https://www.angelfire.com/art2/dream/index.html
coolartgirl@hotmail.com
I Love Butter
Rebecca A. Barrington
Last weekend I was at a club dancing my ass off when I spied a big butterball man dancing a few couples behind my date. Now I have never been exactly attracted to pudgy boys because I sucked up all of the “Fat People Are Gross.” behavior-mod that is spit out in magazines and on TeeVee. But instantly my eyes glued right onto his big jelly belly. Suddenly his stomach became so sensuous, so alluring that I could not take my eyes away. It was like a glitteringly disco ball or maybe more like a ten-carat, finely-faceted emerald nestled in a Tiffany setting. Yep, that good. His belly rippled downward from below his breasts, all of the way south. It looked like the Mendacino tide crashing in over and over. I was in a trance.
When the song ended, it was Wilco doing ELT~Every Little Thing, (I will never forget that part...now it’s “our” song...sigh), I walked right up to him just inches from that ledge of a belly and said, “Hey big boy, I am digging you.”
His dancing partner, a lovely red-haired woman in black leather pants, snarled at me, then turned and left. She probably had to pee.
“Hey kid!” he said back to me, “You flirting with me?”
“Yep.” I said back to his towering 5’11” bulkhead.
“Frankly I have been staring at your magnificent stomach. Would you mind if I touched it?”
“Go ahead girlie.” he said in a sexy Russell Crowe Gladiator monotone.
I took both hands, palms out, and rubbed them in little circles across that vast expanse of flesh.
“Whee-Hoo!” I said to him, “Now that must be built out of a lot of gravy!”
“Yep.” he said to me, “Gravy...but the secret ingredient is...butter!”
“Oh yeah.” I said back to him gloating about that humongous mass of skin.
Right then the DJ spun on Crash by The Dave Matthew’s band and the fatboy started to wiggle.
“Wanna dance?” he said.
“Oh yes.”
There we were groovin’, me watching his belly shake in a dance of it’s own, when midway through the song he leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You’re a fucking rich girl aren’t you?”
“Moi?” I said faking French the way people who can’t speak French do.
He shook his head up and down.
“Yes you.”
“Nope, I’m from Milwaukee and I pop open a Blatz or two on a regular basis.”
“Sure you don’t.” he said back to me. “I’m gonna tell you right now kid that I don’t like BRW. They give me nothing but trouble.”
“Hey that’s not fair.” I said back to him. “Oh, and what the fuck does BRW stand for?”
“Beautiful Rich Women.” he said with a slight frown. “You’re all the same...whatever you want, you get. You just throw a man’s heart on the fire for breakfast, lick your chops, and go for another man for lunch. Me? I stick with buttery grits.”
“Ah c’mon.” I said dancing away, “Take a chance on me.” Really I was wondering how men always could tell the rich part. I did my best to hide it. Note to myself:work on that!
“I dunno.” he said and spun around turning his back to me.
Six whiskeys and three dances later he said, “Baby come back to my place. I wanna show you what a big man can do for you.” By this time his voice had rasped out so much he sounded like Barry White. And that was it...surrender.
We jumped into his Nissan and raced across the Golden Gate to his apartment.
Man he was fast. In minutes there I was on my hands and knees all ready for him, when he poked me and ping! I went flying across the room and smacked right into the wall. I picked myself up off the floor and realized that this sea wall of a man was too forceful for a little twiggirl like me.
“Ummm...we have a problem here.” I said trying to regain my conciousness.
“Hey, not to worry.” he said crawling off of the bed. “I have the perfect remedy.”
With that the man went to his closet and took out a soft white clothesline rope.
“Okay baby, jump up here on your knees again.”
Carefully and with much finesse he tried the rope around my waist and over to the bedposts.
“I’ve had this happened before.” he said and he started to whistle like he was a carpenter and I was his lady.
His hands deftly wove the rope into the most beautiful knots.
“Hey, where did you learn how to do that magician man?” I asked him.
“Boy Scout Handbook.” he said as his face broke into a smile.
“There.” he said and he crawled back onto the bed and wham! It was like suspended animation. Everything was moving in slo-mo and I was floating in the air like in a sensory-deprivation tank except it was all sensation, nothing was being deprived. Wow-o-wow! He twirled me. Spun me. Turned me over. Flipped me sideways. He was damn good!
And afterwards, the sweetest part of all...he untied me, laid down on the bed and placed my body on top of his. Oh, it was like melting into a futon with a heartbeat. I really liked that.
So forget everything you have heard about big butterball men (or women) being gross. That’s a big fat lie.
