Massive! My dad was built big like a cocky powerlifter. He was a local construction trucker. Hard-bodied bear, bearded, athletic burly look, handsome as all outdoors, and hung a full third of a yard. Inside the thick neck of his blue collar, he was a laid-back free spirit. As a kid, I imagined he worked as a pro wrestler, not the comic-book ugly villains, but one of the broad-shouldered, thick-armed heroes, armored by his big, but tight, hairy belly, standing on legs like twin oaks.
I grew up loving his Power Look.
Some guys whose taste is no wider than Gentleman’s Quarterly have a hard time understanding that not every man who loves men likes them garbed and groomed to the ‘nines and ‘tens, all gussied up with underarm deodorant, mousse, shaved chests, and thirty-two-inch inseams. Me? I like men big. I want to be one. I intend to get as big as I can. Not just so I can play some ball in college, but so I can make my dick as big as it can be pumped and stretched.
Mention “Bears” to some men and they go crazy: hairy, powerfully built men, usually bearded, maybe a little attractively balding, thick furry forearms and hands, the kind of horse-hung men who, if they were centaurs, would be Clydesdales. My dad was the picture of bear-solid manhood, right down to his dick. Built as big as he was, he was gifted with a massive cock that jutted out below his belly and hung stallion thick down between his thunder thighs.