Sex With A Very Large Woman

RobertLevin · 12-16-2004, 09:43 PM

During my twenties and thirties it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on the planet.

I’d prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.

Okay?

Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain’s. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim—and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision—I’d obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective, and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I’d probably have been at it much longer.

Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I’m forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn’t entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn’t as comprehensive as I’d have wished (variations on the theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), the mental snapshots I've kept of the women I WAS able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me the price of a subscription to “Jugs.”

And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.

Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who’d just days before—and for the first time—come to New York from the Midwest on a month-long vacation.

We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart—like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word “humongous” could accurately depict—a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.

She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn’t yet scored.

In a brief conversation—during which it occurred to me that she’d be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds—Peggie told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production of “Grease,” and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.

Then she invited me to her hotel room.

(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.

“That’s it,” he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. “Right there—that dude. That’s the definition of drunk.”)

At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of a package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size tub of Velveeta.

Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box.

Now it’s not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but the more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night’s activities would have been the theme from “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” The thing was—and my insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor—I could not for the life of me find Peggie’s vulva. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. What was compounding the problem? Simply put, Peggie’s body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I’d located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I’d inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie’s anatomy.

You’re thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I’d located Peggie’s stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.

I was at last at the pleasure grove.

Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Peggie’s pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn’t at all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World.

In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That’s the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in New York now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me.

Having completed my mission and worried she’d suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by and immediately supportive of her decision.

As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I’ll never know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that more likely on her mind was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.

lumberjim · 12-16-2004, 09:55 PM

boy, howdy. talk about an entrance.

welcome, bob. did you happen to ask her how she managed to wipe herself? just curious.

xoxoxoBruce · 12-16-2004, 10:08 PM

garnet · 12-16-2004, 10:23 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by RobertLevin

I could not for the life of me find Peggie’s vulva.

Uhhhhh...what?

xoxoxoBruce · 12-16-2004, 10:29 PM

Well that's NOT the dangley thing in the back of your throat.

Nightsong · 12-16-2004, 10:43 PM

Welcome to the Cellar from another long winded poster. Have you ever heard the song Pretty when Im drunk by the BLood Hound gang? Fits a lot of the story. I myself though have known a few corpulant women, but the largest I ever saw bedded was dating a friend of mine. Not only did we have a safety line on him to recover the body but afterwords we couldnt find the couch they were performing on.

As for trying to bed differnt body types. I can agree it presents interesting prospects. Since my apperance is definatly NOT GQ, I have to really heavily on personality. THeir lack of it and my multiplicity. (har) THough, and I will be pounded for this, I still find the spirit motivating the body to be far more stimulating a reason to bed someone. Not that I every turn down a chance.

Just a nod to your body types though, have you ever had a woman with no arms or legs? Now that is story writing material. One day I will have to finish putting it to paper.

Dagney · 12-16-2004, 10:44 PM

And this is where I just tell myself to shut up...right?

A quick visit to google later, proves you're either a very BAD plagarist, or someone who just needs his ego stroked....

The source of such 'profound' literature

Edited to add what I found on Google, because I'm damn sure this man isn't a celebrated glass artist, pianist, or oncologist......nope, just an asshole with a keyboard

garnet · 12-16-2004, 10:46 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by xoxoxoBruce

Well that's NOT the dangley thing in the back of your throat.

NO, it certainly isn't...

Nightsong · 12-16-2004, 11:00 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by garnet

NO, it certainly isn't...

Dephends on exactly what your doing now doesnt it...

zippyt · 12-16-2004, 11:23 PM

Just roll the fat bytch in flour and shoot for the wet spot !!!!!!

wolf · 12-17-2004, 12:16 AM

Dagney beat me to this ... I read the initial posting at work, and something just didn't hang right about it. A quick google later found no fewer than 78 identical postings of the "Peggie" story.

The only question remaining to be asked is ... Why here?

If you are going to participate, welcome.

If you are going to recycle old, and not very literate crap, move on. This is not the forum you are looking for.

Fudge Armadillo · 12-17-2004, 08:28 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by wolf

If you are going to recycle old, and not very literate crap, move on. This is not the forum you are looking for.

Well said. The sooner this post gets removed the better.

elf · 12-17-2004, 11:16 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Nightsong

Dephends on exactly what your doing now doesnt it...

You rock.

SteveDallas · 12-17-2004, 11:22 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by wolf

If you are going to recycle old, and not very literate crap, move on. This is not the forum you are looking for.

Oh, I dunno... we could have an area for slow-moving targets.. to help the newbies sharpen up their flamage skills?

Naah, on second thought that's not what most of em need help with!

Undertoad · 12-17-2004, 11:25 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Fudge Armadillo

The sooner this post gets removed the better.

Sometimes you remove the body, and sometimes you just let the body sit as a warning to the others.

12-16-2004, 09:43 PM	#1
RobertLevin Rapscallion Join Date: Dec 2004 Posts: 5	Sex With A Very Large Woman During my twenties and thirties it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on the planet. I’d prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing. Okay? Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain’s. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim—and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision—I’d obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective, and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I’d probably have been at it much longer. Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I’m forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn’t entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn’t as comprehensive as I’d have wished (variations on the theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), the mental snapshots I've kept of the women I WAS able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me the price of a subscription to “Jugs.” And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell. Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who’d just days before—and for the first time—come to New York from the Midwest on a month-long vacation. We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart—like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word “humongous” could accurately depict—a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China. She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn’t yet scored. In a brief conversation—during which it occurred to me that she’d be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds—Peggie told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production of “Grease,” and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth. Then she invited me to her hotel room. (As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s it,” he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. “Right there—that dude. That’s the definition of drunk.”) At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of a package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size tub of Velveeta. Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box. Now it’s not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but the more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night’s activities would have been the theme from “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” The thing was—and my insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor—I could not for the life of me find Peggie’s vulva. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. What was compounding the problem? Simply put, Peggie’s body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I’d located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I’d inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie’s anatomy. You’re thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I’d located Peggie’s stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring. I was at last at the pleasure grove. Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Peggie’s pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn’t at all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World. In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That’s the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in New York now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me. Having completed my mission and worried she’d suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by and immediately supportive of her decision. As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I’ll never know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that more likely on her mind was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.

12-16-2004, 09:55 PM	#2
lumberjim I can hear my ears Join Date: Oct 2003 Posts: 25,571	boy, howdy. talk about an entrance. welcome, bob. did you happen to ask her how she managed to wipe herself? just curious. __________________ This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality Embrace this moment, remember We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion ~MJKeenan

12-16-2004, 10:08 PM	#3
xoxoxoBruce The future is unwritten Join Date: Oct 2002 Posts: 71,105	__________________ The descent of man ~ Nixon, Friedman, Reagan, Trump.

12-16-2004, 10:29 PM	#5
xoxoxoBruce The future is unwritten Join Date: Oct 2002 Posts: 71,105	Well that's NOT the dangley thing in the back of your throat. __________________ The descent of man ~ Nixon, Friedman, Reagan, Trump.

12-16-2004, 10:44 PM	#7
Dagney The Prodigal Brat Returneth Join Date: Dec 2002 Location: North Cackalacky Posts: 1,107	And this is where I just tell myself to shut up...right? A quick visit to google later, proves you're either a very BAD plagarist, or someone who just needs his ego stroked.... The source of such 'profound' literature Edited to add what I found on Google, because I'm damn sure this man isn't a celebrated glass artist, pianist, or oncologist......nope, just an asshole with a keyboard __________________ The Constitution gives every American the right to make a total fool out of himself. But that doesn't mean you need to. Last edited by Dagney; 12-16-2004 at 10:48 PM.

12-16-2004, 10:43 PM	#6
Nightsong Wang Dude Join Date: Mar 2003 Location: South Carolina Posts: 177	Welcome to the Cellar from another long winded poster. Have you ever heard the song Pretty when Im drunk by the BLood Hound gang? Fits a lot of the story. I myself though have known a few corpulant women, but the largest I ever saw bedded was dating a friend of mine. Not only did we have a safety line on him to recover the body but afterwords we couldnt find the couch they were performing on. As for trying to bed differnt body types. I can agree it presents interesting prospects. Since my apperance is definatly NOT GQ, I have to really heavily on personality. THeir lack of it and my multiplicity. (har) THough, and I will be pounded for this, I still find the spirit motivating the body to be far more stimulating a reason to bed someone. Not that I every turn down a chance. Just a nod to your body types though, have you ever had a woman with no arms or legs? Now that is story writing material. One day I will have to finish putting it to paper.

12-16-2004, 11:23 PM	#10
zippyt LONG LIVE KING ZIPPY! per Feetz Join Date: Mar 2003 Location: Arkansas Posts: 7,661	Just roll the fat bytch in flour and shoot for the wet spot !!!!!! __________________ "Success is getting what you want. Happiness is wanting what you get. " Brother Dave Gardner

12-17-2004, 12:16 AM	#11
wolf lobber of scimitars Join Date: Jul 2001 Location: Phila Burbs Posts: 20,774	Dagney beat me to this ... I read the initial posting at work, and something just didn't hang right about it. A quick google later found no fewer than 78 identical postings of the "Peggie" story. The only question remaining to be asked is ... Why here? If you are going to participate, welcome. If you are going to recycle old, and not very literate crap, move on. This is not the forum you are looking for. __________________ wolf eht htiw og "Conspiracies are the norm, not the exception." --G. Edward Griffin The Creature from Jekyll Island High Priestess of the Church of the Whale Penis

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