Frank Sinatra had a massive johnson

“Frank Sinatra had a massive johnson.”

Sarah looked up from her copy of Marie-Claire at her
husband nestled in his armchair reading the Daily
Telegraph. She furrowed her brow quizzically.

“It says so here. He was incredibly well-endowed in the
trouser department. His crowning glory was a real

“Was it, Phil dear?” Sarah remarked, lifting herself up
slightly but not able to disguise the smile that flickered
across her face. Nor, she was sure, a flash of excitement at
the thought of a well-endowed Frank Sinatra.

“These singers have pretty big john thomases. Except Elvis,
of course. Tight foreskin. All he could do was dry-hump.
Not a whole lot of shaking going on there. No wonder he
had such tight trousers!”

“Frank’s trousers weren’t tight,” Sarah mused.

“They couldn’t be, could they?” Phil agreed, standing up
and letting his newspaper fall to the floor. “It wouldn’t do,
if you had a trouser snake of his dimensions!”

Sarah felt Phil’s hands land on her shoulder. She looked up
at his face.

“Just imagine it, eh?” Phil continued, a lustful smile
breaking the contours of his face. “Frank Sinatra. No
wonder Ava Gardner went for him! And she knew a thing
or two about lurve!”

Sarah smiled. Not that Phil was such an expert really.

Her husband tightened his grip on Sarah’s shoulders and
brought his mouth down to peck little dry kisses on her
cheeks, on her forehead and on her lips.

“That man! The bobby-soxers! If they knew!”

Phil swivelled round and loomed above his wife. Sarah
looked up at him, studying with interest the excitement that
illuminated his eyes.

“Perhaps they did know, dear,” Sarah agreed, her lips
slightly pouting and a slight heave escaping from her breast.

“That’d explain a lot, wouldn’t it?” Phil agreed, leaning over
Sarah, his legs between hers and a foolish grin on his face.

“I’m sure it does, dear,” Sarah agreed, placing an open palm
on his trouser front. Phil was clearly no Frank Sinatra, but
there was an undeniable stirring inside his Gap chinos.

“So he really did it his way! What it would be to be a
stranger meeting him on a night!”

Sarah mused momentarily about Frank. She enjoyed those
CDs they’d bought cheap at Woolworth’s, especially In the
Wee Small Hours and Only the Lonely. What she wouldn’t
have done for Frank to ask her to fly with him. Or to call
her his funny valentine. Or to take her round his kind of

But there was a more pressing need to address.

Sarah squeezed the hard rod in Phil’s boxers.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Yes?” pleaded Phil.

“Yes!” she assented.

And then the fumbling, as gallantly (for a change) Phil
undid one by one the buttons on Sarah’s blouse while she
pressed her hand hard on Phil’s throbbing manhood, keen
that it shouldn’t lose that proof of love and affection which
she had once enjoyed so frequently and so regularly,

And then the disinvestment, as shirt followed blouse, chinos
followed culottes, trainers slipped and espadrilles kicked
off. Until the moment that widened Phil’s pupils to nearly
obscure all trace of the green-grey cornea, as the bra and
vest accompanied the boxers and knickers in that final
inelegant fumble that meant that every last obstacle was
gone and there was only one thing left to do.

And that was to fuck.

Which Phil did with a sudden and irrepressible thrust, all
thought of foreplay discarded as he surrendered himself to
the need to bury his weapon of manly virulence in the shaft
where he so often said it belonged.

“Imagine Ava Gardner being fucked by Frank,” commented
Phil, his penis thrusting back and forth, his buttocks
clutched in Sarah’s clawed fingers, his face close to his

And indeed Sarah was imagining just that as Phil thrust
away, his more modest member no match she was sure for
the crooner who, if he made love with the same skill as he
sang, holding those notes for such a deliciously long time,
relishing every moment of every syllable, would have
shamed her husband rather more than in just crude physical

Conversation became impossible as there was thrust after
thrust as Phil pushed inside her, his penis pushing open the
folds of Sarah’s vagina rather more than usual in their
occasional lovemaking, his sweat pouring off his forehead,
shining his fifty pence sized bald spot, the sweat from
Sarah’s bosom sloshing against that entangled in the curls of
Phil’s chest hairs.

But although talk was impossible, Sarah’s mind could
wander. And not only to thoughts of the man with the
strangely vulnerable smile and the confident voice, but to
another who was also well-endowed and who had taught
Sarah a love that Phil for all his exertion, let alone his
perspiration, could never match.

Thrust after thrust. Each one a mere echo of the other
lovemaking that Sarah yearned for so often, pencilling in,
but only in her mind as a real pencil mark might be seen,
those occasions never as often as she’d like when she and
David would, on the same couch (and once even the marital
bed), fuck in a way that Phil was never able.

Sarah looked down her body at that strangely distant penis
thrusting inside her, the sensations so vivid and strong, but
curiously outside of her. And Phil’s penis was so much
more slender, such a feeble affair compared to the animal
thrusts from David’s huge, Frank Sinatra-proportioned

And so soon! Although Sarah fancied she’d come a little.
Not a lot. Not like with David. But enough. Something
anyway. Phil released his load inside her, his penis
withdrawing so very quickly, a trail of pale semen leading
from his deflating glans and leaving its trail in Sarah’s pubic
hairs and upper thighs, while also shining on the thicker
hairs of his legs.

Phil leaned over and kissed his wife.

“Fuck! That was great!”

Sarah smiled.

“Did you enjoy it, dear?”

Sarah nodded.

But what she couldn’t tell her husband was that she enjoyed
it rather more with his best friend and the best man at their

And that in comparison Phil was very much Elvis Presley to
David’s Frank Sinatra.