‘Hottie’ pursuit

While I want to blog about how awesome my trip to Vancouver was, and how I am willing to give up my citizenship on the spot to go live there, I was just reading Plumcake — as I am apt to do — and was moved by a post about when hot men go for big girls.

It’s not that I consider anyone “out of my league.” I just know that, at one point in my life, my reputation certainly preceded me. And after I swore off boys for a couple of years (yes, it happened. Pause at the wonder of it all), coming back to the minefield showed me that not a lot had changed.

I liked to laugh it off and joke that big girls give the best head because we’re always so damn hungry. And I sold sex toys at some point in the middle of all this (ironically, during my “dry spell”), so there has always an expectation of theatrics to accompany that period of my life. Which, hey, I don’t say no to much. 😉 But that’s more about an active imagination of my own than having formidable opponents!

I’ve also been (not purposely) working on a correlation between income level and prowess. Not necessarily enthusiasm — that runs the gamut. Usually with men, though, you can count on that part to be pretty high. 😉 Whether they have millions in the bank or they just got laid (ha!) off from Wall Street, though, some try way harder than others.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe some of them don’t have to try as hard. They simply just don’t need a flashlight and a Trip-Tik. They don’t have to rip the copy of “War and Peace” out of your hands because you didn’t feel the need to pick it up in the first place!

I feel like I don’t try as hard anymore. Which is kind of where Plumcake’s article starts to go — that we as women of size (oh, let’s face it, I will always call it my Pudgy Pork Roast Ass, even when it gets down to a lean cut of meat) tend to be suspicious when the Abercrombie-model-candidate tries to pick us up.

Like, either you’ve heard we’re easy (we are — er, well, we CAN be, depending on our needs), or you lost a bet with your buddies. Which is it?

(Since you know to expect TMI when you read this blog, my needs tend to vary with frequency. Have it more, want it more. On hiatus? I can extend that out indefinitely. Except now that I’m approaching my sexual peak, like HELL I’m hitting that summit with just my Purple Peter Eater and other various accessories, kthx.)

So, yeah, when someone who, like, runs when he’s not being chased — or otherwise is more buff than my car after I drop $50 at the auto spa — sure I have to look around and wonder where the Candid Camera is. But again, it’s not that I don’t feel worthy. On the contrary, I guess I assume he’s frosted a thousand cupcakes in his day and why should I be his next, uh, Hostess?

And in that, I wonder — I think those who are “size-ists” are absolutely unfair in overlooking a group of people where they might just find the happiness that seems to continually evade them. I also apply this to women who rave that size DOES matter … till I find out otherwise. And I always do. 😉 (Don’t ask!)

But does that mean I’m guilty of reverse discrimination here — that I’m always seeking the ulterior motive … or that I’m quick to dismiss someone just because I think they’d drop me for the cheerleader chick at the other end of the bar … or, worse, that people would look at us walking down the street and wonder how the hell I got HIM?

I’m not saying I’m looking for someone who looks like me. Quite the contrary — I want to be challenged to be my best. To look my best. To, uh, perform the theatrics quite willingly.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m looking for someone who melts me. Who touches my skin and every single nerve ending feels like it’s erupted in flames. I guess I’ve felt that before and, while it may not necessarily be a measure of love and hearts and all that fuzzy-wuzzy crap, it definitely does indicate a level of compatibility that, frankly, I’m unwilling to live without when I do finally succumb to co-habitation or left-hand-jewelry-collecting and that sort of thing.

So, I’m all about hot men. Hell, at this stage of my life, I probably shouldn’t rule out women, either, as I always say I need a wife more than I need a husband. 😉 But it’s all about instinct, too.

Do they touch me and my skin erupts in flames or goose bumps? If yes, go to question 2. Do they stimulate my brain?

Sub-question 2A: Does that happen because their penis is so big, it tickles my brain, or 2B: They can form a coherent thought … with proper grammar? If 2A, take them home. If 2B, take them home and tie them up (and ravage them) and don’t let them get away.

That sort of thing.

So, tall or short, slight or buff, dark or light, this or that … or even the other thing — I don’t care. I’m just looking for some magic. And if Hottie McHotster enters my space and I feel anything resembling annoyance, discomfort or boredom, I would gladly encourage him to keep walking. But if not, I don’t care a thing about what the rest of the world says — I’m going to turn on the charm that I save for special occasions, and see what happens.

And maybe I’ll find a better way than a treadmill to burn off those excessive calories I’m storing in said Pudgy Pork Roast Ass … and it won’t be to get/keep a man!

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