Locker room stories of small penises-Penis size does matter - in the locker room at least | The Independent

Originally published June 4, , in the Dallas Observer. Reprinted here with permission from the author, who has also provided an afterword about the response to her story. I have one of the few jobs where the first thing people ask about is penises. Well, Reggie Jackson was my first. And yes, I was scared.

Locker room stories of small penises

Locker room stories of small penises

Each time I stopped pacing, the clerk and guard started toward me. I know people make sexual comments to one another, and they are not always inappropriate. But how was I supposed to do my job with all that crap going on? I have seen so many cocks. We went to a bench just outside the door and began to look through it. Also, my erect weiner probably qualifies as smallish-medium, or something like that. Money Deals. Wise Guys.

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I have watched porn for a while now and because of that I always felt inferior when it comes to penis size, so that's one reason why I avoided being naked in front of others. Now we are friends and u can commend on my size My Erotic Experience. The Unexpected Pt. Check also our Tube. Share Midnight Kate gets used by her favourite player I'd had enough. Unfortunately, because of where I live I have to travel 10 minutes to get to the gym, so I decided to just get over it and start changing in the locker room. You're a handsome young man with what appears to be a very fit physique. Second part - This story describes how a husband and his close male friend enticed the wife into joining them in threesome A Trip That Changed Everything. Oh sure, at first they think it's Retainer sexy cool that you're the only person at a party who can remember Neil Lomax's Locker room stories of small penises or that you can name all the Rangers managers in 18 seconds—with a shot in your mouth.

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Originally published June 4, , in the Dallas Observer. Reprinted here with permission from the author, who has also provided an afterword about the response to her story. I have one of the few jobs where the first thing people ask about is penises. Well, Reggie Jackson was my first. And yes, I was scared. I was 22 years old and the first woman ever to cover sports for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Up until then, my assignments had been small-time: high school games and features on father-daughter doubles teams and Hacky Sack demonstrations.

But now it was late September, and my editor wanted me to interview Mr. October about what it was like not to make the playoffs. Dressed in a pair of virgin white flats, I trudged through the Arlington Stadium tunnel—a conglomeration of dirt and spit and sunflower seeds, caked to the walkway like 10,year-old bat guano at Carlsbad Caverns—dreading the task before me. It would be the last day ever for those white shoes—and my first of many covering professional sports.

And there I was at the big red clubhouse door, dented and bashed in anger so many times it conjured up an image of stone-washed hemoglobin. I pushed open the door and gazed into the visitors' locker room, a big square chamber with locker cubicles lining its perimeter and tables and chairs scattered around the center. I walked over to the only Angel who didn't yet have on some form of clothing.

October, known to be Mr. Horse's Heinie on occasion, was watching a college football game in a chair in the middle of it all—naked. I remember being scared because I hadn't known how the locker room was going to look or smell or who or what I would have to wade through—literally and figuratively—to find this man. But on top of it being my first foray behind the red door, I was scared because of who I was interviewing: a superstar with a surly streak.

I fully expected trouble. This was baptism by back draft, not fire. But I couldn't back out. In many ways, I had made a career choice when I walked through that locker room door. Or at least that's what I thought I said. I might have actually said, "Can we talk about how your face looks like one of those ear-shaped potato chips that the lady from the Lay's factory brings on The Tonight Show once a year?

Because his reaction to my question was to begin raising his voice to say, "There's no time. A simple no would have sufficed. But instead, the man who is an idol to thousands of children launched into a verbal tirade loudly insulting my intelligence and shouting for someone to remove me from the clubhouse. Here I was in my white flats, some fresh-out-of-college madras plaid skirt, one of those ridiculous spiked hairdos with tails we all wore back then, and probably enough add-a-beads to shame any Alpha Chi.

I spun around and walked out—past the staring faces, through the red door, down the 10,year-old bat-guano tunnel—and emerged into the dugout and the light of the real world, where I was nothing but a kid reporter who didn't get the story. It was the last time I would ever try to interview Reggie. And it was my first failure covering sports. But it wouldn't be my last.

Long before I was allowed to eat fish with bones, could go all night without peeing in my bed, or understood Gilligan's Island wasn't real, I loved baseball. It's the reason I'm a sportswriter, and I learned it from my dad. But a little girl with blonde pin curls somehow slipped into the line of succession. Covering major league baseball fulltime is my goal. Career ladders are never cushy for anybody, man or woman, unless of course your dad is president of GM or GE or whatever Nation's Bank is called this week.

But the road has been anything but smooth. Family trips in an egg-shell-white Impala to see the cousins in Plainview took fewer rough turns. I've wanted to write stories about baseball since I was 10 years old—to write words so good that people would read them twice. I used to write Dallas Cowboys columns in blue Crayola on a Big Chief tablet in the part of my sister's walk-in closet I had designated as the press box.

Bell bottoms hung over my head as I berated Tom Landry for not getting rid of Mike Clark or praised Roger Staubach the way little kids now get all slobbery over Nolan Ryan.

I never told my friends. I always won the big awards in elementary school, went to football games, and performed in talent shows. What kind of a goob would they take me for if they knew? But after getting home from school, I'd quickly skip back to the sports section of the evening Star-Telegram to compare my work to that of the pros.

Sometimes I'd turn the sound down on the TV and try to do baseball play-by-play, too. I can look back now and see I was sunk early, my heart hopelessly immersed in a severely codependent relationship with a kids' game played by grown-ups. It began when I was 3 and my daddy took me to Turnpike Stadium—now Arlington Stadium—to see the old minor-league Spurs. We lived in Arlington, about five miles from the ball park.

He carried me to the back of the outfield wall and climbed the slatted boards with his right arm and clutched me in his left. Then he held my head over the top of the wall in center. And there, not 1, days after I had emerged from the darkness of the womb, hundreds of bright light bulbs made me squint as I watched the first half-inning of my life, the last three outs of a Spurs game.

All I remember is green and light and the security of my daddy's arms. We were a middle-class family of four with one kid just a few years from college and another a few years from kindergarten.

We never wanted for anything we really needed, but my parents, raised in the Depression, were cautious about spending. Buying ball tickets to as many games as my dad and I wanted to see was out of the question, so we climbed the wall in the late innings or sat in those free grassy spots behind the Cyclone fence.

One night in the stands, I had my Helen-Keller-at-the-well experience. Suddenly it all made sense: the way the numbers went across in a line on a scoreboard, what the three numbers at the end of the nine meant, even why the shortstop didn't have a bag.

My daddy and I saw our first major-league game together on Opening Night here in Some summers we went to 20 games; others we went to about Sometimes we'd just watch any game on the TV. Other summer nights we sat on the back porch and listened to the Rangers on the radio.

If my mom made us go to Wyatt's for supper, my father would wear his primitive Walkman through the serving line, once scaring the meat lady by hollering, "Dadgum Toby Harrah! He'd pull me out of school at lunch once a year to go to the spring baseball luncheon and take me to games early so I could collect autographs.

When I was 14, I heard from a friend that the Rangers would soon be hiring ball girls. The rumor was bogus, but it planted an idea. I began a one-kid campaign to institute ball girls at Arlington Stadium as well as to become the first. I wrote management repeatedly. The executive types weren't too hot on the idea. So when I was about 16, I wrote every major-league club with ball girls and asked about the pros and cons.

I sent copies of their responses to the Rangers' front office. I corresponded with them for another two years before the call finally came. They picked three—Cindy, because she was a perky cheerleader at the University of Texas at Arlington; Jamie, because she had modeling experience; and me, because I was a pest.

They used to have us dance to the "Cotton-Eyed Joe" in the seventh inning, and for a while we shook pom-poms during rallies—acts I now, as a baseball purist, consider heresy. But hey, I was the center of attention on a baseball field; I could sell out for that.

But by then I had gotten to know the sportswriters and broadcasters, and the Star-Telegram offered me a job—in sports—typing in scores and answering the phone. I dropped my plans to go to the University of Texas and study broadcasting. I had enough natural talent, I felt certain, that with one high heel in the door, I could work my way into a writer's job—maybe even someday cover baseball.

The realities of the corporate world and the attitudes of Texas high school and college coaches quickly clouded my idealistic vision of a quick ascent from year-old ball-girl phenom to big-league ace baseball writer.

You see, folks in the world of sports weren't used to working with a "fee-male. I started out in the office, taking scores on the phone and taking heat from the guys. Writing this the other night, tears filled my eyes, and I got that precry phlegm in my throat. I was surprised to realize that some of the wounds still hurt. It was when all the guys were inside doing interviews, and I was standing in the rain, makeup peeling, outside the high school locker room at Fort Worth's Farrington Field, waiting beneath the six-foot-long "No Women" sign for the players to come to the doorway.

It was walking into the football locker room at the University of Texas in Austin and having a large man with burnt-orange pants and dark white face pick me up by my underarms and deposit me outside the door. I have complained little through the years because the last thing I ever wanted to do was to single myself out from the guys.

I didn't want to be branded as some woman on a crusade. I've never been on any campaign to debunk the myth that testicles are somehow inherent to a full understanding of balls. I just wanted to cover sports. But much of the early abuse came from the place I least expected it—my own paper. Like a lot of kids starting out, I'd do office work all week and help cover games on the weekends—anything for a chance to prove my worth as a sportswriter.

During my first four years at the Star-Telegram I took one day off to model at an auto show and five days off to get married. I wanted to cry each time he said that. The guys screamed at me and demanded to know if I was "on the rag" when I was surly; yet they could scream and be surly at me all they wanted.

One editor in the chain of sports command kept trying to get me to check into the Worthington Hotel with him after work. Another superior had his assistant let me off early so he could be waiting for me in the parking lot. I never went near a bedroom with any of them, but I told him "a woman" because I didn't know how answering "18" to this loaded question would affect my precarious career. I was quite confused.

I have complained little through the years because the last thing I ever wanted to do was to single myself out from the guys. Dressed in a pair of virgin white flats, I trudged through the Arlington Stadium tunnel—a conglomeration of dirt and spit and sunflower seeds, caked to the walkway like 10,year-old bat guano at Carlsbad Caverns—dreading the task before me. After all, the story had just hit newsstands and restaurants and bars and grocery stores in the dead of the previous night. We drove to a mall in Santa Fe, and there were the boxes, taped, freshly shipped, in the front of the store. Donate to EF.

Locker room stories of small penises

Locker room stories of small penises

Locker room stories of small penises. Comments (3)

Because what else was on the rise in the thirteen years between and ? Access to pornography. Some research suggests that frequent viewing of pornography warps the way we think about real-life sex well, duh.

Same with threesomes. And hey, the next time someone tries to sell you a locker room myth as truth, call them out on it. She is a second-year graduate student, working on an M. She can be reached on Twitter fyeahmfabello. Read her articles here and book her for speaking engagements here. Credit: Trends For Life As the sixth graders noisily filed out of the library, I uncrumpled the index card and smoothed it over against my thigh.

MYTH 1: The average penis is about eight inches long. MYTH 2: Ejaculation happens in gallons. You know, just in case you ever need a gallon of fake semen. MYTH 3: It should take about an hour to reach orgasm. Tweet Pin Share Found this article helpful? Comments Policy. Become an EF Member. Donate to EF. Cross-post Our Articles. Book a Speaker. Like Our Facebook Page. If he were smart, he would have slapped me with his workout glove for effect, but he just seemed like an idiot.

I took their non-responsiveness as embarrassment for him. Maybe I was just imposing empathy, because I was embarrassed for him. Another guy with a godlike physique and prominent bald spot that, much to my surprise, only made him hotter, talked about his ex-wife of six years to the gym employee that was picking up towels from the floor I assumed they were friends, but really, they might have been total strangers.

Since deciding to write this post, I have paid extra attention to what gets said in the locker room, and that has been very boring. Well, some dicks. Fake it till you make it so that no one notices your insecurities about how well your dick is hanging at the moment. Once, seconds after changing, a stranger approached me to tell me that he liked something I had written. Speaking of dicks out, you may wonder if men have sex in locker rooms. Yes, at least in New York they do, depending on your definition of sex.

Rarely have I entered a sauna or steam room and not been at least masturbated at. What I had thought just days before was a bygone halcyon time of gay male liberation was alive and well, pulsing in the boners being adjusted and configured in soaked-through thin white towels.

What a time to be alive. In our current wave of man-on-man sexual liberation thanks to geolocation apps and a proliferation of orgies, steam-room sex is yet another choice in an option-saturated culture. In my current gym, the steam-room door needs oiling.

Small Penis Success Stories - Small Penis Syndrome - Mental Support Community

A scientist has somewhat controversially determined that penis size really does matter — but not to women and not in the bedroom. Dr Christopher Morriss-Roberts, a senior lecturer at the University of Brighton, has instead suggested that penis size matters to athletes in the locker room, who he argues idolise teammates with bigger penises.

In research for his PHD, Dr Morriss-Roberts interviewed eight London athletes who played a variety of sports including football, tennis and rugby.

Half of these men self-identified as gay and the other half as straight. Penis size also provided the basis for jokes and nicknames among teammates, he said, who would continue this banter outside of the locker room and into social situations. Dr Morriss-Roberts said one athlete explained that if they saw a well-endowed teammate talking to a woman in a club they might inform her that he had a large appendage.

Those with large penises also had to maintain a sexually active lifestyle in order to keep their reputation as masculine. In contrast, men who had smaller penises had to work harder to climb up the team social hierarchy, particularly if they were overweight. Meanwhile, some straight athletes admitted to encouraging a semi-erection in order to make their penises look bigger.

Gay men said this was something they would not do however because they felt they had to perform in a "heteronormative manner to de-emphasize queer behaviour". Dr Morriss-Roberts wrote: "In the thesis I argue that a large penis is now an essential component of hegemonic masculinity, and should be considered a new tenet of masculine capital - taking into account the significance it has on social hierarchy in the sporting environment.

I have called this cock-supremacy. He concluded: "My work suggests that cock size does matter in sport, irrespective of sexuality, sporting discipline and age. You can find our Community Guidelines in full here. Start your Independent Premium subscription today. Independent Premium Comments can be posted by members of our membership scheme, Independent Premium. Our journalists will try to respond by joining the threads when they can to create a true meeting of independent Premium.

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Locker room stories of small penises

Locker room stories of small penises