Long Load

Lads from Long Load have long loads.

Or at least, that's what I've always found.

Long Load is what the sign by the roadside calls a row of a few grey houses strewn out along one of the windy, muddy lanes between Somerton and Martock. It's so small you could hardly even call it a village; in fact, you'd probably never notice it unless you had some kind of business there.

But the three guys I've known who came from Long Load all had one thing in common: the loads between their legs were almost longer than the row of grey houses they came from. I've sometimes wondered if it might be a genetic thing or maybe something in the water, but no-one else seems to have spotted the same anatomical connection. I once joked about it with a girlfriend but she just looked at me strangely and said, "What are you on about now, Ol?"

So I guess it's just sheer chance that the three most exceptionally lucky guys in the trousers department I've met all happened to have come from the same tiny neighbourhood. Bizarre.

The first guy wouldn't have been memorable if it hadn't have been for the others. My few encounters with his cock were restricted to the forgettable clowning around that seventeen and eighteen year old guys get up to after a sixth form rugby game. The sort of stuff the twelve of us would, individually, know better than to get ourselves into, but which seems so funny in the adrenaline-rush in the changing rooms after a game.

Throwing each other into the bath; groping each other beneath the water. Whose balls are those? Must be Johnson's because they're like a couple of peanuts. (Fuck off, you wanker) Whose arse is that? Must be Conway's because it's like a fuckin' monkey's. (Yeah, and you'll know for sure when I make you kiss it...)

The usual kind of stuff.

And amidst all that, this guy Greg would show off his prize cock. He'd swirl it around, like a helicopter blade, or play at being a grandfather clock, swinging it slowly like a great pendulum.

We'd all look on at him, laughing, all knowing how envious we were of the monster between his legs. It was larger in its flaccid state than most of us could hope to be erect. It must have been seven or eight inches.

And once, with it making an obscene bulge in the front of his briefs, one of the guys said, "Hey, Greg. You should nick the sign from the village where you live and stick it on the arse of your briefs.... warn people who are trying to overtake you..."

Someone didn't get it and grunted, "Uh?"

And Greg beamed and replied, "Yeah... Long Load. Too fuckin' right..."

The long load in the tight white confines of his underwear bulged outwards further, swelling slightly as it usually did when it was enjoying the attention.

Another time, when Greg was showing us that he was able to fuck himself (although he repeatedly emphasized that he would never, ever want to) by stretching his cock beneath his legs so that its tip touched his arsehole, someone said, "Thank God you don't get a hard-on in here, Greg. You'd have someone's eye out..."

Greg muttered, "Men's changing rooms have never been my thing, funnily enough..."

The other guy went on, "Yeah, but the amount you play with it in here. If I touched mine a tenth of what you touched yours, it'd be stiff as a board..."

Greg smirked. "I'm doing you guys a favour by keeping it soft, believe me. If you saw this thing at full mast, you'd weep..."

For a seventeen year old rugby player, the guy had an almost unheard of amount of sexual control.

But onto my second Long Load cock.

This one belonged to my Uncle Paul who lives with his wife and baby daughter in one of the first houses on the left as you enter the village from Martock.

Paul and his wife drive over to stay with my parents every New Year's Eve. He and my dad like to get pissed together and nine times out of ten end up repeating oft-heard stories from when they were boys while everyone around them look bored and depressed.

It must have been when I was twenty or twenty-one that I stayed home for New Year's Eve. Since my early teens, I'd always gone out with my mates from school or, later, from Uni, but that year, for some reason, I decided to stay at home. Maybe I was broke or something. So I got to listen to Paul and my Dad's stories and was surprised at how seven years abstinence had made them a lot more amusing than I'd remembered.

The part that I want to tell you about, though, happened the morning after - on New Year's Day.

Everyone in our house gets up late on New Year's Day, sleeping off the previous night's excesses, but I woke early and went to take a shower.

While I was in there, Uncle Paul walked into the room.

That in itself was nothing unusual. I'm one of three brothers, with no sisters, and the four men in the house have, through necessity, become used to being around each other in the bathroom. Privacy is a luxury our small house can't provide, at least among the males living in it. So there's an unwritten rule that the bathroom door isn't locked by any of my brothers or my dad and that while we're in there, any of the other men in the house are free to come and go as they please. Our mother has her own rules, of course, and one of them is that when she's in the bathroom, the door is securely locked and bolted.

I suppose I was a little surprised that Uncle Paul, being a guest in the house, would just wander in, but he muttered something like, "Don't mind if I take a piss, do you, Oliver?" And I grunted my assent.