Fat Girls and Art Galleries in Conformist America

I've been outside my goddamn mind the last few days. Actually, it's been good. Never mind that. It hasn't. It's been sucking shit. It's just that I'm having one of those weeks. No focus, sinking into the quagmire of swirling miasma that is my inner world. (You'd love it in here!) It doesn't help that I haven't been able to focus on anything except the virtues of fat girls. Of course, that's not the strange part. I'm very rarely able to focus on anything other than the virtues of fat girls, especially lately. I've recently rediscovered Asshley, who is now older and even more beautiful than when I first discovered her online lo these many years ago. She's considerably heavier, her face is hotter than ever, and she's got me talking to myself. That's the 'good' part. Never mind. I'm losing it. This is not what I'm trying to say. Shout-Out's to Asshley.

What's got me crazy is the way people think. Er, I mean, the way people DON'T think. I feel I may explode from madness at any moment. I don't know, I talk to people, but they've all gone deaf. They're fixated on 'conventionality.' All there is is being like everybody else. Well, it's all the fault of living in a culture that promotes so-called 'norms,' instead of promoting the liberty and sovereignty of the individual. We know nothing of individuality in America ca. 2008. All we know is our media-driven conformity which leads, as is plain for all to see, to a culture of Ultimate conformity. Modern day American culture will have almost nothing of relevance to leave behind because in spite of all the 'cool' it has accomplished, which is considerable, it has still not ascended to the level of thought, which is to say that it refuses to renounce intolerance, and this failure will appear to posterity for exactly what it is, a reflection of mass spiritual ineptitude mired in bigotry and prejudice on a multitude of sociological levels. Some legacy for the 'Leader of the Free World.' 'Scuse me, I need a second to throw up into my office trash can here. Fuck it, this is not the point, either.

Sorry, but I'm losin' it again. I'm trying to tell you about my being transmogrified into spinach during an encounter with the unfathomably sexy and powerful legs of a huge woman. It's just that my fucking mind sometimes races. This is one of those times.

OK, so her name is Rebecca, she is huge, gorgeous, and powerful, and she turned up in my gallery late one spring afternoon, the spectral forms of two fanged black angels perched menacingly astride her shoulders. She brought her friend, Vanessa, to me in search of a particular artwork. Popular artist/I happen to inventory. Obscure piece/but I happen to have it. I don't really give a rat's ass if Vanessa buys the piece of art, (of course, that would be fine) I just want her to stick around considering it for as long as possible so I can get to know Rebecca. The furies take their leave, having already accomplished their mission of alerting me as to her intentions here.

Rebecca is young and fine. Early twenties and already probably pushing 250. She's wearing a tight one-piece black stretch dress from which her massive and quite fabulous tits are literally escaping. She wears a lavender business jacket over the dress and is adorned in black stockings and some major league high heels. Delicious, spiked, black patent leather high heels. Very nice. She's blond, adorable, and exuding a serious talent for domination. She speaks with the slightest trace of a lisp, really cute and sexy, and she and the diminutive Vanessa sit down on the sofa where she crosses her big legs, skirt riding up just enough to let you know those legs look good and we talk about paintings.

There are quite a few people mingling about, and Rebecca knows what I'm thinking (I've learned to make it really obvious to fat girls that I adore them) so she squirms a little bit on the couch, adjusting her position, clothes, etc, and ends up with the skirt hiked about halfway up her gorgeous leg. She smiles deliciously as my eyes continue to watch the tennis match--backandforthandbackandforthandbackandforth--between her legs and her monumental cleavage.

-Sit down here next to me, she says.

I comply, sitting on the arm of the sofa looking down upon the dreamy expanse of her body.

-I'd like you to kiss me, she says.

-What?

-Mmm-hmmm.

-Right now?

-Yep.

Ogod. Will this work? It's yes or no, right? 3 guesses. I bend forward toward her face.

-Oh no, silly! Not my lips.

I look her right in the diabolical eyes.

-Right here.

She points to a spot on her leg in the mid-thigh area. Jeezus, Mary, and Joseph. Fuck it. As I kneel down, looking this way and that, worrying about who's looking, she slaps me across the face with the force of speeding semi.

-You pay attention to me, she says sternly.

She hikes that dress up even farther and migod, the size, the texture, (divinely supple) the smell, (lilac fragrance, maybe) all of it descends upon me mightily.

-OK....ready.....set....Go! Kiss it!

My lips touch her sublime youthful flesh and the world recedes into its dry dismal shell as we whirl hurtling into new dimensions.

-Houston, we have lift-off, she chides.

She lifts her leg further and nods OK on the underside. I tunnel to the rear of her thigh, kiss, and go farther galactic. It is my texture: soft/firm smoothly rippling/ no muscle/all fat/more powerful than buildings.

-Mmmm. Big boy seems to have caught his ride. Where ya goin’ big boy? Flying high? Into the sky?

-Leg man, Leg man! Vanessa exults.

-Mmm-hmmm. Like my panties, Simon?

Maybe answered. If I did it was in the affirmative.

-OK, Sky Pilot. Onward, into the heart of things.

She slides her dress all the way up and points to the fattest portion of the upper inner thigh. Opens her legs slightly and smiles. Floral and fragrant, every inch a botanical journey. I arrive but my lips don’t touch. She snaps them shut, vast columns of the transcendental substance, a lock/a vice. I latch onto each with my hands/too strong too incendiary. My head is swallowed but for the very top protruding somewhat. Locks my gaze straight-on into hers. She’s a-giggle looking into my rapidly blood-shooting eyes and her high pitched voice is slightly on the raspy side which makes my cock grow stiff as starch. Sculptured marble, ding dong steel girder dipstick. Rebecca is concussion-ing me without effort, so strong are those delicious big/fat legs beneath my feeble hands.

-Everybody’s watching now, she says. You don’t care, do you?

Vanessa leans over and looks into my tortured face, and she goes a-giggle as well, to the uncontrollable.

-Check his cock, Rebecca tells Vanessa.

She crawls over me, kneels there and checks the pump.

-Fully locked and upright, she reports.

-HA! (staring into my face) Look at him! There he goes! Farther he flies/I see it, I see it/Come back, Simple Simon, come back. Describe the view for us if you can! HaHaHaHa!! Go ahead and pull down his pants, Rebecca says.

Vanessa works them downward into the hogtie.

-Watch, he’ll go farther. A LOT farther! Look how red his face is!

-Red Face! Red Face! Vanessa echoes.

Voices...
Omigod!!
Jeezus Christ!
What’s going on here?
What are you doing?
Ogod, I think she’s killing him!
Somebody call the cops!

Heavy scrambling going on in the real world. But not for me. Not now.

-OK, Rebecca says, here it is, watch. Here he goes…see! Just the right shade of purple now. I think he’s more than just a leg man. I think he’s MUCH more than that.

She keeps staring into my eggplant face, applying even more pressure.

-Y’know how much harder I could squeeze, if I wanted to? If I showed you, I’d kill you. But I’m gonna turn it up to the next level, at least.

My hands flail/claw/paw/pull/slap to the power of nothing. She laughs and gives me just a little more psi. I’m thinking it’s over when she reaches up and teasingly pulls the top of her dress down, releasing those exploding torpedoes, which bounce in place a couple of times and cause me to (somehow) squeal. Rebecca laughed out loud, Vanessa joining her in a dissonant duet. Webern, I think.

-Didjoo hear him? Rebecca laughs. He did it! He squealed. Just like a fucking little pig!

She bounced her breasts up and down with her hands a few times. I swear I hear the bones crack in my skull, same time.

-Happy, Li’l Simon? she taunts, Happy now?

Joy unspeakable and full of glorious cunt scent.

-C'mon, little piggie, squeal some more! Squeeeeeeel for us girls!

She keeps flaunting the breasts, over and over, squeal upon squeal, building her psychotic-catatonic man. I wonder if I died.

-Let’s finish up and go home, Rebecca says to Vanessa, before the cops come.

She lets go of my head, and as she does, I throw up on the floor.

-Sorta saw that comin,’ she giggles.

She stands up, and Vanessa pulls me onto my back in the middle of the floor. Rebecca ties her skirt up around her waist and stands straddling my head. I’m looking straight up at the two divine Towers of Babel. Pole climb to heaven.

-Now you see, Vanessa, this is why I keep telling you you’ve got to put some weight on. It’s the only way you can do this and have it, you know, be effective!

She rocks back and forth a couple of times, just to tease me, and then delivers a massive, Rasslin’ style butt drop, WWE, full body weight, right onto my head. Indescribable/unfathomable/unhandle-able amount of pain. Momentary/Then I leave. Well, pretty much gone. Felt the second one only a little bit.

-See, Vanessa, then you get back up and do it again, and you’ll be all done. It’s off to the hospital for Simple Simon.

She drops. Booooooom!! Floor shook damned hard. My body kicks, flops, writhes, convulses, and expels vomit, bile, blood…Oh yeah, and lost control of bladder and bowels there. Huge pool of piss forms on the carpet, and goddamn the place stinks to high heaven as I dump a landfill-sized load of shit from the other end. Rebecca stands up and gleefully watches me twitch and jerk.

-Can you still see my legs, dipshit? She asks.

If I can, I can’t answer.

-Ewwww, he stinks, laughs Vanessa.

-Let’s go, Vanessa, Rebecca says.

They are both laughing hysterically, schoolgirl belly-laughing fits. Rebecca pushes my body over onto my stomach with her foot, takes me by the hair, and proceeds to hold my face a few inches above the fetid medley of shit/piss/vomit, showing it to me like an untrained puppy. Then, she shoves my face down into it and holds it there. Lifts it up again, shows me, shoves it down again. Their laughter sounds like air raid sirens now. She repeats this a couple more times, then slams my face down in it one last time, leaving me for dead as they exit together.

The police came, I was hospitalized, and somebody suggested the mess be cleaned up. On account of the fact that it really did stink.