Sometimes, when making great efforts to hide my gargantuan boner, I begin to cry. I am not crying because my boner is too big–that would just be crazy. I cry because its hard work…real hard. It can get painful too, trying to sit through a bulge while its half way down your calf. I can’t bend my knee, and end up limping around.

The embarrassment? None really. I’m huge and there is nothing embarrassing about that. Well…actually there are a few times I got a Woodrow Wilson in English class. Mrs. Hooper of 68 years wore a revealing top. She was busty. She was wrinkled, but busty, and therefore sexy. As I thought of her wrinkled breast bouncing around, I could not stop the unrelenting boner.

She knew what caused the erection. The whole class did; the whole school did. Everyone knew that Mrs. Hooper made me horny. I think she liked that fact, and I felt, on several occasions, that she was trying to arouse me and watch me struggle out the door in shame. I would limp to the nurse’s office.

Ms. Smith, the nurse, would threaten to send me to coach Dunn, an angry ex-drill sergeant. My boner would collapse back into a limp loaf of bread. I guess the main embarrassment has always been WHAT gets me aroused.

My huge wang is more than an inconvenience, it is a curse. Sex is impossible, and masturbation is a struggle. I tried to jerk off once and my cock flipped up and knocked me square in the face. But that is not what I told the nurse when I awoke in the hospital, although I had the feeling she knew my circumstance.

Good Morning America did an exposé of my condition when I turned 16. Diane Sawyer asked the tough questions, and I struggled to find the courage to discuss my girth; so news of my package was widespread. At 18 I was approached by several porn filmmakers wanting to film the amount of ejaculate I might spew–I didn’t have the stomach for that crowd.

Instead, I grew old. I live in obscurity, work as an accountant, standing upright in my home office. I still cry from time to time.

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