I’m sure I didn’t always have an 11 inch dick. Though it must have been pretty formidable from the beginning. For one of my very first memories from age three was the following: waking from my warm REM bed sometime around Christmas and parading down the hall with a tiny-tyke boner pointing toward the ceiling, I crowed:. “Mommy, look at my Christmas tree!”, proudly shaking it about….

Now why remember this? Not so much due the mirth, nor embarrassment it incited—I wasn’t embarrassed. But the Oedipal air emanating from behind my mom was a blast furnace. At three, I had already usurped and outdone my mostly impotent father. This innocent and confused shame mingling with unnatural prowess has been the singular curse of Incubus Man ever since. Chagrin amidst abundance has been the default mode.


Incubus Man first flexed forth from a brilliant amalgam of faith and artifice. The simple dream of a child and family chocked off by a sterile, mostly impotent husband, was rekindled, like a magic breath in a complete, naïve, almost adolescent love.

My mother apparently hatched the plan by herself, and only later was able to enlist the necessary cooperation of my biological father—the ‘holy man’ she “absolutely loved at first sight”, and the only man she apparently ever really loved. Discretely, I suppose, cause no one, apparently, ever knew, or guessed………..except eventually for me. I was always her secret ‘love child.’ Even born on Mother’s Day, for Christ’s sake! From her, the only tale about him, taller even than he was that ‘he was a man of God.’

Secret bastard, You see, I was wrapped up in devious sexual glee, deception, reverence, and misunderstanding from the very beginning.

It was very soon after that, by about four that the body obsession began. Incubus Man was first really inspired and initiated by his friends from the cold war comic book industry-- Batman, Superman, even Spiderman….and from an early age enthralled by all his maniac muscle Marvel mentors. But one thing makes me realize that it was less the colorful storylines that entertained, than the bulging muscles just visible between the skin-hugging pajamas and tights . Even before those friends, I had found and hoarded a singularly bazaar comic whose hero was fully human, always shirtless, with a ridiculous pumped body, in flesh tones no less!, whose major theme was that: ‘muscles were good, useful, and attainable’.

No one was really on to me till much later. Other than an overly precocious girl in fifth grade, who apparently noticed and told all her friends, that unbeknownst to me, I was often adjusting, for comfort sake, outside my pants, my wee wienie grammar school packet with a twist of my hand. Sorting things out as it were, getting it out of the way, and making the damned thing fit better in my pants.

But it was in complete innocence and ignorance of my condition that led to my first real problem. High school locker rooms were more about who had more pubic hair, and was therefore more ‘mature and developed’. Toward the end though, some of the athletes started calling me “LD”; not knowing for a while it stood for “Long Dick”. I don’t think endowment, was really much of an issue then.

Being a good momma’s boy,(no first time bawdy high school bordello whores for me), I saved myself for my first love. Sneaking down below her parents’ bedroom in the middle of the night, we had to secretly visit the hospital later that night. A small virgin, my size and youthful exuberance was more than she could safely handle. But hey, what did I know?.......

It was later in college, when finally a super loose young hippy girl who had been around the block enough times to own it, and who also gave me the crabs and other fun experiences first exclaimed : “Wow, you’re by far the biggest I’ve ever had!—you’re even bigger than all the black guys!”

At that point I started getting curious myself. I had to begin to investigate her claim. But it wasn’t like I was ever out with a yardstick on my boner; it was just that my last three women, in amazement, wanted the exact curious statistics. Each one came up precisely with the same 11 inches on the tape.

But indeed, I have to admit, extensive, long term investigating it has been. After countless nudist colonies, naked beaches, and locker rooms I’ve checked out thousands of naked men. I have seen very few men with bigger appendages, and of course many the occasional gym freak with more muscles. But, I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever seen anyone with an equally long shlong AND a fitter body. Basically, I am a freak! I’m sure they’re some out there, but you’d have to world-wide-web yourself for a while to find one. (Oh, and just generally speaking, black guys do have bigger dicks than white guys.)

So, what’s the big deal, and where’s the problem Incubus Man you might ask?

Well, for one thing, there’s the completely anatomical troubles-- Always having to remember to grab and elevate upon sitting down upon a toilet, or a dirty little dipstick I become. It’s a good thing that baggy pants are in, cause tight pants don’t work either. I can’t even wear any normal underwear for fear of it schlepping around or sitting on it. Speedos are they’re the only thing that will smush it up against my body and keep it in place. Oh, and forget ever being able to play around with a woman in any of that dirty backdoor stuff—just not anatomically practical. My body has Pied Pipered more than one woman home with grand expectations, only to have her laugh outright on spying my re-dick-ulously long schlong, before recoiling from any further pursuit.

The most frustrating part of macrophallia though is the fact that although women make a lot of noise about how much they all want a big dick—sorry; it just ain’t really the case. Oh, maybe a couple times just for an experience, yeah; then forget it! I admit, it took me a while to figure out that fucking little young things such that they barely could walk the next day was of little pleasure to women. After a woman I really respected told me having unrestrained sex with me felt half-way between sex with a normal dick and childbirth that I realized I had to drill only as deeply as needed.

My previous wife for example referred to me as “donkey dick”, and basically refused to do it without both hands, one on top of the other, wrapped firmly around ‘her’ tool that she then controlled completely. One girl friend dubbed me “Dick Johnson” or, “Dr. Double Dick” cause I had twice anything she’d ever seen. Another called me her “porn quasar”. A recent partner gasped when she first saw me naked and feared we were going to “have an accommodation problem”, and stayed only on top, never letting me move an inch during intercourse for fear of getting hurt.

Other epithets from various women have included “disturbing, disgusting, and ridiculous”. Slowing this hotrod down into a pace car that never gets to really slam booty on the turn, or hard pound fuck that can be a fun part of sex is frustrating. Sure, sometimes gentle restrained sex is great, but never being able to open it up, rev the engine up on the straightaway, and flooring it to feel all the horsepower is a drag.

My most recent girlfriend was more pleased and remarked of my body that: “It’s just the perfectly developed delivery vehicle for that enormous dildo dick of yours.” My best buddy upon seeing me naked a few times remarked: “Dude, you’re all just muscle and dick.” A guy at my gym said: “You give everyone else in the locker room ‘penis envy’”, and called me “Super Dick”. Girls ask if ‘I have a license to carry that weapon’? No; and although I do like to shake and brandish it about a bit, I almost never unholster the whole thing for anyone anymore. My Latin girlfriend dubbed me “Mr. Manguera”, or “Mr. Hose” in Spanish. Most women just shudder and scream after about 8 inches. My experience is that 7 to 8 inches is more than enough for most women. But also, with ridiculously large hands, this long pole, and fairly strong muscles, I can impale you pretty firmly and effectively when so desired.

Most sexual positions are basically out of the question with many women too. It’s much harder to give a woman an orgasm, cause it greatly helps to stick it all the way in and thereby have the pubic bone rub on the clitoris; but that is pretty much out of the question. I’ve adapted though, become very careful, and learned how to use just the top of my tool rather dexterously.

Actually, most women prefer it just partially erect. My last girl friend said the only women I should have safe sex with would be acrobats or gymnasts; which come to think of it, might be a turn on. One girlfriend said she used to have orgasms just watching me working naked in my rose garden. However, with almost every woman, as I briefly shove it home, close to all the way, they will flex ridged, and tense up, and try and helplessly flee away from it with all their strength. I do admit to kinda liking that a lot though.

A couple women, after being impaled about 8 inches will writhe uncontrollably in protest, scream, and flip around like a fish out of water; and again, that’s kind of a taboo turn on too. When I finally attempted to feed my obsession twice with professional women—with the first one, at first sight gleefully offered it for free, while the second wanted to charge me double. Paying ridiculous amounts for speedos in order to keep that thing flattened firmly up against my leg instead of flapping around is a bit uncomfortable too.

It can also be entertaining --(although I have never actually shown anyone), I can literally suck my own cock—(it’s not at all a turn on though). And being extremely limber as well, I am probably the only guy you’ll ever know that can not only nibble your ass while having sex from behind. I can also, just barely, lick your clitoris while the head of my rod is still inside your vagina. Practicing Yoga almost daily since I was 13--flexibility, muscles, and a billy-club dick-- women often prefer to just admire and play with my body. That’s OK too.

Dealing with the homosexual attractions has continued to be a constant hassle though too. I’ve never really been attracted to other, little-dicked guys. Mono-sexual self-adulation is more my perversion. The couple times I tried experimenting with another man were unremarkable except for not being very fun. But admittedly, too often enjoying my own auto-eroticism, I am also somewhat shamed by my own excessive vanity and narcissism.

So, like all my old childhood superheroes, I am constantly trying to hide my unusual powers and just blend in and be a normal person. Unfortunately, the reverse has never been the case. Ever since late teen-hood, even with my shirt on, it’s been one long parade of leering potential male suitors. Even in my more advanced age now, whenever approaching nudity, I might find even young, teenage fag-boys clicking and whistling at me like I was some 16 year old little blond coquette or something. It’s really disconcerting, and not really fun, and I seem to generally just spark a certain level of obvious gapping, envy, jealousy, and resentment when naked from most normal guys. My best friend said he wouldn’t even introduce me to his new extremely horny girlfriend because she’d probably ‘grab me somewhere’. It’s a drag being disdained for something you can’t really help. And yes, at times I surely fall victim of flattering myself into assuming I have some special talent, or rather gift. But generally, a talent or gift is something one uses, not something that uses you.

I make enemies immediately without doing anything. So confounded by my own interpretations of what others find as masculine and sexy, and often embarrassed by my own sculptured vanity, I have never swaggered. And while my Clark Kent side is probably OK looking and discrete, nothing is really remarkable when clothed. Trying to pick up on a young thing in a nightclub that I had admired previously at a nude hot springs, when my pickup line was something about where I had previously seen her, she blurted out:—“Oh! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

But the main problem this creates is psychological. I guess being especially sympathetic to the disgusting predation cute girls constantly go through, I’m extremely reserved and respectful of women’s space and desire to remain unmolested. Really; it seems rude and ridiculous. Being the recipient of constant unwanted sexual advances from other guys makes one more compassionate and unassuming. I am probably therefore one of the shyest, respectful, and most reserved people around.

This quiet reservation is then reversed, and usually interpreted as extreme conceit and snobbishness. While other guys whistle and hoot at hotties, I’m left alone in silent awe, worship, and admiration from a distance. Basically, I’m just an oversensitive, shy, and pretty isolated guy. During the day I’m just another quiet, mild-mannered, nondescript, even boring guy. At work, I’m always carefully disguised in loose fitting long sleeve shirts and baggy pants, blending in and giving no indication of any superpowers.

Although I do possess two advanced degrees in psychology, I certainly do not consider myself one of the sharper tools in the shed either. In fact, I would be reassured to know that I was even of average intelligence. “Billy the Id”, “The Greek Freak”-- I’m always overwhelmingly focused on the body-physical-tactile sense modality. Thus, it often seems difficult to string very many long, linear, rational thoughts together in a row. This does, however, allow me instead to be an excellent masseuse, and a very focused, intimate sensual lover.

‘Love child’, raised almost exclusively by the dotting mother has also given me a somewhat burdensome clear insight into the female psyche. And thus, the possessiveness begins. One night with the ‘sensitive guy with the big dick’, and most women won’t leave me alone. So, what should be a joyful case of unrestrained sex-hibitionism and overly endowed giving--physically emotionally, and psychologically--stumbles instead, into becoming a self-conscious, vanity- shamed, hiding everyman, afraid to get very involved, afraid to be possessed.

And as such, there goes Incubus Man—quiet, lonely, isolated, and misunderstood; apparently filled with enviable superpowers, but usually totally helpless to really take advantage of, acknowledge, or ever even able to enjoy them much. Just like his childhood superheroes. You might consciously notice and admire him in passing some day, but without directed effort, never meet, or get to know him; until he wanders, unexpectedly, as a free -floating spirit into your sex dreams at night. But one needs more than just enviable super powers to be a superhero, they must eventually act for the collective good. When one can only inspire lust, envy, or desire, and have little skill at consecrating these yearnings, superhero becomes superfool