, not what they say the want. In “The Adventures of Little
Dick” I’ll share with you the needs of some of the women I’ve met and how I fulfilled them.

Part One: The Grand Canyon

My Three rules

I never approach a woman I don’t know at least casually. There are two reasons for this. First, saying no to a stranger
is easy.That’s a huge obstacle to overcome. Second, I don’t have enough check marks on The List. Every woman has a
list of traits or qualities a man’s gotta have to be considered worthy. High on that list are physical looks and appearance.
I can’t even pass the sight test.

I never ask a woman out on a date. If a woman thinks I’m asking her out on a date, out comes that list. And that list
is absolute. If she’s looking for a Matthew McConaughey, I don’t care if she looks like a gila monster, she’s going to hold
out for a Matthew McConaughey. Logic and reason played no part in the drawing up that list, so there’s no point in trying
to persuade her to toss it.

I always do my homework. It’s absolutely necessary to be thorough and prepared BEFORE I make my approach. I rarely
get a second chance.

The Bait

If you don’t want a woman to know she’s being hunted(asked out), you need to have good bait. Mine at the time was
restaurants. I was always on the look out for great new or relatively undiscovered restaurants before they became “in”
spots.

The Prey

Her name is Lisa. She was someone I’d been running into off and on for at least five years – long enough to know she
had had been divorced for two and had three kids. She was about forty pounds overweight at the time, but a beautiful
woman,and I’m a sucker for a pretty face. So when I saw her at a friends birthday party, I had to take a shot.

“Hi, Lisa,” I said as I approached her at a table set aside for appetizers.
“Hi, Cyrano.”
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” I chose my words carefully. The word “favor” was important. I was asking
her to do something FOR me not WITH me. Doing something WITH me is a date, and a date has to pass the list test.
“I heard about a new restaurant opening up that I want to try, and I hate going to restaurants alone. I just feel creepy.”
I wasn’t lying, maybe exaggerating a little. Dining out alone does make me feel uncomfortable and self-conscience. I
stick as as close to the truth as possible, even if it makes me look weak, because women have excellent lie detectors.
“I hear the food is great. Recipes from the Old Country, unique flavors.” This is were the homework comes in. I went
down the menu, practically item by item. I was selling the restaurant and the restaurant experience, not a date with me.
“I don’t know. Between my job and the kids, I really don’t even have time for myself.” I could tell she was feeling
cornered, so I backed off.
“Just think about it. It’s just a short drive from here.” Remember this not a date. Telling her she can drive there
herself reinforces this. “Besides, don’t you need a break from fish sticks and frys,” I say smiling as I and walk away.

I was giving her time to think about it, maybe even talk it over with her friends. It was a low risk offer. By driving there
herself she doesn’t expose where she lives, and the restaurant was in a familiar area. And I left her with something to
think about: Maybe she was due an adult eating experience. And besides she wasn’t doing it for herself, she was doing
it for this poor sap.

Thirty to forty minutes later she walked up to me and said,”Sounds like a good restaurant. I think I can do it Saturday
after next.” She took the bait.

ISABELLA’S

Isabella’s was small restaurant but its large expansive windows made it seem bigger. I was waiting outside pacing and
preparing myself mentally – Lisa was ten minutes late. When I spotted her in the parking lot she was dressed just as I
expected: middle-management chic. This was a Saturday and here she was dressed like she was going to a job i
nterview. I had no flowers- this was not a date. I opened the door for her but I made no attempt to pull out her chair. I
ordered things on the menu because the sole reason for us being there, supposedly, was to sample the food. After the
waiter left, it didn’t take long for her to start in on the interview process.
“So, you like being a mailman?” I had to cut her off quickly or this was going to go south in a hurry. Ms. Middle-
Mangagement was qualifying me as if we were on a date.
“Whoa! No date talk. We’re here for the food. So let’s stick to that. Tell me, what was the first taste you can remember
that you feel real safe and warm inside?” If she followed my lead, I would be back in control. If not, I was just going to enjoy
the food, thank her for joining me, and we were going to go our separate ways.
“My grandmother’s tea cakes,” she said after thinking for minute. I had her. From there on out we talked about food, but in
doing so we covered our childhoods, friends and family, trips and vacations. We were two human beings sharing our lives,
not two automatons talking about five year plans or if we saw children in our future. But more important, when I saw her face
light up when talking about food, I knew she was having good, warm, fuzzy, feelings – feelings for the most part she would
attribute to being with me.

While waiting for our leftovers, I asked her if she would try one more restaurant with me. It was a test. If the evening
allowed her to embrace her FEELINGS, the answer was going to be a quick yes. If it prodded her into THINKING about me
and where this going, I was dead in the water.

DUGAN’S

Our second “date” was at Dugan’s. I couldn’t believe the difference in Lisa’s appearance. It was like night and day. She had squeezed
into a really tight, low cut, red skirt with pumps to match. Her hair had accents in it, and it looked like a professional had done
her makeup. A side note: I always pay close attention to a woman’s appearance. It pays huge dividends down the road. I don’t
just take mental notes, I write it down as soon as possible, or in today’s world of smart phones and mini-recorders, dictate it.

Either Lisa had a date after our dinner, or she was dressed this way for me. If it was the latter, I hit the jackpot. In either case,
it was time for The Dance. If a woman is dressed like Jessica Rabbit, she expects to be treated like she’s hot. Lisa was asking
for The Dance, so I gave it to her.
“Wow, Lisa! That you?” I tap danced around her like a bellhop working for a big tip. I got the door, pulled out her chair, acted
speechless – the whole nine yards. It was time to find out if this display was for me.
“Hey, would you like to take some salsa classes with me?” A blank look spread across her face. This was not good.
“I don’t think so, Cyrano, I’m a little clutzy.” This could have been her way of politely rejecting me.
“No, trust me on this. I’ve seen you move. You were born for this. We’ll take it slow. If you break an ankle, we’ll call it
quits, okay.” A little humor goes a long way.

THE TEN COUNT

Lisa really took to the salsa classes. And she was giving me serious hard-ons. I didn’t show up for the fifth class. She called
me for two days before I returned her calls.
“Cyrano?”
“Yeah, Lisa it’s me.”
“What happened to you? I’ve been calling you for two days.” It was time for the knockout punch.
“You know what happened.”
“No, honestly I don’t.”
“That fucking red dress is what happened! I can’t think about nothing else. I keep seeing the hem inching up the back of your thighs,
the fabric melting into your hips when you sat. These salsa classes have been a nightmare. Fighting like hell to keep from getting
hard-ons with you rubbing against me. I can’t concentrate at work, I’m beating myself raw at home. This has to stop. Look, this is my
problem. I’ll get over it. I’m a big boy. In a couple of weeks I’ll bottom out.”
I just sat back and waited. This is silver bullet stuff. You can tell a woman how hot she looks and it’ll just make her uncomfortable
at best – even if she likes you. She didn’t pick her parents, and age and gravity will ravage even the best of genes. She’d much rather
be complimented on something she’s accomplished, something she has control over. And putting together that jaw dropping outfit WAS an
accomplishment.
“Cyrano, It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she said after seconds of awkward silence. I never said I was embarrassed. What the
hell was she talking about? But the fact that she was still on the line spoke volumes. I was purposely graphic to cut through all the
bullshit. If she wasn’t at least flattered by the idea of being my sexual fantasy, she would have hung up. She didn’t want me to
bottom out.
“Lisa it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be silly, Cyrano. What are we in junior high? Let’s meet for coffee and talk about this like adults.” And down goes Lisa!

THE ULTIMATUM

I hate Starbucks. But it was were she wanted to meet. This was the last decision I was going to let her dictate. She walked in wearing
a track suit – an expensive track suit – with designer sunglasses, jewelry and full make-up. A woman only wears a getup like this when
she’s feeling good about herself and wants the world to think she falls out of bed looking fabulous.
“Hi, Cyrano.”
“Hi, Lisa.” If she was waiting for a compliment. She waited in vain.
“You were right, Cyrano,” she said after we ordered and found a table. “I really like salsa and I think we make a great pair. Look,
we’ve put in all this work, the least we can do is go show off our moves.” She thought she was taking control, and re-writing the script.
She was mistaken.
“You really don’t take me seriously, do you?
“Wha-“
“No, I want you to listen carefully. You’re stoking a fantasy that is wrecking my life. It’s either going to become a reality, or I’m
flushing it out of my life. There’s a bed and breakfast up the coast that I rent one weekend a month to write,” I said sliding the
brochure across the table. “Maybe you’ll join me there, maybe not. I got to go.” I stood up and walked out.” It was a sexual
ultimatum plain and simple, but with a twist. I was counting on her own vanity forcing her into submission. If she was as captivated by
the idea of being my fantasy as I thought, she was going to fuck me. If not, she was going to tell me to go fuck myself. There would be
no middle ground.

THE BED AND BREAFAST

Lisa said she was coming but it looked like she had backed out. I expected her Friday night. I was having brunch Saturday morning while
my room was being cleaned, and she still hadn’t shown. I was heading back to my room at quarter to one when she entered the lobby with
her bags. She didn’t look too pleased to see me.
“You look beat,” I said. She mumbled something about crowded freeways as I relieved her of her bags and led her to my room..
“This is it,” I said giving her a tour of the room and showing her out to the balconey to take in the ocean view. The tension was getting
heavier by the minute.
“I need to go freshen up.” She took a the smaller bag into the bathroom with her. Twenty minutes later she was still in there. I could just
picture her in there bawling her eyes out. When she emerged, she was wearing a sheer black Teddy and diamond studded, ankle strapped
black sandals to match. She couldn’t even look at me. She walked over to me like a kid at her first recital. I knew the next five minutes
would be crucial.
“Take it off. All of it.” I guided her head into my chest. “Just listen to my voice and trust me on this.” She slowly undressed while
trying to keep herself covered at the same time. I slowly circled her without saying a word as she trembled, one arm covering her breast,
the other hanging down in front, hand over her crotch. I leaned in until my lips almost touched her left ear.
“I’ve tried to imagine this body hundreds of times,” I said softly. “All I had to guide me was that red dress, how it moved with
your body, I sketched and resketched over and over in my mind how I thought you looked. It was never enough. It just led to more fustration.
I don’t have to imagine anymore. I’ve taken you all in. You’ll be with me now until I die. Thank you. If you want to leave now, you can go.
You don’t have to do anything more.”
She was staring at the carpet but slowly shaking her head. That a girl. I led her over to the bed and pulled back the comforter, blanket and
sheet.
“Lie face down.” she timidly complied. “We’re a long way from sex, Lisa,” I whispered in her ear as I undressed. “First a massage. My hands
are going to roam your body until I’m confident I’ll remember your feel long after you’re gone.” As I climbed over to straddle
her I made sure she felt my erection.
“You feel that? I feel like a nine year gawking at panty ads only to have you magically come alive in my hands.” I could feel Lisa
starting to relax as I stroked her verbally and kneaded her with my hands. She was allowing me to get into her head, which is were I wanted
to be.
“Roll over.”She slowly rolled over but was attempting to cover herself.
“Remove your arms!” I commanded in a stern voice. She covered her face with an arm and looked away. Her breasts flopped to her sides.
I cupped them in my hands.
“I’m finally holding them in my hands,” I said in a soft voice. “And I’m going to do more than that. I’m going plant my face in your cleavage
and feel you heartbeat on my skin; I’m going roll your nipples on my tongue and feel them stiffen.. Today every thing I fantasized about
is going to come true.”
I removed her arm from her face and resumed massaging her. I started at her shoulders and worked my way down to her feet. As my hands worked, I detailed the plans I had for every inch of her body. I was already fucking her into next week and I hadn’t even entered her. And
that was my plan from the start. The sex part is fun and pleasurable in and of itself, but it’s as ephemeral as cotton candy. For it to last, have
its own weight and substance, a woman needs the words, something she can parse, take apart and put back together. I wanted her to hear my
voice in her head all week, relive what she felt while she’s hearing it, fucking me over and over again for seconds, minutes at a time.
I wanted the flashbacks to startle her, come out of nowhere at the most inappropiate times: on the job, driving home, over the stove. In short:
I wanted to shake up her boring fucking life.

After I finished massaging her feet, I straddled her legs and slowly moved up her body making sure she felt my erection from her legs
right up to her stomach. Her arm was back over her face again. I removed it.
“Look at me,” she turned her head and slowly parted her lids. “I sorry if I’m being a little too intense for you, but I’m not taking this
for granted. I may never be in bed with you again. This experience has to last. “I started lightly brushing my lip against hers. The fire had
definitely been lit. Within seconds we were steaming up the windows.

FIVE MINUTE MAN

At this point, A little FYI about me and sex is in order. I have this A.D.D and short memory loss thing when it comes to sex. Every time
I see a naked woman in bed it’s like it’s for the the first time.
“Wow, there’s a naked woman in my bed!” I revel in the kissing and heavy petting and all that, but at about the five minute mark my
mind starts to wander to some place else. I’ve just got to see the….PUSSSSSYYYY!
“Wow, I’m face to pussy! I get to smell it, touch it, lick it all I want.” Once again at the five minute mark my mind starts to wander. I’ve
got to know what it feels like to fuck it.
“God, this feels good!” A little too good. I’m only going to last about….you guessed it. Instead of getting “help” for this, I learned
to use it to my advantage by incorporating it into a performance I call The Show.

BACK TO THE B&B

It was going hot and heavy. I was kissing, licking, nibbling, rubbing and, in between, giving Lisa all the verbal feedback I think she
needed… for about five minutes. Then I just had to see the…PUSSSSYYYY!
“Yes!” I shouted after reaching her crotch.
“What?” she asked propping herself on her elbows.
“So pleased to meet you,” I said to her pussy while clapping my hands together. Lisa plopped back down on the bed and started giggling.
I was well into The Show. I went after her pussy with relish…for about five minutes. Then I entered her.
“I knew you’d be this wet! I just knew it!” I shouted as I pumped like a wild man…for about five minutes. Then I dismounted like
a gold medal gymnast and started pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed.
“What’s wrong?” she said sitting up and covering herself in the sheets.
“I’m too excited. I’ve got to calm down.” Some women find this cute at first – until they realize I can keep this up for hours.
“Wow, there’s a naked woman in my bed! PUSSSSYYYY! Dismount. “Wow, there’s a naked woman in my bed!…”

Fuck the Crockpot

I’m sure you’ve heard the analogy: Men are microwaves. Women are crockpots. Well, what my “affliction” has taught me is that this
crockpot business is all bullshit. If a woman really needs to get off, it takes less than five minutes. So why is it taking women
so long to get “there?” It’s those damn voices in their heads.

“Does he think my ass is fat?”
“My cellulite must make him want to gag?”
“Lord, please don’t let him ask me to take off my bra.”
“He doesn’t really like doing that. He’s just trying to win points.”
“Did I lock the back door?”

The sole purpose of The Show is to frustrate a woman until the loudest voice in her head is the one shouting, “I NEED TO GET
OFF!”

ONCE MORE, BACK AT THE B&B

About an hour and fifteen minutes into The Show I guess Lisa was frustrated enough to catch on. When my face reached her crotch… again, she
grapped the back of my head and in less than a minute…
“Whoa!Whoa!Whoa!” It sounded like she had something hot on her tongue that she couldn’t spit out. Then there was a whole lotta
shaking goin’ on. See? All it took was a little focus.
Three “Whoa!Whoa!Whoa!’s” later Lisa finally realized what it would take the close The Show. Her orgasms weren’t going to do it. The Show goes
on no matter how many orgasms a woman has, real or not. The only thing stopping The Show is MY orgasm. So, Lisa wrapped her legs
around me and held me there until I brought down the curtain.

Pillow Talk

We layed there post coitus for what seemed like an hour. Finally…
“I sorry it took so long. After three children I’m about as wide as the Grand Canyon. I’m thinking about vaginal rejuvenation.”
There you have it. We all have our fears and insecurities when it comes to sex. This was Lisa’s. I’m sure she has nightmares of
guys just pumping away and whining, “I can’t feel nothing!” Her wise crack about the Grand Canyon was just a feeble attempt at
self-deprecation. Better that it came out of her mouth than mine. It was also a trap. I had to tread lightly here. Some poor dolt
could easily step right into the snare thinking he was paying her a compliment.
“No, you’re fine. Really snug.” She’d never believe another word he said after that. Or if he was outright clueless…
“No, it was nice being with a real woman for a change and not have to worry about being too big.” He might as well put his clothes back on.

“Hey,” I said waiting for Lisa’s eyes to meet mine. “Your body has changed. It’s going to keep on changing. You’re mourning a body
I never met. I don’t give a damn about that body! This is the body giving me hard-ons. And I’m getting another one right now just thinking
about it.”
I pulled her legs apart and entered her. Before I was five strokes along, she had flipped me on my back. The timid Lisa was gone, maybe
floating out to sea. This Lisa liked being on top. She kissed and nibbled my neck as she ground her wet, sloppy pussy all over my crotch.
Lisa may have wanted a tighter pussy, but what she needed was to lose herself in the power of her own sexuality, which she did.
And she wallowed in it like a pig in slop the rest of the afternoon.

Home Life

After the B&B, Lisa and I were officially “dating.” But she was different. She updated her wardrobe with tight, form fitting blouses and
skirts. Her walk was different too – head back breast out, confident strides. I have a theory about this change in women. I call it the
Glass Cage Effect. When our family went on road trips when I was a kid, there were still roadside diners with rattlesnakes in glass cages.
The dare was to keep your hand pressed against the glass when the snake lunged at it. The reasoning part of your brain said this was safe,
there’s thick glass between you and snake. But when you press your hand against the glass, the part of your brain that deals with survival
screams, “That creature is deadly!” Your heat rate soars and palms sweat as you wait for the snake to strike. You’re being thrilled
by a paradox: safely living life on the edge. I was now the glass cage, and Lisa had her hand pressed firmly against the glass. She could
revel in her vibrant sexuality in room full of vipers. It was practically public masturbation. She was safely living life on the edge.

None of this bothered me in the least as long as I was the “lover.” It was when she tried turning me into the “husband” that we butted
heads. Husbands get fucked every other month, blowjobs on their birthdays. Lovers get more sex than they can handle. Husbands have to earn sex. Lovers get it freely. I was upfront with Lisa from the start and was consistant about it. If I came over, there was going to be at least
five minutes of fucking. She was going to blow me for two and half minutes and then I was going to eat her pussy for two and half minutes
(I have a pretty good clock in my head). Then I’d go jerk off while her smell was still fresh on my face. I didn’t care if she had a long or
hard day. I’m getting my five minutes or I’m going home. Need help with the kids, fine, as long as I get my five minutes. Need some empathy,
sympathy or just someone to talk to, you got it, as long as I get my five minutes. Now, to you more enlightened nimrods out there who think
such behavior is boorish, I’ll see you on the Celebrity Bulletin. For those who don’t know what the Celebrity Bulletin is, it’s a public posting
of pictures of some of the communities more upstanding citizens by the Sheriff’s Department. It seems every so often certain sections of some
of our finest cities are so overwhelmed by the business of prostitution, that it’s nessessary to shame some of our otherwise more law-abiding
citizens into abstaining from the practice. You know, the ones ghetto shopping with the kid car seats in the back. Men who so respected
and cherished their wives that they wouldn’t dream of demanding more sex from their already overburdened soul mates.

I’m not Bulletin material. Lisa and I had our fights and shouting matches. And I’ve walked out enough to be called just about every name you
can think of. Lisa may have been a little slow on the uptake but she eventually got it: Life is better when Cyrano gets his five minutes.
I didn’t care if she saw it as a chore. Just add me to the list:

Put gas in the car.
Pick up Dry Cleaning
Grocery shop for dinner
Blow Cyrano
Cook dinner
Do laundry

I’ll let you in on something those five minute sessions taught me: Orgasms are as involuntary as sneezes. There were days when I knew Lisa’s
mind was elsewhere until she grabbed the back of my head just as I was about to pull away. Ding Ding Ding. You’ve just won five more minutes
ma’am. And then… aaaaaaaaachooo! Bless you. It was just her body telling her, instead of the other way around, that she needed a release.
A sneeze is the same. Your body is telling you it needs to expel a foreign object. Sometimes the five minutes had a delayed effect. Sex may have
been the farthest thing from Lisa’s mind during those five minutes, but as she went about her chores, her lubricating pussy, and dampening
panties were forcing sex into her consciousness. On nights like that, the kids got sent to bed early and the rodeo came to town.

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