I confess, I am the queen of size; I like large men. In all honesty, I ADORE them.
I’m not talking about cock size here, you dirty pervs. Nope. My size issue is of a different nature (though offered a big cock, who am I to say no? :P). It concerns the four things about a man (besides his face, eyes, mouth and bitable arse) that never fail to grab my attention and make my knees go weak:
I have nothing against short men. I know a lot of men shorter than my 5’6” and they’re all great. But since I’m a shameless hussy, it takes a lot of man to make me feel dainty, sexy, girly and timid. A man whose physical presence (his height, not his bulk) overpowers mine; one who makes me feel like a smitten-kitten, purring loudly, curled up in her protector’s mighty arms. ME-OWW.
That’s why my man has to be tall, 6 feet plus ideally. I want my feet to get tired from tip-toeing to kiss him. I want to wear fucking 5-inch heels so we’ll be perfectly fit whenever we embrace. I want to feel small, delicate, secluded and completely taken as he smiles *just for me* while I reach up to caress his face.
Sadly, there are tall men who are not given the right breadth of shoulders. Now, I have to admit that broad shoulders are part of the rather prejudiced requirements I have to be attracted to a man. The thought of touching them, gripping them, licking them, biting them—ohhhh, leaves me so breathless I have to look away or I’ll embarrass myself! LOL
But there’s another reason why I love broad shoulders: it makes me feel safe. I know, such a stupid thing to think of. But when he embraces me and I can feel those broad shoulders pressing against mine, I feel protected, covered from the ebil creatures who might want to harm me. When he puts his arms around me and I glide my hands up his beautiful lean, broad shoulders, I feel like he’s telling me “It’ll be fine, baby”; even if he doesn’t say anything... and I tend to believe it...
Yeah. Well. Who says I’m completely sane (or even partly for that matter)? Hmph.
We all know what they say about a man’s hands and his penis size, right? But I can’t put my hands on fire for this myth since I’ve only been with men with large hands. Yes, I’m very picky. For me, a man MUST have big hands.
It’s mainly because I have big hands myself. Oh alright—fine—I have “man-hands,” non-fragile looking, bigger-than-any-of-my-girlfriends’ hands, are ya happy?! And since I’m a vain fuck I need a man with big hands who will make my huge hands feel delicate—no small feat that!
Of course my fascination with big hands is nowhere related to the fact that it reminds me of verra VERRA ooooh hot sex. Nope. Of course not. *g*
First off, NO, TROLLOP, I DO NOT SUCK ANYONE’S TOES/FOOT! My wanting big feet on my man is because of the same reasons I want a man with large hands: I have fucking large feet! (Why, yes, I am shallow.) I’m not killing my toes lurching in high heels, wanting my feet to look ultra feminine just to stand next to a man with smaller feet than me! NO, thank you. The man I’m with better have damn huge feet.
Although, hmmm, I guess if he’s 6’2” tall with broad shoulders and big hands, odds are he’ll have big feet so this last requirement is sort of redundant.
Well, he better be a good kisser.
No, a GREAT kisser.
And he better compliment my shoes and how my feet look pretty and tiny in them and not akin to Daisy Duck’s. Otherwise, there’s a big chance my stiletto heels will end up embedded on his mutilated bloody back.