The Bad Texter, for lack of a better word, is fat. I’m not using that word in a derogatory way as it’s come to be held in casual speak, it’s simply a fact. If you carry a certain amount of extra weight on your body in the form of fat — well, you’re fat.
He’s also sexy, confident, smart, tall as fuck, and hilarious among other identifiers.
I’ve been worried since I met him how the mechanics of sex would work with someone of his size. I even Googled “How to fuck a fat guy” with some interesting results.
There were some How To’s (missionary might not be best if he can’t support his own weight) and some personal accounts of lovin’ the extra cushioned pushin’. Mostly what I learned was to not pretend he wasn’t fat and to work around any physical limitations as I might anything else that could limit a partner. I wouldn’t expect to ride a guy if he had a sunburn on his back, after all. Likewise, I wouldn’t expect a fat guy to get all acrobatic with me like a fit fireman could.
He arrived a few minutes late carrying a nearly empty box of Bud Light and his cap on backwards. We hugged awkwardly in the entryway and I invited him into the kitchen where I was prepping our lunch. We made small talk for a minute before he came around behind me and began to touch me.
His big belly pressed into my back as I leaned into him.
“Is it ok if I touch you?” he asked huskily.
I nodded and turned around to face him just as he bent to capture my mouth. His soft lips plied mine apart and his beard tickled. He massaged my breasts and moaned and I put my arms around his expansive waist and pulled his softness into me.
I held his face in my hands and wondered at the padding that was present even on his neck.
“I want to be inside of you,” he whispered against my mouth. “Where can we go to do this?”
I laughed and told him there was a secret room in the back and led him to my bedroom.
He deftly untied my bikini top and pushed my dress and bottoms to the floor and set me back gently on the bed. I spread my knees and he knelt between them and his ginger head dipped below my line of sight.
His mouth, hot, wet, and soft licked me and played a sweet tune. He’s the first man in years that has spent every chance he can get between my thighs this way. The Neighbor actively avoided it — it intimidated him — and my other more recent lovers have been much too busy throwing me around the room and fucking me senseless.
Cunnilingus has its place on the menu, but for my lovers it’s never been a main course. For BT, it’s his forté.
I laid there and thought about it, thought about how different this man has been for me already and I pressed my thighs against his face in pleasure and felt him groan against me.
He stood up and made a move to stick his uncut cock in me.
“Do you have a condom?” I asked. He shook his head.
“I can pull out if you want,” he said.
“Oh, no. I’m not afraid of pregnancy. Safety first. There’s a box under my bed. I might have some.” I prayed I had some regular condoms in there. The last I knew The Neighbor had left a bunch of Magnums behind two years ago.
He bent over and pulled the box out and there, shining like Willy Wonka’s Golden Tickets, was the strip of Magnums. He chuckled, I groaned and shuffled giant dildos, butt plugs, lube, and silk ties around until I found a regular condom. “Don’t judge me,” I said handing it to him referring to my cardboard box of debauchery.
“No, never,” he replied with a smile.
I could see his erection flagging under the condom application. “I have a hard time staying hard in condoms,” he explained.
“Who doesn’t?” was my reply. There was no way he was sticking it in me without protection.
As he worked it on I took a closer look at his hulk, his ginger-colored body hair masked a vast network of freckles, his thighs were thick trunks of bone and muscle, and his belly creased over in a soft, swell of white skin. I liked how he stood tall in the daylight and blocked out the sun.
He dove back down between my thighs and worked his cock with his free hand for a few seconds before standing up and climbing on top of me. His belly pressed on mine as he pushed in, slow and deep; I couldn’t lock my ankles around him, but his warm bulk thrilled me as I helped to pull him in closer with my heels.
I opened my eyes to see him staring at me intently. Our gazes locked and he pulled out and flipped me around. I backed up to the edge of the bed and he thrust back inside. His big hands were gentle on my hips; he whispered how good my fucking pussy felt. “Hy, Hy, your pussy feels so fucking good.”
I gripped the covers and pressed back into him wishing he’d hit me or grip the skin beneath his hands in a meaty fist, but he seemed unsure if that would be ok and the last time I begged him to suck harder on my nipples he shied away from going the distance to cause me a little pain.
I moaned about his fucking cock and relished the feel of the slide and my pulse quickened when he told me he was about to cum.
“Please cum,” I said as my nipples scraped against the bedding and I rocked back on him as hard as I could.
He came in rolling waves and I felt him quiver and tremble behind me. I rolled to my back and he stood towering above me breathing heavily. “I’m a little out of shape,” he said to no one.
I laughed and answered, “It’s all cardio, man.” He laughed at that, too, and went to toss the condom. When he returned I patted the empty space next to me and turned on my Hitachi.
“Grab my breasts, please,” I told him. He squeezed them in great handfuls and pinched the dark pink nipples hard enough I could feel it. I quickly roared up to an orgasm and fell limp in his arms.
We laid like that for several minutes not talking, just panting and feeling one another’s skin.
We got up, got dressed, and continued working on lunch prep. Down at the pool we chatted easily then slipped into the water. I hovered over him on the steps and we kissed a little. It felt natural — strangely natural — and I thought “Of course I have this normal, lovely dating scenario with a guy whose sexual proclivities might not match mine.” Why does everything have to be a compromise? Why can’t this guy be a maniac in bed and all these other wonderful things?
I haven’t written him off, but I am leery of a future between us. There are obstacles I can’t share without giving away our identities, but suffice to say they exist. I’m also not sure he could ever get on the same page as me sexually speaking and it has nothing to do with his size. Also: bad texter.
He’s out of town this coming weekend and I’d love to see him again, so I’ve offered to make him dinner since I have Peyton this week. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but when I woke up stone sober without his charismatic smile or my Vino Verde fogging up my brain I’m not so sure anymore. We’ll see.
I’d like another go at this guy. That much I know is certain. I feel compelled to kick the door open for him in some way. I almost begged him to touch my asshole as he softly held onto my hips and ground into me, but I didn’t want to scare him away. Maybe next time I can make it clear that he may do nearly whatever he likes to me. I thought for sure cumming on my face at the end of our last date would have been a dead give away as to my disposition. I guess not.