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(Not Really) Hot BBW Erotica with Romeo

I didn’t ever think I’d be the subject of hot BBW erotica because I’m not a BBW. I used to be, though. When I was 18, I lost a third of my bodyweight. Now I’m just normal weight, which on my small frame puts me solidly into the “thick” category, but not a hot BBW.

I’m tall, though, and therefore a US size 12. So when perusing Craigslist personals (as one did, back in the day when these still existed and one wanted some seedy action outside of the cookie-cutter dating site fare), I come across someone looking for a match who is size US 12-20. He claims to be a bodybuilder, and he just has a thing for hot BBW erotica.

I’m in my mid-30’s at this time and up until now have never been appreciated for my size. Perhaps I didn’t appreciate myself for my size, and that’s why I attracted men who would rather see me smaller. The thought of being with someone who wants me to be even bigger is enough to pique my interest, so I message him.

He gets back to me, and sends me photos. Indeed, he is a bodybuilder. He’s Mexican American, and his name is Romeo.

No. Really. 

His name is Romeo. 

Couldn’t even change that name for this blog post because how perfect is that?

I have never been with a Latino at this point, nor have I been with a bodybuilder. I tend to be drawn to men with very little bodyfat and not much muscle. It takes a lot of time to build a body and I would rather that time be spent on other things. 

Me. Enriching their mind and heart. Creative pursuits. Adventure. Really anything but repetitive motions towards shaping their own body. I am not into looks and don’t find myself consciously choosing this, but if you lined up the men I’ve been with they are definitely a field of string beans.

And so these size games intrigue me, and I agree to meet him. I’m living in Topanga and he’s living somewhere South of Los Angeles that is a ridiculously long drive for me. I take the drive anyway.

We meet for coffee and the first thing I notice about him is that he is shorter than I am, probably 5’7”. I have no problem with short men. What he lacks in stature he certainly makes up for in girth.

The man is indeed a bodybuilder. He is stacked and ripped. 

I ask him why, why when he can use the work he’s put into his body to have anything he wants, why does he want hot BBW erotica? 

He tells me that his first girlfriend was a size 16 and that he just got hooked on that sexually. I’ve heard this before, that men tend to have their sexual tastes cemented early in their sexual experiences, and that women are more flexible. I’ve met others who are stuck on whatever it was that first introduced them to sexuality. Still not sure that I believe that all men are like that.

Romeo tells me that specifically, he is into fat mounds.

Romeo remains the first and last man I’ve ever met who had specific taste in mounds. I’m so surprised by this that the fetish doesn’t really bother me. Usually men with fetishes aren’t my thing, even if I happen to fall squarely within their fetish. It doesn’t ever feel about me, it just feels like I’m some sort of pawn to their desire for something else.

Romeo also tells me that he enjoys helping women lose weight and become more fit, and introducing them to the world of weight training in pursuit of that goal. And then, when they fall below a certain size: his work is done and he loses interest.

The mixture of strange societal agreements about size, a weird fetish, and his obvious winning game in targeting women for low self-esteem should bother me, but it doesn’t. He is genuine and honest and we end the date with a kiss. He’s a good kisser.

And he is not shy about letting me know that he wants to fuck me.

On my end, well… he’s a bodybuilder with beautiful honey-almond skin and rippling muscles. I am not attracted to people for their looks, but touching him is a new experience. I’ve never felt a body like his. Yes, the courtship seems mechanical. He’s found a perfect system and I am ringing a bell so many others have. But, he’s a Latin lover. You know what people say about Latin lovers. Isn’t it time I found out?

So, I invite him over. He shows up to my beautiful place in Topanga. He’s clean and well dressed. We waste no time.

He undresses me. Peels off my shirt, slips both of his thumbs under the elastic waistband of my shorts and sends them to the floor. I step out of them and his arms are around me. One around my waist holding me close as the other unclasps my bra in a swift motion that gives me high hopes for his skills.

Then he pushes me away from him and removes his own clothing sensuously.

It’s my own private striptease and the man has the body of a male stripper. Rippling biceps. Bulging deltoids. Chest as big as mine. Could grate cheese on his serratus muscles.

Naked. Kissing. He slides his arm tighter around my waist, dips, and loops the other one under my knees, picking me up off the ground. There’s the hot BBW erotica I want.

This is the first time in my adult life I’ve ever been carried by a man. I wrap my arms around his neck and nestle into his pecs, nuzzling his neck with kisses as he slowly, confidently, and easily carries me to the bed. He places me delicately down on the bed and falls into it on top of me…

And he’s a fucking mess.

Sloppy. Eager. I try to think of a way to get out of it but keep going out of curiosity. He smells like nothing. What is to him? What’s inside?

He plays with my clit for a skinny minute before moving on to my mound. And there, he dwells. Kneading and massaging the modest layer of fat I have there as if he could make it swell to the size he has a fetish for.

“Oh my, your mound is so fucking hot. I love your fat mound.” he says.

I look at him blankly. I’ve wanted to be wanted for my bodyfat. And here it is, but it’s like, on a scale of one to ten sexy like a one point three. I’ve never even thought about my mound in any way, shape, or form. This is not the hot BBW erotica I signed up for.

Eventually my mound feels sore from him pulling on my hairs and spending just way too much time there. I pull out a condom as a way to knock him off his course. 

His cock is proportional and aesthetically pleasing as is the rest of his body. A bead of precum at the tip. He rolls the condom while kneeling over me. He grabs a couple pillows and puts them under me and kneels back on his haunches. I see that he means to play with my mound again while he’s fucking me and am about to tell him he’d better play with my clit instead, but I’m distracted by the sight of him.

I’m on my back, looking at him through my spread legs. The sunlight through the window graces the curves and angles of his torso. His hips receding behind his bulging transverse abdominal muscles. Perfectly round nipples peeking out of sculpted pecs. There is no denying his body is beautiful.

I try my best to be visual.

This effort falls apart as soon as he enters me. He throws his head back as though it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, sliding in in a broken, ill-timed movement that feels like he’s tripped and fallen and as a result his cock is in my pussy. Then he starts to work it like he likes it. His rhythm is awful. He’s all over-excited gasps and choppy breath. 

He is clearly in a world all of his own. No chemistry or energy between us at all, just two bodies fucking. I am finally ready to call it quits on this stupid experiment, but before I can he shouts and comes.

“Oh fuck yeah I’m going to come. That fat mound. Uhhhhhh”. 

And it’s over. In fewer than two minutes.

He of course takes a shower, because he’s one of the worst lovers I’ve ever had, and anyone who jumps up from bed to clean up after sex joins that club for me.

We politely pretend that we’ll see each other again. I linger on the goodbye kiss because his kisses are the best thing about him, better even than his “perfect” body. 

And then he walks out of my life forever. 

I’ll admit I haven’t had a Latino lover or a bodybuilder since. I promise to not compare the next men in either of these categories to Romeo.


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