The F Word (#SvelteHeaux2017)
Greetings, sweet things!
I hope you all got turnt this bank holiday with some pink wine and British sunshine (aka CLOUDS).
I had planned to deliver a completely different post to you this week, but *sings in Beyonce* I’ve been drinkin’, I’ve been drinkin’, so I felt like being troublesome and talking about what it’s like having sex as a big girl instead.
For those of you who have had the pleasure of indulging in my books, you already know that sex is my shit. It’s the greatest thing on this God given planet (next to pink wine, glitter and a lovely lady who goes by the name of Mary Jane), but as a big girl, the experience took some getting used to for me.
The First Time
To begin, I wanna talk to you about the day I lost my virginity, seeing as it’s just us.
I was 18 (god, that was so fucking long ago *weeps in old heaux*) and there was a boy in my college who slightly resembled one of my favourite singers at the time, Lloyd. He had dark skin, long lashes and hair for days, plus, he was Guyanese like me (Guyanese people are few and far between in the UK, so when we meet one of our own, it’s instant friends by force).
Right, so I’ve established that he was FIONE, so naturally a hooker was smitten off the bat. I’d never had an urge to go all the way with any guy before, but when I saw him my inner heaux came banging on my ovaries like, ‘Bitch, it’s time to get this show on the road, we is ready for all the dicks. RELEASE THE KRACKEN!’
And you should always listen to the voices in your head, so that exactly what my fast ass did.
After a few months *cough* weeks *cough* of playing coy, I end up at his house under the rouse of ‘doing his hair’. He pops in a DVD and obviously the film is dead because that’s all man dem knew back then -come to my house and watch shit DVD’s so you get bored and I can liven up your evening with penis. One thing led to another and the next thing I know, I am naked in a house in Thornton Heath with Ghost Rider not being watched in the background, and a beautiful boy kneeling over me.
I’m naked in front of a boy.
The boy can see that I’m naked.
Oh my god, what do I do?
‘Quick, cover your stretch marks!’ said the voice.
Fully naked in front of a boy for the first time and my first instinct was not to cover my boobs or my fantalooga like a normal bitch, it was to conceal the stretchmarks on my stomach.
So I’m lying there, naked, with the beautiful, long haired boy kneeling over me, and my arms are wrapped across my belly as if I could hug the stretchmarks away. And bitch I wished I could. I wished that they would disappear so that my body wouldn’t look like I’d been mauled by a Siberian tiger, but that wasn’t going to happen.
The initial reveal of yourself as a big bitch is nerve-wracking because you know that what your body looks like when you’re dressed up is not the fucking same as it does when you’re unwrapped (I said unwrapped because your body is a gift, bitch). In clothes you can prop up your tits, tuck in your tummy, lift your ass, cinch that waist and skim over any bulges.
Nudity fucks all of that carefully crafted deception up for you.
Nudity had my ass lying on my back with my boobs either in my throat trying to choke me or protecting my armpits (from what, I don’t know), depending on which angle I was lying in. I was still foolishly trying to suck in my belly even though the jig was clearly up and my overhang was real, with enough stretchmarks to recreate the London Underground map –fam, it was all long.
“What are you doing?” he said, trying to settle over me but not being able to because I was still embracing my gut.
“I don’t like my belly,” I half whispered back, avoiding eye contact. The fear of seeing him look at me in disgust and possibly reject me was taunting me in my head.
He rolled his eyes and eventually coaxed my arms from my frame and his penis into my womb with the power of dick-suasion.
It took a few lovers (don’t worry about how many), but I got over my body hang ups, eventually discovering that I don’t need to freak out about revealing my body because they kinda already know that I’m fat (duh) –they’re not expecting to see flat abs, perky boobs and flawless skin, it’s not part of the big bitch package, so I shouldn’t expect to be rejected for it. The only person surprised at their attraction to me naked, was me, which raised the question, if it didn’t make a difference to them, then who was I really hiding from?
I know that there are some women out there who are uncomfortable showing their body to their partners, to the point that when it comes to being intimate they keep some clothes on or turn off all the lights. If experience has taught me anything it’s that you don’t need to be uncomfortable in your own skin. This is your body and it’s the only one you’ve got. It doesn’t deserve the shame of self-loathing that was taught to you through anti-fat narratives in the media and anyone who has tried to put you down (including yourself). You are more than entitled to loving your body and celebrating it exactly how it is.
I did and it has improved my confidence and the quality of my sex life like mad. Loving my naked frame, rolls, stretchmarks, wayward titties and all, allowed me to let go and truly enjoy myself (be an even bigger heaux) even more.
Dick Appointment Prep
Dick prep is essential to the overall experience of the dick appointment. I’m out here tryna do vivacious vixen in the skreetz, so my shit needs to be correct! A heaux needs to look good, smell good and most importantly have alla this body-ody-ody smooth like velvet -not for him, for my damn self.
Dick appointments mean that it’s time to SHAVE EVERYTHING!
Now I dunno bout you heaux’s, but a bitch like me is scared of getting a wax. I watched a show about fanny upkeep one time and this bitch went to get the ‘Hollywood’ done to her vagina (a Hollywood is when they strip everything off then give you a vajazzle)…
Bitch, when they ripped that paper off of that poor woman, there was skin attached to it, her tunush was bleeding and she was weeping. AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR PAIN AND PATCHY PATCHY PUM-PUM? Not this bitch. Nope. You can count me the fuck out! Razors take forever but my pussoir will exit the process in one piece.
So like I said, SHAVE EVERYTHING. You get in the shower and you get to transforming into a silky slut, and everything is fine…until you get to your thighs *groans in ‘plis, for why?’*. Hooker, that is a lot of fucking space to cover when you are a plush pal. Thick thighs may save lives, but shaving them makes you feel like you are wasting half of it. This is where hair removal cream is your friend, cause don't nobody have time to do exploration adventure on every patch of skin, especially not that fuckin' bikini line (or as a more refined lady of my stature likes to call it -the vagina crease), like my name is Indiana Jones looking for treasure.
When you are chunky, shaving that shit is extra effort cos you gotta hold up the thigh meat, cock up your foot and shave it at fourteen different angles at least five times before you get fed up and resign yourself to the possibility that he may not even notice those three hairs so why stress your heart?
*Continues trying to shave those three hairs anyway.*
Once you’re all silky smooth you delve into your draws to find that good lingerie set. You know the one I’m talking about; that pretty matching one with the sturdy bra and the French knickers that go up high enough to tuck your tummy into.
Jheeze! Hold tight the good heaux lingerie. It cost a grip but it keeps him whipped. Got a bitch looking like a plus size Instagram model, looking at myself in the mirror and practicing my come hither looks whilst seeing how much I can move before the waistband rolls down and fucks up my illusion.
Love On Top
I dunno about you bitches, but sometimes a heaux does not want to go on top. I’mma be real, I will make an effort (if I’m high or drunk enough), but bitch, I am lazy. I would do it more but in 2016 man dem went public with their hatred for that back and forth shit that we be loving. They want Cirque De Heauxle trampoline acrobatics on the dick -bare bouncing and stress.
Bastard, I am heavy and I don’t exercise enough, do I look like I have the stamina or the patience to do squats and take dick at the same time? Because I don’t!
Fam, I swear in 2017 I’m trying to be a better heaux tomorrow than I was today, but shit, sometimes this extracurricular activity is too much on a bitch’s knees. I gotta sit up straight, suck my shit in, arch my back so my nipples don’t knock me the fuck out when I start to get too ahead of myself, be aware of my angles so my shit looks correct, brace myself on you without snapping your bones, do all this damn bouncing because your ass can’t learn how to appreciate the 90s RnB grind, now your penis is trying to murder my cervix and I gotta keep my face looking cute throughout all of this whilst not getting tired.
Get out of my Caucasian house with that mess.
And then there’s the crushing fear… and when I say crushing fear it’s a bit like that shitty feeling you get when bae pulls you onto their lap, and as much as you’d like to feel all dainty and light, instead you’re thinking “Oh god, I’m cutting off the circulation to his damn leg. Why is he trying to firm it and pretend I’m not heavy when I can feel his thighs shaking like they’re about to collapse?”
It’s like that except all of your anxiety stems from being on top of them and crushing them.
Every time I get on top I try to be le sexy swan slut, just elegant af with my shit, but the reality is that I am in fact not an elegant swan, I am an awkward man squishing potato whose only talent is getting one leg over properly, then falling and fumbling the rest of my way into position. As soon as I’m in place and I get this haphazard performance on the road, I am painstakingly aware of gravity pulling me down, killing him heavily…but some guys are into that so whatever.
This is why big girls give that top flight fellatio –we’re trying to keep our CRB’s clean. Ain’t nobody got time for no involuntary man slaughter; Cause: death by snu-snu. Goodbye. That plus, if your head game is bomb enough, you don’t need to go on top and (this only counts for women. Men, do your job...both of them).
This Is Some Skinny Bitch Shit
Let’s flip the script; he’s on top of you (as he should be) and everything is wonderful. Suddenly he decides that he wants to change positions, and as long as you don’t have to go on top you’re all for it…until he picks up your legs and pushes them too far back, and you know exactly what I’m talking about.
You know the struggle, bitch.
Now, don’t get it twisted, big bitches are flexible. No sir, flexibility is not a problem; the problem is how our body is reacting to being twissup like a damn human pretzel.
He’s got your feet up over your head and you want to enjoy yourself, you’re trying to focus on enjoyment, but this ambitious new position has your stomach rolls fighting each other, just pressing the air out of your damn lungs to the point where you’re getting lightheaded from lack of oxygen -you’re basically dying for the dick at that point. Your breasts are in your esophagus, choking the shit out of you, you’re starting to get a cramp in your hip, and because of all this extra mess, you can’t even focus enough to get your nut.
Bruv, it’s toooooo long, but at the same time you don’t wanna be the fat bitch who can only do missionary and hold a back shot, so you firm it. You don’t breathe and you firm that shit because -pride!
Looool this post is an actual mess, but I wanted to have a little fun with you guys before I get back to complaining about this svelte life in the making.
I finally went and got a personal trainer. We’ve done one session so far and honey…*breathe* I’ll save that for another time.
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Click the picture below to read my previous #SvelteHeaux2017 post: Being the Fat Friend
Until next time, fancy face
Love Scotty x