Since the dawn of time, humankind has questioned just about everything. Sometimes the questions are big and profound: is there a God? Why do bad things happen to good people? Sometimes the questions are, well, less significant: why does Scarlett Johansen continue to get cast in films? Why are mattress stores ALWAYS having a sale?
But let’s face it: there’s one question that has been asked—and will continue to be asked—throughout the ages.
Does size matter?
I’m going to answer this one, once and for all, since I’m the ultimate authority. Not because I’m so huge—but simply because I’ve been in thousands of vaginas. I’ve heard thousands of opinions, thousands of stories, and I’ve recorded and compiled them into a kind of WikiPenis.
Here we go.
YES. OF COURSE IT MATTERS. Size matters for everything. When you’re hungry, would you rather have a Sloppy Joe, or a Manwich? When you’ve settled down to watch “Harry Potter and the Wizard of Poontang”, wouldn’t you rather watch it on a 60 inch plasma? (By the way, not everything should be seen this way. It’s been officially recognized by the AMA that it is not only unpleasant, but actually physically dangerous to watch Larry King on a 60 inch plasma. At that size, one is able to see actual bugs crawling on Larry’s embalmed face and the sight is known to cause nausea and/or seizures.)
And finally—apologies to my lesser-endowed comrades—women care how big our cocks are. If they love you, they’ll tell you it doesn’t matter. But they are disappointed with anything below the 7-inch demarcation, unless the girth compensates (but it rarely compensates.)
I happen to have both length (9 ¾--confirmed by two different labs, and a 1987 study which compared me with a rolled up yoga mat) and girth (3 inch diameter). My girth tickles their walls, my length tickles their spleen.
The sad conclusion: you better either have great looks, a lot of dough, or a giant sausage. Any one of them guarantees you a lay. Two of them get you an Olsen Twin. All three gets you the Olsen Twins.
It matters.
