Knock yourself out!

Profile pictures can be most misleading, but this one told it as it was. Here was a guy who was definitely on the chubby side; that's me being kind. Actually, he was huge, enormous. Lie him down and stick a sheet over him and we're talking Ayres Rock. Now I've never been fattist, having spent a lifetime yo-yoing up and down in weight, so I'm quite sympathetic to anyone who loves food in gargantuan amounts; it shows they have a love of life. Pathetic eaters irritate me; they deserve to be slapped. 


Also, one of my favourite husbands (not mine, a friend's - I've only had the one' unsuccessful coupling' as D called it) carries enough chub to satisfy a women's rugby team in a ruck, and it's never affected my deep and abiding affection for and devotion to him. However, having said that, him being the friend's husband and all, I've never travelled the dangerous road of including him in my lascivious fantasies.


So, back to the internet guy. Amusing, witty profile, pretty smart, worth a go for a bit of a laugh if nothing else, and he'd sent a pleasant introductory email, the only drawback of which was the ending 'Hugs and and kisses'. Erm.... no. No. No. Unless you are sixteen and hormonally at boiling point (and not 55), hugs and kisses are for people you already have a relationship with, not for complete strangers; he overstepped the cute and fluffy boundary there. However, in a instant of magnanimity, I decided to overlook that. By the second email, he mentioned a physical relationship  i.e. he was not looking for eternal emailing or pure friendship; he put his cards on the table. Reading between the lines, this is what I saw, 'Look, let's not beat about the bush. I'm fat. The likelihood of my changing is minimal, and if you can't get your head round that, let's not waste each others time.' Refreshing in a way, don't you think? 


I discussed it with the Oracle.


'Stella, ' I said, 'I've never had sex with somebody who is that large. Your ex was big. How exactly does that work? I don't want him to have a heart attack, drop dead and squash me.'


She looked at me as if I were one ingredient short of a boiled egg. 'What are you talking about? Where's your imagination? Have you ever actually had sex in your life at all?' Was that necessary, dear followers? But then it's Stella. 'You'll go on top, of course. Duh!'


'On top?' I said.


'Yeeeeeeeeees, on top!' She rolled her eyes. 'Are you saying you've never been on top?' She looked stupefied. 'Would you like me to spell it out for you or shall I log into Amazon and buy you a book?'


'Of course, I've been on top - don't be bloody stupid!' I did seem to recall that scenario in the dim and distant past; hmmm, when was that - weren't the Beatles at number one with Can't Buy Me Love?  'But I'd rather hoped.... I could, erm, you know, avoid it these days.'


'Why?'


Why? Sometimes I think Stella doesn't have an iota of empathy. Here's she is - eight years younger than me and barely filling her measly 34 C cup - asking me why bouncing around on top of Mr. Ayres Rock doesn't fill me with joy unbounded. Did you see what the good Lord has seen fit to endow me with? I bet the Janes Mansfield and Russell had a similar problem; how to avoid knocking yourself out whilst engaged in a lengthy session of jiggy jiggy. That's bleeding why!


'You're making too much of it. They don't care. They're too busy focussing on themselves to be bothered to examine your bristols.' Bristols. See. Charming. 'What about normal sized guys? Hasn't it dawned on you that you might have to do the same with them?'


Ooer. I hadn't actually got that far. I mean - give me a chance - I've only just removed the whisker and the wart! The mechanics hadn't occurred to me yet.


So here I am considering the possibility of the fat chap, and all that comes to mind is this.

I'm going to have to work on Plan B.