As a rule, I'm a fan of larger women, although I'm not a big fan (pun) of the term "Big Beautiful Women." And, from what I can tell, most curvy women don't particularly care to be desired for their size, at least not anytime I've told one of them, "I love big women!" We're talking buzz-kill, love-kill here, and maybe, man-kill as well.
A gal at work I'd been chatting up asked me why I was so interested in her, and I told her, "I like big women." It seemed like the most honest thing I could tell her-at the time I told her, that is. A half-hour later, when I was able to scrape myself off the revolving door where she deposited me, I limped over to her desk and asked her why she'd attempted to kill me when I was telling her that I was attracted to her.
She gave me a look that sent me scurrying to hide behind the nearest load-bearing wall. Later, she came over to my desk and sat in the chair next to it. She apologized for body slamming me earlier, and proceeded to tell me that there were "certain guys who had fetishes about BBW, and she figured I was just another of them."
I thought I was a sophosticated guy who knew all about sex.
After I looked up the word "fetish" and "fetishes," I'd gained an education, and a shitload of mental images, I'd never wanted and now can't get out of my head.
It isn't as if I haven't seen the Dog & Pony Show in Tijuana, or in Subic Bay, or Da Nang. I've seen worse.
But, to be fair to me, what is the difference between a guy who prefers to date only blonde, Viking-type chicks, with one glass eye, and a peg-leg, who wear plaid, schoolgirl miniskirts--and a guy who prefers to date only curvy women?
Apparently, the answer is a broken clavicle, if the guy is honest and tells the BBW chick he's interested in why he's interested in her. It's getting so's a guy can't like what a guy likes and live to tell about it.
I used to like to date only red-headed women.
That "fetish" stemmed from my first encounter with a nekkid, red-headed Go-Go dancer (well, nekkid except for white vinyl boots) just outside the entrance to Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio. And my passion for red-heads lasted until I dated two red-heads, both nurses, who each attempted to murder me in San Diego.
On the other hand, the attempt on my life might have stemmed from the fact the two red-heads were twin sisters, both of whom I may or may not have promised to marry; and both of whom discovered, by a quirk of fate, that I was screwing both of them, as well as their also red-headed mother. The mother was less problematic; she told me her daughters were crazy and that I shouldn't mess with them. I should have listened to her.
As usual, I've lost the thread of my story, but I know it had something to do with women. And since I have no luck with women, it must have something to do with why they keep trying to kill me. But I've not the energy to reread this story, so I'm going to end it by telling my female readers of the curvy kind, that I'm still not married and still available. And if they're interested, they can contact my publisher.