The thing I remember most about fucking the giant is his teeth.
Backstory. The day Alan dropped the bomb, I responded in my typical cool, collected, and mature manner, and posted a "hawt slut wants ur bod" ad on craigslist. I got a surprising number of surprisingly appealing responses. I called the cutest one who could spell, we arranged a place, and within four hours of posting the ad I was naked in a fancy hotel suite with a Calvin Klein model. (S'true; I googled him.)
He was a giant, in the literal sense; seven foot one and still growing in his twenties. (And I probably shouldn't have asked, but he already had heart disease and didn't expect to live much past his forties. People aren't meant to be so big.) To answer the obvious question, he wasn't, uh, proportional; he was pretty average. He must get that weird moment of half-disappointment from every girl. "Okay big boy, let's see if you're big everywh... oh." Huge hands though.
But the moment that sticks in my mind and the reason I'll remember him as a good fuck is an instant after I got on top of him and started sliding up and down on his cock. He threw his head back, squeezed his eyes tight, pulled his lips back, until his face was nothing but teeth. Not attractive; not meant to be. An absolute pure unselfconscious grimace of ecstasy and we were only starting.
He didn't do anything special; he didn't even last very long. But he fucking loved it. He screwed up his face and moaned and gasped. And that made it fucking awesome.
Well, that and his six-inch fingers.