During the few sexual experiences I shared with Monica and Lindsey, who were both my size, they never took off their clothing. In fact, both of them were completely dressed every time, down to the socks. If they hadn’t been ashamed of themselves, they could have pulled off the hot and mysterious fully clothed look.
Maybe that is the root of my infatuation with the full-figured woman. They typically go with the sexual flow and ask fucking questions later. Maybe they get embarrassed about a little cellulite after they have an orgasm. Rayya once said, “You know there is a big bitch under this XXL shirt. It’s not like I’m trying to hide that shit. Don’t freak when you see stretch marks…because I’m getting mine. That’s right!” She was my hero.
Doug asked me why the girls I dated seemed to get bigger and bigger after meeting Joy. I politely reminded him that he liked his ditzy, big-titty hos and I liked my big butch bois, who, by the way, were not on drugs leaving me at karaoke bars. Touché, he said and left it alone.
When Joy and I got to the point where sex was a given, her clothes came off just as fast as mine. She was playing fantastic R&B music on her stereo and even stopped every now and then to sing a lyric to me. She was comfortable, which made me comfortable…which made me very, very happy.
“Oh my God, what are you doing? It feels so good,” I moaned.
She came up for air while her fingers continued to move inside of me. “I can eat a peach for hours.” She shot a devilishly sexy smile and slowly disappeared between my thighs again.
This big bitch owned my pussy. Whatever voodoo trickery bullshit she was doing was absolutely working. Sweat was all over the sheets that were balled under my back. I grabbed the edges of her mattress and pulled so hard it curled. I felt an explosion beginning to happen, and, just when it became unbearable, I demanded she stop.
“Please stop. I am going to scream,” I pleaded.
“That’s what I want, ” she said and moved her fingers again.
I flinched. “No! I am serious. I mean I am going to scream at the top of my lungs, you don’t understand.” Normally this wouldn’t have been an issue, but her mother was trying to sleep in the next room, which really makes any sexual experience a little uncomfortable.
To clarify things, I truly meant like a high-pitched murder victim scream in a bad horror film. Every sensation across my body was unbearably overwhelming, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. My pussy was on strike and brought its own blow horns and picket signs; I was done. With much hesitation and frustration, she stopped. She crawled up the bed to lie next to me as my body relaxed. We looked at each other for a few minutes until my breathing was normal again.
After complimenting her skills, she smiled and said she needed to go wash her hands Naively I asked why. I wanted to fall to sleep just as we were. She gently lifted her hand and separated her fingers, showing me the glistening cum that attached itself to each digit like webbing.
“Oh my God, what is that? I don’t have an infection!” I blurted in a panic.
Confused, her forehead and eyebrows scrunched together. “Um, that’s cum. You came.”
“I did no such thing! I don’t do that!” I stared at her hand still in the air.
“Yes, you did.” She turned her palm away to show me the back of her hand and bent her knuckles, breaking the matter that had dried.
“Go wash it off! I am so embarrassed.” I grabbed the crumpled sheet and covered my head. She giggled as she got up and walked to the bathroom in her birthday suit. As I waited for her, I wondered if she was right. That never happened to me before in my life. The feeling came in waves for over an hour until I nearly shattered glass with my scream. Did I really experience my first orgasm at twenty-six years old? Even after receiving counsel from some older, wiser lesbians, I was in disbelief.
Douglas and I talked about our dates the next evening when he came home from school. I was ecstatic to tell him about my apparent vaginal orgasm. He turned purple with laughter when I told him my reaction, but he thought it was cute and hugged me while mumbling something about becoming a woman.
As much as I liked Joy’s confidence, and embraced my preference for thicker girls, I was embarrassed when she wanted to take me to the club. We were such an odd-looking pair. However, I began the process of retraining this shallow way of thinking. But, unbeknownst to her, I began breaking things off with several women so we could be exclusive. My goal was to get over the superficial idea that thin women were what I should fancy, but not what I actually liked. It wasn’t going to happen overnight, but I was willing to start somewhere. It was a stranger at the bar who helped me see the light at the end of the big-girl tunnel.
God bless the stranger who shared my space and engaged in small talk. As we sipped our drinks and admired a group of women, she inadvertently changed my life. We discussed which one we thought was attractive. Within that short conversation I pointed to the Italian girl in the green shirt surrounded by feminine women, and a second butch girl. Green Shirt Girl was laughing and drinking her beer as one of the femme girls walked over to sit on her thick Italian lap. This was the moment when the stranger immediately said some profound shit. “Ah, you are a chubby chaser.”
I’ll be damned; the ownership of that label pushed me over my insincere limitation. It helped my defense when Doug and Rico criticized the various large women I fancied. Their favorite sneer was you can do better than that, as if a bigger girl was less than beautiful.
“I’m a chubby chaser. That’s what I like, so suck it, ” I told the boys. Even Doug admitted that Joy was a very nice girl after his brother left.
It took me a month to dump all of the other women before I threw myself at Joy’s feet as a willing exclusive partner, Doug notwithstanding. When the nerve built itself into a request for a relationship on the phone, she told me she was sorry, but that she had to turn in her player’s card. She’d met someone else and planned to start dating her. But, she explained, we would always be “hollaback girls,” aka fuck buddies. I was officially a backup plan.
Surprisingly it didn’t cause friction. Joy was too awesome to forget. Being her friend was okay with me; I was married anyway. What lesbian wants to date a married woman even with a husband as cool as Doug? Let’s be real here.
However, yours truly was determined to find a girl who would be accepting in a relationship of that nature. I was sure she was out there somewhere. That’s when I began to read books on bisexuality and discovered the research of Alfred Kinsey.
Books helped clarify a few things for Douglas and me. We read chapters to each other that we thought pertained to our lives. One of them mentioned polyamorous relationships. That is where you have committed loving relationships with multiple people. It can get very complex, but, as long as everyone is aware of their status and everyone respects boundaries, it can work. If it all sounds very Utah polygamist, do the research. It is not.
An example in the book was of a triadic unit that consisted of a husband and his wife and her girlfriend who were committed to each other for over fifteen years. The husband never had a sexual relationship with the girlfriend. They all lived together and raised their children as three parents. There was another quadratic unit with three males and one female. The woman only had a sexual relationship with one of the men. The three males had been exclusive to each other for eight years until the woman became a part of their lives. Four years later, they were still together and none of them stepped outside of the unit. Believe me, the research got more confusing as the geometry spanned into words I cannot pronounce. But, the possibility of this kind of life was very real for Doug and me.