Tag Archives: fun sex
On what is not wrong with you, part 1: being fat
In our decadent Western capitalist society where you can buy chips for two quid or gym membership for fifty, it’s no wonder most people are a bit fat. And you know what? People who are a bit fat are sexy.
There’s a sliding scale: some people are so fat that sex without assistance is difficult, others have just a little bit of extra weight that is delightfully squidgy and fun to dig your fingers into while they’re frotting you excitedly. Hovering somewhere in between these groups lie the guys that I want to talk about.
I love guys who have a bit of weight on them – they make me feel small, and delicate, and feminine. Guys with bellies their trousers dig into, so I have to pull and rummage to get their pants off. Guys with arses you can grab and thighs like tree trunks. Guys who jiggle when they fuck you. Yum.
I’m not talking about guys who are morbidly obese – apart from anything else they’d be a logistical nightmare. I mean the men who look down sadly at their gut and think ‘no one will fuck me like this.’ Men who tip the scales at more than is healthy and have genuinely considered salad. This entry is for you – you massive, sexy, awesome, hedonistic bastards.
Skinny guys – don’t feel left out. You are equally loved, but this is not your time.
Today, I want to talk about why fat guys are great:
Fat guys enjoy things
There’s something about being fat that implies a certain ‘I don’t give a flying fuck’ attitude that is desperately sexy. Someone who doesn’t approve of moderation, who goes the whole way and will be my partner in crime when I want to have fun.
I want to be with a guy who orders lasagne, garlic bread and a side order of chips. And some onion rings. And cake for afters. And a triple whiskey. And chips. And more whiskey.
I want to go out with a guy who’ll down 8 pints then provide a solid mass for me to lean against on the way home.
I want to hang out with someone who’ll bang me til 2 am then suggest McDonalds breakfast in the morning.
Fat guys fuck harder
You wouldn’t make a sledgehammer out of balsa wood, would you? Exactly.
Fat guys are just… bigger
It’s obvious that they’re bigger, of course. But have you considered the full implications? Fat guys can lie on top of you and knock the wind out of you. Put more force behind their fucking (see above), pin you down so you can’t get up. You can sit comfortably on their lap and feel their erection digging into you without worrying that you’re going to snap them.
They can envelop you and crush you and squeeze you and make you feel tiny, delicate and vulnerable. They can fuck you hard and sweat hard till it drips into your mouth. They can take your breath away and give you something to hold onto and something to wrap your legs round and squeeze and touch and rub your face into.
And then afterwards they might buy you a pasty.
Postscript: The few times I’ve discussed this with people I’ve been met with raised eyebrows and skeptical looks. But bear in mind that one of the best ways to have brilliant sex is to find someone you like (in my case someone who is funny or clever or utterly filthy) and then show them the kind of enthusiasm that’ll have them jizzing themselves on the night bus home.
I’m not trying to persuade you to start fucking fat guys – but you might be missing out on some potentially spectacular sex if you dismiss them out of hand or, worse, imply that you’re out of their league. You call them ‘tubby’, I’ll call them ‘tiger’ and we’ll see who gets the best out of them.
On number 22
Sometimes sex is serious, and intimate, and meaningful. It’s passionate and intense and every shudder and pant and drip of sweat makes you fall that bit more in love with them, even if you’ve forgotten their name.
That was not how it was with 22. He was glorious and fun, although I’m going to refrain from the word ‘childlike’ – I don’t want to be put on a register.
22 was a cutie, and fucking him was a burst of unexpected joy. Like walking home through the park at midnight, and treating yourself to a cheeky go on the swings.
It was his birthday, and I didn’t know him that well but the birthday was a great way in. We were with friends who were preoccupied with drinking and having fun
“Do you fancy a birthday shag?” He looked more surprised than he should have been, but nodded. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the lifts up to my room. Awkward chat ensued, as both of us realised that we didn’t have much to say to each other, or any idea what the other one would find sexy.
I’d done the equivalent of rocking up at his house, asking if he could come out to play, then realising I had no idea what he liked playing, or if he even had a BMX.
Luckily, he was fine with that – he just wanted to play, and was happy to do it without an awkward preamble or time-consuming seduction. He started unbuckling his belt as we got in through the door, and once it was closed he pushed me backwards onto the bed and started tearing at me. He was far more beautiful than I’d expected – the sort of muscles that make me suck my own stomach in and realise I don’t deserve this.
He kissed like a 16-year-old, and got excited each time we changed up. Everything we did was like him unwrapping another layer of a pass-the-parcel – his eyes lit up, he grinned, and tore back in. Sex with 22 was like playing in the park, and being rewarded with sweets when I got up enough speed on the roundabout.
He was enthusiastic in a way that’s pretty rare, and daring in a way that more men definitely should be. He pulled my hair and whispered things, and let me lick his armpits and squeeze the base of his cock to feel how hard he was before he put a condom on.
And when I was done, and tired, and ready to rejoin the party, he let me take him deep in my mouth, and he pushed my head down so my lips were right at the base of his cock while he twitched, and shuddered, and came into the back of my throat.
We only ever did it once.