It’s Not So Bad to be a Size Queen!

I have a confession to make in my old age. I used to have a really big dick.

I first came to this realization when I was 26, still emerging from the closet after a five-year marriage. I went to Backstreet for the first time. It was closing and everyone was looking around in desperation. A really hot muscular guy, Jacob, grabbed me and we started making out. He asked me if I wanted to walk across the street to his place. Hell yeah, I wanted to, but I had no idea why someone that hot would be desperate enough to trick with a long-haired, long-bearded, still-skinny, anti-masc neo-hippie. I got my answer as we gulped the last of our drinks.

“I need to tell you something,” he slurred, whispering. “It’s embarrassing, but I have a really small dick, like tiny.” I laughed and assured him that, being a top (that night), I wasn’t feeling like a size queen. As soon as we undressed in his basement apartment, I pushed him onto the bed. After eight seconds of licking my way downward, I encountered an erection roughly the size of a thumb that quickly shrank to the size of my last girlfriend’s clitoris. I stalled. He sighed. Then, well, I tore him up because, goddamnit, my monster dick was despotic!

Great, but you know how it goes. A few weeks later, under the poppers-perfumed red light at Mrs. P’s, I learned I have a really small dick. The other guy destroyed me! I used to assume this power-drenched desire to fuck with or be fucked by the biggest dick imaginable was a feverish preoccupation of youth that would fade into a laughable memory with age. Forget it. By example, a friend in his late 60s decided a few years ago to stop the Botox, the liposuction, and the hair replacement to invest in surgery to enlarge his average-sized dick “because we live in a community of size queens and a big dick trumps everything else.”

I said: “That’s true, but do you seriously care? I mean, do we really need a big bulge in the diapers we’ll soon be wearing for incontinence?”

He was offended, and yes, he got the surgery, which cost him over $20,000. Predictably, he soon became unhappy with the half-inch of added circumference and length. This, some surgeons say, is often true with men whose anxiety about dick size is so extreme that “average” really is meaningless to them. It’s called “Penile Dysmorphic Disorder,” psychology’s official, pathologizing term for “Common Size Queenishness.” He asked me if I thought he needed therapy. I told him yes, but not psychotherapy. “Just invest the next $20,000 into playing daddy to some kid who will treat your dick like it’s the axis of the planet.” He was again offended, but only because I forgot he’d already tried that.

As I’ve explained before, I actually wrote my doctoral dissertation about the obsession with big cocks in popular culture throughout history. I can easily explain the “condition” with an inevitably tragic Freudian explanation, but I’d rather tell you about the Greco-Roman god Priapus — the unattractive, dwarfish, unwanted son of Aphrodite. He had a gigantic dick that was constantly hard and never spurted (thus the condition we call “priapism”). He was the insatiable, horny, ugly, hilarious, swollen bisexual fucker that occupies every human male and female brain. But the seriously exquisite thing is that he was worshipped through ridicule. The main prayer to him was “I owe you nothing.” Thus, you should treat this disgusting part of yourself with acceptance, humor and celebration.

After our night together, Jacob, my Backstreet trick, and I became lovers for three or four months, then loving friends. Naturally, he told me twice a day that good things come in small packages. He was beautiful and sweet and sinful and, like so many others that I loved, he floated into death. Be kind to your tiny dick or your huge one, because tomorrow you will be in a diaper.

Cliff Bostock, PhD, is a former psychotherapist now offering life coaching for creative people. Visit or write him at