So, I’ve Been Busy: Boys, BBW & Body Confidence

I haven’t written any proper, body-related entries to this blog for a long time- life, as it so often does, kind of got in the way. So I reckon it’s time I shared a new experience with you. Recently I’ve been hooking up with a half Spanish guy from the USA, let’s call him Ben*. (Of course that’s not his real nane, what am I, an idiot?!) Ben is a lover of ladies of the fuller form, BBWs, big beautiful women. There is a particular section of the net devoted to these ample vixens, patronised by men who, for one reason or another, fantasise about getting down and dirty with a fat girl.

At a UK size 16, I’m definitely at the smaller end of the BBW sliding scale. So when Ben told me he was particularly interested in my size as a bigger girl, a skeptical eyebrow (my own) was raised. No, I wouldn’t tell him my measurements. Nope, it wasn’t okay to ask for my bra size. But men are wily beasts and we ladies often willing co-conspirators, so after a few weeks of chatting we agreed to meet up.

What followed afterwards was something of a revelation. After years of worrying that my weight was something to be played down rather than celebrated, ignored rather than embraced, the (pun intended) elephant in the room when it came to suitors, boyfriends and casual hook ups, here was someone who venerated my body in all of its voluptuous, wobbly glory. Someone to whom my main appeal was a body that didn’t appear between the pages of fashion magazines or topless on the cover of lads mags, a body I’d long accepted as imperfect and inadequate. I’m sure many fat girls have a similar story: there were men that wanted to be with us, spend time with us and sleep with us, no problem. But in public? Nope. Too long I was a girlfriend in all but name, feeling desperately small and suckered by self loathing when the guy I was seeing wouldn’t say we were together in front of his family, friends or travelling salesmen. I’ve had exs say that it didn’t matter what size I was, that they didn’t care that I was overweight. Yeah, right. I have spent too long in my teens and early twenties convincing myself that a guy was perfect for me because he was willing to overlook my weight-related failings, when really I should have been thinking about whether he was worthy enough to deserve my time, attention and love.

Truth is, Ben’s a bit of a dick. Personality-wise, he’s lacking in spades. He’s arrogant, cynical and generally uninterested in every aspect of my life bar the physical side of things. But despite the realisation that Ben has been using me just as much as I’ve been using him, there’s a greater truth here: that there are guys that idolise a bigger body just as others slaver over a flat stomach or an endless pair of legs. Ben went on at length about my body; that my big boobs were perfection, that my less than washboard-flat tummy was a turn on, that my large derriere was pretty much the main attraction. It felt wonderful too, to have a smart, good-looking guy be so attracted to me, flaws and all.

The point is: as I’ve gotten older I’ve realised that what we’ve always been told, the media-induced bullshit that slim, perky, scarless, flabless, bronzed and buffed female bodies are the only ones men find attractive – is just plain wrong. Of course, this is a universal truth that so many fat, fierce, feminist women have realised, written about and reflected on well before I did, but Ben – surly, stubborn and disinterested as he is- was my catalyst.

Maybe you’ll have to fuck a few frogs before you find your prince, but there will always be men ready and willing and desperately wanting to worship at the altar of a fat goddess.

So thanks Ben. You may have been a self-interested tosser but you opened my eyes to a world in which MY body was the ideal… and it felt fucking great.

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About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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