In Praise of Rounder Women
By Rollerblade on August 13, 2010
IN PRAISE OF ROUNDER WOMEN
My friend Miss Plum doesn’t care about her ample poundage. Well, she used to. There was the usual teenage bulimia, the odd suicide attempt, slimming down to a skeleton on speed, then ballooning back up on a diet of Guinness and cream cakes. Right now, she’s cuddly and curvy once more and fighting off the queue of slavering men. She has a serious rack and an imperious behind. Just in case no one had noticed those big firm hooters and her proud, round bottom, she likes to squeeze into gleaming corsets that give her a tiny waist. it also pushes out her aromatic cream-white breasts. Often men don’t even realise they are addressing her cavernous cleavage. More fool them, for they are missing her soulful brown eyes, and a sly smile.
It is only in the last few decades that stick-thinness has become a desirable body shape. Men have generally tended to lust after curvy women because they promise heat, warmth, sensuality, lasciviousness and perhaps a faint memory of maternal comfort too. Your average warrior returning from a particularly arduous conflict is looking for strong ale, sizzling steaks and a buxom wench with a saucy smile. He does not seek a thin chain-smoking misery with a head full of dieting tips.
Have you ever heard men say “Look at the ribs on that!”? “Too true, mate, they’re sticking right through the skin.”
“Great bones! Really sharp!”
“And that stomach acid and fag breath. Brilliant!”
Big women may be seen as a downmarket embarrassment in a society bombarded with pictures of stick-thin models. But if you’re too much of a snob to enjoy sex with a person of size you are missing out on the thrill of a lifetime. In terms of sheer quantity big women quite simply have more to offer. More curves, more heat, more scent, and often more heart. Whatever your particular obsession, and men tend to be divided into breast or bottom fanciers, a big woman will have more of what you crave — more soft, jiggling flesh to luxuriate in.
There is no feeling like being queened by a big woman. You lie there, drifting along in clouds of her scent while she lowers herself onto your face. Some submissive men may want to see this as a humiliation but it needn’t be. Lying there while a lover rubs her pussy and bottom over your face is a treat. And if the person smothering you in aromatic flesh should be facing away from you in order to gorge themselves on whatever you have to offer them, while using their fingers to explore and stimulate whatever else they can find…this should indeed be seen as a present for a lucky boy rather than some stern ‘humiliation’ scenario.
AS COLD AS MARGARET THATCHER’S TITS
The weather is as cold as Margaret Thatcher’s tits. My boiler has packed up. The sub-Siberian chill necessitates wearing my fur hat, leather jacket and rocket boots indoors. As I live alone, apart from Geezer’s occasional visits, I can dress how I please. I can also do as I please, without having to appear to be a simpering sex kitten at all times. (which I would be the instant My Man Max showed up. And I always look my best for Geezer. Who might be a bastard but he can fix cars and women. Temporarily, I’m afraid. I need more than his brute strength and big dick. I still break down and need another servicing from My Man Max.) Still, I’m a bit of a geezer bird when it comes to housekeeping. Or, let’s be frank, I’m a drug addict. Once you are one of the select few who take ketamine before breakfast, the upper echelons, among the highest in the land,
you can have soup in bed and let the crumbs fall where they may.
I can swop Noel Edmonds for Sarah Jessica Parker in the centre of my dartboard and dot the wall around it with little dart pricks. K is intensely beautiful but it plays havoc with the coordination. Mind you, we could slim down those darts players pretty quickly on my k plan diet. Just wouldn’t like to be around when they got the horrors. Geezer was a bit of a handful on it, screaming his head off and careering around like a rogue elephant.
Ho-hum. Still waiting for My Man Max to call. The irony is that I couldn’t pick up the phone. Because I would sound like I’d drunk two pints of vodka or suffered a stroke. So why do it? Why indeed…
I’ll be back to twelve stepping later this week, trying to wear the hair shirt with the other drug failures. Clean and sober I have more time and energy for fixing things. I can ponder the mysteries of the universe. Why, for instance, long after Sex and the City has stiffed, must we still have Sarah Jessica Parker? I know she can act but Samantha and the Airheads really gets on my nerves. At least Samantha (my Samantha) appears to actually like sex, the others just want to swap it for goods and services. (“Just like you, you daft whore!” Well, yes, but the difference is that I trade as a sex worker not as whatever these unconvincing woman are supposed to be.)
The show’s written by gay men and is indeed witty and gossipy as an enjoyable half hour’s dirt dishing. But when was the last time there was a group of four female friends? Which stayed together for longer than it took for one person to get drunk enough to get bitchy? The chances of four such female friends all liking sex for its own sake aren’t that good. (“It’s fiction, you drug-addled misery! You know, entertainment!”)
Well, I take your point and I shall refrain from mentioning the many behind the scenes feuds between the four stars. Female friendship?
That lasts? My tight little butt, baby. It doesn’t exist. Men aren’t necessarily any better at friendship but at least their cut throat competitiveness is out in the open. Although it inevitably involves meaningless, trivial tests of strength; Playstation battles, the smallest phone, the most annoying ring tone, the most expensive car. Perhaps they should have set Sex and the City in the future and called it Science Fiction. I’d like to see Sarah Jessica Parker bald come to think of it. (Especially if I could shave her head. And tar and feather her afterwards). I’d like to see Samantha in a big head dress and a tight silver catsuit. The other two can be jettisoned to orbit Pluto.
Right. That’s settled then. Unfortunately I still want some K. And I always will. Never mind the euphoric out of body experiences. ‘Psychedelic heroin’ is also a very effective painkiller. And that’s all I can feel right now. Pain.