Body PoliticsSex & Gender
fat girl sex: d*ck is abundant, but low in value
By Erin White
October 23, 2019
‘Fat Girl Sex’ is a bi-weekly sex column devoted to the celebration of the sexual empowerment of womxn, body, and sex-positivity featuring personal meandering about all the nasty things we do in the dark.
All throughout my Fat Girl life, society has been preparing me to settle. No amount of personality was going to find me boo’d up with a tall, athletic babe who could be with any number of skinny girls that he wanted. Beggars can’t be choosers and fat girls definitely can’t be picky. Which is probably why I spent so many years clinging to abusers and assholes for fear of never being touched by another boy again.
So, believe me when I say that when this man reached down up under my fupa, I thought I was going to pass the fuck out.
In all my freak nasty years, never had a man actively embraced my belly, opting to simply pretend it wasn’t there instead.
No, this one gripped my rolls firmly whispering how special and beautiful I was like we were in a smutty paperback. Plus, he had just fucked me within an inch of my life. Ya girl felt like Cinderella in a porno. My time had finally come. He was a handsome, kink-experienced, and ridiculously well-hung, light-skinned man with two degrees, his own apartment, and a regular therapist. All of my fantasy boxes were ticked.
This man tossed me around like a gym class volleyball, girl.
This is probably why I pretended not to see the glaring red flags marking his misogyny and, frankly, annoying “personality.” Like the patronizing way he asked if I was “triggered” after I requested he respect my time by not showing up 2 hours late, again. Or when my questions were responded to with “don’t overthink so much, or you’ll push me away.”
Seriously, folks, I should have known something was messed when he made an “All Lives” post endorsing Black folks hugging up on and coddling people like the convicted murderer, Amber Guyer.
But this big, sexy man literally folded me into a pretzel so tight I could barely breathe, y’all. And it was awesome.
Frankly, I was amazed at how the stars had aligned in my favor. A good on paper man? For moi? Who loved my belly fat and making me orgasm? I was dick-matized! So much so, that I barely heard him tell me not to “think too deeply about things.” Not deeply enough to stand up for myself when he kept insisting on bringing a third into our dynamic before I was ready. Not deeply enough to challenge the red flags.
Like so many BBWs, I’m sure, I’ve spent so much time believing that I deserve breadcrumbs. Accepting breadcrumbs when I deserved a six-course meal. Beauty being the primary social currency for women in our culture, fatness placed a hinderance on how beautiful — thus, how valuable — a woman is. Fat girls should feel lucky that anyone is willing to overlook this deficit, I told myself for the better part of two decades. And up to that point, I was willing to endure just about any level of covert abuse I could explain in order to hold on to the possibility of someone loving me.
So, when I, for the first time maybe ever I loved myself more than I needed to be “picked,” I didn’t hesitate with the “Boy, bye.” When the gaslighting grew bolder, the narcissism more apparent, and the unworthiness undeniable, that amazing penis didn’t seem too big after all. And, just as I’d hoped, I had been perfectly lovely all along. And well before the belly grab.
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