Artwork by Sage Guillory

Sex & Gender

fat girl sex: f*ck you, pay me

March 11, 2020
67 Picks

Fat Girl Sex is a column devoted to the celebration of the sexual empowerment of women, body- and sex-positivity, often featuring personal meandering about all the nasty things we do in the dark.

“Would you laugh at this?” The man before me gestured to what, I’m sad to say, was the smallest adult penis I had ever seen.

Me, sitting on the edge of the bed. Him, completely naked — just socks — staring at me with greedy eyes. It was the end of an intense first date of easy chemistry and sexual attention. In the hours leading up to this, we bonded over favorite cities, historical eras, and mutual kinks. He was a big, bearded guy from Jersey, who taught American history by day while finishing his Master’s by night. He told me about his experiencing “managing” sexually submissive partners, and how strict of a Dominatrix he was. And I was feeling it.

So imagine my utter incredulity over his sudden expressed desire to be body shamed, mocked, and laughed at as a means of foreplay.

Not to “yuck” the fuck out of anyone’s less-popular kinks — by all means, enjoy — yet at that moment, I was paralyzed by the contradiction it presented to everything I’d been taught about managing the fragility of masculinity. That, and I was weirded out and annoyed by having been misled about the dynamic this person was looking for in the first place.

However, I wasn’t surprised that, even under the pretense of his submission, some man was still trying to control me and the situation. Besides all that, looking at this very small penis was making me sad. I told him I wasn’t into it, excused myself, and got the fuck out of there.

Most people would take that as a clear rejection, right? No. Instead, this was the initiator of the greatest text I have ever received:

“Drain my bank account.”

Now, I meant what I said about not being turned on by extreme levels of femdom — but I was instantly turned on by the proposition of financial dominance. Groveling in a slew of pathetic texts, he knew how undeserving of even a fraction of my attention he was. And for that reason, our dynamic depended on how well he could satisfy me with the only valuable thing he has to offer – his money.

It wasn’t for sex, directly, just for my expressed disgust that made him worship me with money. And when that first tribute hit my account, it triggered a sense of domination that I’d never received from face-sitting or pegging. Money makes everything feel a little bit better, but in that was an admission that I, like so many Queens, am too good for men in the first place.

And by leaning into this reality, my friends, is how I came to own my very first Pay Pig.