Savior of the Fat Women

I want to save the fat women. I want to have sex with them all. Ravage them. I, me, superhero to the obese. Those truncated legs, full and stout, like a lager that I’m too weak to drink.

When I walk up the sidewalk, down the sidewalk, they’re everywhere, filling their clothes with flesh and muscle and meat. The denim aches, dreaming of the days when it was as one, not cut and sewed and filled to complete capacity. The cotton shirt knows all to well the plight of the denim, with it’s own lost hopes of the field and factory where air was not just a dream from the past.

There are so many out there, so many everywhere. They walk in packs, like beautiful bison and buffalo, but they don’t share the strength of the bison, they don’t share the courage of the buffalo. No, these women, they may flock together, but they can all be picked apart. And when you have had one of them under the sheets, yes always under the sheets, for they are insecure and hide themselves among the dark springs, the pressing coils, you can then have them all. It just takes one. It just takes that break, that break into the herd, taking the weakest down. Take her and ravage her. Fulfill her. I am skinny, I am athletic, I am attractive, I have soiled the garments and sheets of many past skinny women with my ejaculate, my white fluoride on blue one thousand count. The most expensive in the store.

But I’m through with the one thousand count shoppers. Yes, I’m all done with that. I want one hundred count. I want the sheets to tear under our weight; hers nearly double mine, hell, double mine and more. All of that flesh, rolling and pushing the pillows away onto the creaking floor with her watching cats.

The cats, they all have cats. They watch and envy me, wanting what only I can give. Those cats with their emerald eyes, cut and polished with saline, watch and wish they could do what I do, but they have their place. They can give all the affection they want, they can be squeezed between those huge weight filled mammaries, grams upon grams of weight, pounds upon pounds, but they can’t be squeezed between those thighs. They can’t be in between those trunks like I can.

So I press in there. I push in there with myself, my strength, all my muscles working to fulfill. But I only work to fulfill myself. I don’t need to fulfill her anymore, my getting naked; my getting erect has already fulfilled her.

Yes! I am her, their, savior. I am there to save them from giving up. I am there, here, to always and forever take them to the world where the attractive skinny asses and thighs and waists and necks, ears, fingers, toes, ankles, and wrists, reside. We’re in different worlds. But I welcome her, them. Come live with me among the beautiful people, even if it’s only for a moment, for those short sweaty minutes when you cover your breasts with your huge arms and hands, with your fingernails of fire engine red, so that I can’t see them bounce and roll like waves of salt against walls of more salt.

“Let your hands free,” I say. I know you won’t but I say it to you to make you feel better, knowing it only makes you feel worse because you know, you can see it my eyes, that I don’t want you to move your hands either. Cover up all that reproduction.

I have helped one. I have moved her, I have moved inside of her. She wants more, she wants my mouth in her, but I won’t do that. No, never that, I’m a savior, I’m not a God. So I move on, for she has friends. She has so many friends like her and the population is only growing—doubling and tripling. Praise to the fast food restaurants, praise to the recessive or dominant genes that make those asses so compound and those foreheads so wanting and flat.

Another street, much later in time, another day and month, and there she is. It’s not her, but its one of her people. She is in denim. She is in a sweatshirt, its hooded and two sizes too big. I love it. I love how they stand, I love how she stands. There is so much weight on those feet, on those ankles and shoes. She no doubt paints her toenails, and the weight of her feet must be amazed by the color in the dark of her ribbed Hanes socks. Thick and white, double stitched. I want to help her. I want to save her and make her naked in the dark, eyes closed, hair everywhere, body overtaking mine, with those hands. Those hands, those arms, holding and holding and holding those breasts tight.

Don’t let them move. Don’t ever let them free.