pamphlets attached espousing anti-fat discrimination bullets – the latest pamphlet pushed into my hands had on it articles titled “Would you call your grandmother a fatass?” and “Buddha had a belly”. The cupcakes were damn good, though; I didn’t expect anything less from true connoisseurs of sweets. The club also had fundraising car washes a few times a summer with some of their more topside voluptuous female members in bikini-tops and flowing wraparounds as the sudsy spongers. It was a militant obesity club – less about a support group to become healthier than about forcing everyone to acknowledge their right to be overweight and be considered beautiful. It was really just a club of people that found it too hard to change their own habits, so they were efforting to try to change everyone else. Yes, it is an inalienable right to be fat, but it is an absurd notion that people should be forced to behold another person’s idea of beauty. “True beauty is on the inside” -- that is empty rhetoric everyone can get behind for show, but in actual practice beauty is a visual medium. No amount of cupcakes and megaphoning in slicked up size 20 bikinis fronting double D’s are going to convince me that a three hundred pound woman in a purple miu-miu dipping bon-bons in drawn butter is the same as Victoria’s Secret models slowly licking away lollipops. Beauty beholding is in itself also an inalienable right. That subjectiveness applies to everyone, regardless of girth: I think Kate Moss looks closer to an alien than a supermodel, but my college roommate stickied every picture of her he could get in his left hand. It isn’t that the world is filled with shallow people, as much as that theorem is used as reason for obese self-loathing, it is that people are evolutionarily hardwired to be attracted to their perceived versions of healthy people. The chances of producing future generations during harder times was exponentially smaller if someone was unable to move fast enough to catch food or chronically sick with organic diseases or dead decades before healthier peers.
Xander apparently views any mate as healthier than loneliness, and that mutated axiom made this overfilled bag of wet laundry irresistibly arousing. He couldn’t stop his hands from fondling the mounds of flesh underneath every letter of the silk-screened slogan on the front of this girl’s T-shirt. He was also fondling every inch of her backside, which had every bit of full breasts as her frontside, made from the pouching of excess skin over her scapulas. These back breasts were equally engorged in fat cells and glandular mass, but were never going to nourish any infant.
I am reminded of a charity dinner I attended recently for the local children’s hospital at Morton’s, which was emceed by the very attractive local 5 o’clock news anchor and her new husband. I remember them sharing a quiet moment at their table after her duties were done, and exchanging a few loving kisses and caresses. Very sweet. Xander pawing at neck rolls, with his hands occasionally disappearing into skin flaps, while he received a dry handjob by getting his front-ass rubbed by overstuffed sausage fingers was criminally indecent. PDAs should be better regulated by law for the sake of society’s mental health; no one wants to see Jabba suck face with Grimace.
Full breasts were on both Xander and his lady, and both sets blended on top of bellies into mounds of flesh indistinguishable from ass. Man should be distinguishable from woman by the existence of breasts in the least – even “A” cups perked under a shirt have the distinct silhouette of a woman’s – but breasts in these two had long disappeared into androgynous wormholes of adipose. Breasts, back-ass, front-ass, and genitals all disappeared into flaps of fat.
Kate has great breasts – a supple palm-full
Xander apparently views any mate as healthier than loneliness, and that mutated axiom made this overfilled bag of wet laundry irresistibly arousing. He couldn’t stop his hands from fondling the mounds of flesh underneath every letter of the silk-screened slogan on the front of this girl’s T-shirt. He was also fondling every inch of her backside, which had every bit of full breasts as her frontside, made from the pouching of excess skin over her scapulas. These back breasts were equally engorged in fat cells and glandular mass, but were never going to nourish any infant.
I am reminded of a charity dinner I attended recently for the local children’s hospital at Morton’s, which was emceed by the very attractive local 5 o’clock news anchor and her new husband. I remember them sharing a quiet moment at their table after her duties were done, and exchanging a few loving kisses and caresses. Very sweet. Xander pawing at neck rolls, with his hands occasionally disappearing into skin flaps, while he received a dry handjob by getting his front-ass rubbed by overstuffed sausage fingers was criminally indecent. PDAs should be better regulated by law for the sake of society’s mental health; no one wants to see Jabba suck face with Grimace.
Full breasts were on both Xander and his lady, and both sets blended on top of bellies into mounds of flesh indistinguishable from ass. Man should be distinguishable from woman by the existence of breasts in the least – even “A” cups perked under a shirt have the distinct silhouette of a woman’s – but breasts in these two had long disappeared into androgynous wormholes of adipose. Breasts, back-ass, front-ass, and genitals all disappeared into flaps of fat.
Kate has great breasts – a supple palm-full
Similar Books
