From the first moment I meet you I am curious about your dick. If you’re particularly attractive I’ll be acutely aware of it, there in your trousers.
I might not even be able to see it – some guys wear nice tight jeans that show off exactly where it is, how big and which way it’s hanging, but others are more modest and shy – they’ll hide it in baggy trousers or under long hoodies. That’s a shame, but it doesn’t really stop me.
Do other girls feel like this? Your cock is something I’m immensely curious about.
It doesn’t really matter if I fancy you or not – your dick is still a dick, and it’s still something I don’t have but want to see.
Are you cut or uncut? Is it nice and thick? How much does it grow when you get turned on?
Your dick is so fucking pretty
Girl with a one track mind once wrote about boys on the tube who sit with their legs wide open. It’s annoying for those next to them, and desperately distracting for those opposite. But if you want to show off your wares, it’s an excellent way to do so. Because make no mistake – I’m looking. Subtly, of course. I want to know more about your dick. I want to see it. If I can make out the shape of it in the crotch of your trousers all I’ll be able to think about is what it would be like to sit on.
This is especially true of older men. Guys around 50. I’m not entirely sure why, but I have trouble imagining a guy of that age with a cock that isn’t big and thick – the sort of cock you could beat someone round the face with, that would give a good hard handful. That would actually hurt me.
I know not all guys reach the age of 50 and magically acquire a huge cock, but if one of them is standing in front of me on the tube and my face is at crotch level, I have to look. To see if it’s filling his trousers. To see if, as his mind wanders on a boring journey, it’s semi-hard.
I’ll look at you too – in the pub, in the street, on the bus. In the hope that you might be sporting the beginnings of a nice fat erection.
And if I’ve fucked you, if you’re one of mine, I’ll find it hard to sit down next to you without wanting to run my hand across to your lap – stroke it through the denim. Squeeze it, touch it, put pressure on it – feel it growing hard under my hand.
I think someone busted me today. An older guy, standing in front of me on the train. He had something that was either semi-hard or showed a ridiculous amount of promise. As he reached up to hold onto the bar it was outlined nicely in his trousers – suit trousers, worn far too tight.
He looked at me, saw my gaze, and shifted uncomfortably.
This, I thought, must be how girls feel if skeezy guys stare at their tits for too long. This is how I feel sometimes when someone’s gaze goes beyond flattery and starts straying into ‘will they follow me home and jizz on my doorstep?’ territory.
I want to end this with a plea for understanding – looking at people is normal. It’s fine. Humans think about sex – if we didn’t think about it, we’d never get up the courage or the imagination to do it in such interesting and devious ways.
But at the same time I’m overcome with shame. If you catch me looking I’ll blush and squirm with humiliation, if you call me out I’ll apologise. But there’s no apology strong enough to make up for objectifying you. There’s nothing I can say to take away the things my mind does when I’ve got time to kill and some tightly-packed trousers in my eyeline.