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Big Rock
Author: Lauren Blakely


My dick is fucking awesome.

But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.

First, let’s start with the obvious one.


Sure, some people will tell you that size does not matter. You know what I’ll tell you? They lie.

You don’t want a tiny diamond on your finger when you can have three carats. You don’t want a one-dollar bill when you can have a Benjamin. And you don’t want to ride a miniature pony when you can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.

Why? Because bigger is better. It’s more fun. Ask any woman who’s ever had to utter the dreaded words, “Is it in yet?”

No woman has ever had to ask me that.

You’re probably wondering by now—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may fuck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.

But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s fucking bigger.

Moving on to looks. Let’s be honest. Some dicks are just motherfucking ugly. I won’t get into all the reasons why. You know what they are, and when it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.

But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.


Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter… Her world rock.

How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.

That’s why it fucking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.




Men don’t understand women.

That’s just a fact of life.

Like that guy.

The dude down there at the corner of my bar. His elbow’s on the metal counter in an aren’t I casual and cool pose. He’s stroking his handlebar mustache, and he’s acting like he’s the best listener in the world as he talks to a hot brunette with square red glasses. But the thing is, he’s staring at her rack.

Fine, the brunette has nice tits. And I mean “nice” in the sense that they could occupy their own zip code.

But c’mon, man.

Her eyes are up there. And you’ve got to look at them, or the lady is going to walk.

I finish pouring a pale ale for one of our regulars, a businessman who pops in once a week. He’s working the whole my boss sucks for making me travel look, and at the very least I can help him in the drink department.

“This one’s on the house. Enjoy,” I say, sliding the glass to him.

“Best news I’ve had all day,” he says with a small quirk of the lips, before he chugs half the glass and plunks down a three-dollar tip. Nice. The bartenders here, who depend on tips, will appreciate it. But Jenny had to take off early because her sister had some sort of crisis, so I’m handling the last of the customers, while my business partner, Charlotte, is managing the books.

As Handlebar leans in closer to Red Square, she backs away, shakes her head, grabs her purse, and heads for the exit.

Yup. I could be a fortuneteller if my specialty was predicting when a man would score and when he wouldn’t. Most of the time, the odds are definitely not in the dude’s favor, because he makes the most common bar mistakes. Like starting the conversation with a stupid pick-up line. “Girl, you make my software turn into hardware,” or “You should sell hot dogs because you sure know how to make a weiner stand.” Yeah I couldn’t believe my ears either. Or how about this mistake? The guy who has a wandering eye and can’t stop checking out the other attractions. What woman is going to find that flattering?

The worst bar sin, though, is assuming. Assuming she wants to talk to you. Assuming she’s going home with you. Assuming you can kiss her without her permission.

You know what they say happens when you assume.

But me?

Just check my diploma. I double majored in college with one degree in finance and the other in the language of women—and I graduated summa cum laude. I have an encyclopedic understanding of what a woman wants…and giving it to her. I achieved full fluency in female body language, the clues, and the gestures.

Like right now.

Charlotte is tapping away on her laptop and biting the corner of her lip in concentration. Translation: I am on a roll, so do not bother me or I will throat punch you.

Okay, fine. She’s not really a throat-puncher. But the point being, she is giving off major Do Not Disturb vibes.

Handlebar, though, can’t read, speak, or write Woman. He’s sauntering along the bar, getting ready to make a move. Thinking he’s got a chance with her.

From my spot behind the bar, wiping down glasses, I can practically hear him clearing his throat as he preps to say hello to Charlotte.

I can understand why the man has my best friend in his crosshairs. Charlotte is pretty much a goddess of the highest order. First, she has wavy, blonde hair, paired with deep brown eyes. Most blondes have blue eyes, so Charlotte gets major points for the killer reverse combo that just slams you with its unexpected and absolute hotness.

Next, she possesses a fantastic dry sense of humor.

Plus, she’s whip smart.

But Handlebar doesn’t know those last two. He’s only aware that she’s gorgeous, so he’s about to make his play. He snags the stool next to her and flashes a toothy grin. She flinches, startled that this guy just invaded her blinders-on work zone.

Charlotte can totally handle herself. But we made a pact long ago, and re-upped when we went into business together on this bar. If either of us needs a fake girlfriend or boyfriend to gracefully get out of a sticky situation, we’ve sworn to step in and act the part.

It’s a game we’ve played since college, and it works like a charm.

It also works because Charlotte and I would never be a real couple. I need her too much as a friend, and judging from the number of times she’s laughed with me, or cried on my shoulder, she needs me too. Which is another reason why this tactic is brilliant—we both know we will never be more than friends.

I walk around the bar and head straight for Charlotte, right as Handlebar reaches her and says his name, then asks for hers.

I slide in and brush a hand on her lower back, as if she’s mine. As if I’m the one who gets to touch this body, thread his fingers through her hair, and look into those eyes. I tilt my head and flash him the biggest shit-eating grin, because I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who goes home with her in this scenario. “My fiancée’s name is Charlotte. Nice to meet you. I’m Spencer,” I say, and offer a hand to shake.

The guy wrinkles his nose like a rabbit, getting a clue that he’s just struck out again tonight.

“Have a good night,” he mutters, and scurries out.

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