Number 16 was a rare find – a genuinely good mate with whom I spent many a brilliant hour getting utterly pissed and chatting about anything and everything.
The first time we had sex was a complete accident – I don’t think either of us had entertained the notion until one night, after downing enough tequila to fell an elephant, we ended up snogging mid-karaoke in a dirty pub at 2 am.
Oh. We’re doing this, are we? OK.
That initial shag eventually led to a comfortable routine – beer, more beer, yet more beer and then a pissed stumble back to his flat where we’d swap stories of past sexual conquests, smoke an obscene number of fags, then undress each other and fuck like we were playing tennis.
I don’t want to describe a specific incident, but I would like to make an observation – number 16 made noises.
The sex itself was vanilla – frantic, hot, pissed and desperate. We’d both decide we’d had enough of drinking and went into his room to strip off. And while we were stripping he’d talk, and while he was cupping my tits in his hands he’d talk, and when we were fucking he’d talk. And it was so. Fucking. Good.
He spoke to me, he moaned, he said ‘oh yes’ when I did something nice. He sucked in big gulps of breath while I had his cock in my mouth. He sighed. He moaned a bit more. He went ‘ugh’ when he came.
Number 16 said things and talked dirty. He told me he was hard, that he loved how it felt when he was inside me. He told me how wet I was. He asked me if I liked it. He groaned and sighed and climaxed with vocal, lusty relief.
Good lord the world could do with more vocal boys. Vocal boys make me feel so good. I love the challenge of doing things to make them go ‘aaah’ and if I get that feedback I’m going to keep doing it again and again. If I could request anything from the gentlemen of this world it’d be to turn up the fucking volume.
You don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, you don’t have to scream and cry and wail like a mourning widow. But don’t lie there in silence, humping me stoically with a face of concentration like you’re solving a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Come on boys – make some noise.
We’re still mates. He has a girlfriend now and is almost like a proper grown-up. They go on holiday and have dates and are serious with each other, and when we get together for beers he tells me about her and I’m pleased that he’s got the secure happiness which, let’s be frank, I can’t give to guys.
But I still look at him and want to tear him apart.
I see his sexy, filthy hands gripped round a pint glass and remember how he’d take his rings off before plunging his fingers into my cunt.
How he’d hold my hair back so he could watch me taking the length of his cock into my mouth.
How he’d squeeze my tits nice and hard, and tell me that I liked it.
I mostly remember the noisy sex – what he sounded like. What he’d say to me, how he’d moan and sigh. Best of all that wonderful, audible moment when he’d shudder and – with a muffled cry – come deep inside me so hard I could feel it.
Number 15 fucks me slowly. So so slowly.
I have no idea why – he’s so dominant, and angry, and beats me hard with belts. When we’re playing he’ll fuck me with his hands so quickly that I tense up and writhe. He straps me with such force that I yelp, and occasionally beg him to stop.
The pace before sex is quick, and hard, and he feels like the kind of guy who’d push me up against a wall and shag me with a frantic desperation that would make my head spin.
But when we’re fucking, he holds back and takes his time. He kneels between my legs and puts the tip of his cock inside me and then, as I beg him for more of it, he slowly pushes harder, filling me up with his huge, rock-solid dick.
I don’t think I realised how good that could be until I met number 15.
With his hands gripping my thighs, he pulls me down further onto his cock as I wriggle and force myself onto him. He leans down into me and fucks me with long, slow strokes. He makes me wait for it, and he makes me work for it, and he pushes me back down if I grip him and thrust my cunt up further onto him.
Number 15 places his hands either side of my head as he shoves himself further into me. Did I mention that he’s huge? His cock is long and thick and always rock solid. With slow, intimidating control, he leaves me shuddering with frustration and squirming as I try to fill myself with all of it.
As I start making muffled sounds of frustration, and gripping his back to pull him harder onto me – deeper, and further into me – he picks up the pace. Not enough – not nearly enough – but slightly faster, so I can get more from him by pushing my hips up and shoving myself onto him. Harder. Faster.
I get a bit loud because I need him to speed up. I can’t get there without it. I need it harder, and faster, and I know that if he’d just do it for a few seconds I’d be there, and the need to be there is so deliciously painful. It aches right through my cunt – the need to come. It hurts.
I cry out.
And I grip him harder.
And I writhe, and fuck him harder.
And I say please please pleasepleaseplease
And then he does. For one brilliant, wonderful moment he does. His cock is slamming into me with force and power and anger and lust and speed.
And I fall back, and my body tenses, and my cunt twitches. My back arches and I come all over his cock, and he can feel me writhe as I shudder all the frustration out of my body.
As I pant and smile and my eyelids droop with exhaustion he sits on my chest, with one hand on my neck and one hand gripping the base of his huge, still dripping cock.
He tells me to open my mouth.
This post is available as audio. Click ‘listen here’ at the start of the post, or check out the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.
In our decadent Western capitalist society where you can buy chips for two quid or gym membership for fifty, it’s no wonder most people are a bit fat. And you know what? People who are a bit fat are sexy.
There’s a sliding scale: some people are so fat that sex without assistance is difficult, others have just a little bit of extra weight that is delightfully squidgy and fun to dig your fingers into while they’re frotting you excitedly. Hovering somewhere in between these groups lie the guys that I want to talk about.
I love guys who have a bit of weight on them – they make me feel small, and delicate, and feminine. Guys with bellies their trousers dig into, so I have to pull and rummage to get their pants off. Guys with arses you can grab and thighs like tree trunks. Guys who jiggle when they fuck you. Yum.
I’m not talking about guys who are morbidly obese – apart from anything else they’d be a logistical nightmare. I mean the men who look down sadly at their gut and think ‘no one will fuck me like this.’ Men who tip the scales at more than is healthy and have genuinely considered salad. This entry is for you – you massive, sexy, awesome, hedonistic bastards.
Skinny guys – don’t feel left out. You are equally loved, but this is not your time.
Today, I want to talk about why fat guys are great:
Fat guys enjoy things
There’s something about being fat that implies a certain ‘I don’t give a flying fuck’ attitude that is desperately sexy. Someone who doesn’t approve of moderation, who goes the whole way and will be my partner in crime when I want to have fun.
I want to be with a guy who orders lasagne, garlic bread and a side order of chips. And some onion rings. And cake for afters. And a triple whiskey. And chips. And more whiskey.
I want to go out with a guy who’ll down 8 pints then provide a solid mass for me to lean against on the way home.
I want to hang out with someone who’ll bang me til 2 am then suggest McDonalds breakfast in the morning.
Fat guys fuck harder
You wouldn’t make a sledgehammer out of balsa wood, would you? Exactly.
Fat guys are just… bigger
It’s obvious that they’re bigger, of course. But have you considered the full implications? Fat guys can lie on top of you and knock the wind out of you. Put more force behind their fucking (see above), pin you down so you can’t get up. You can sit comfortably on their lap and feel their erection digging into you without worrying that you’re going to snap them.
They can envelop you and crush you and squeeze you and make you feel tiny, delicate and vulnerable. They can fuck you hard and sweat hard till it drips into your mouth. They can take your breath away and give you something to hold onto and something to wrap your legs round and squeeze and touch and rub your face into.
And then afterwards they might buy you a pasty.
Postscript: The few times I’ve discussed this with people I’ve been met with raised eyebrows and skeptical looks. But bear in mind that one of the best ways to have brilliant sex is to find someone you like (in my case someone who is funny or clever or utterly filthy) and then show them the kind of enthusiasm that’ll have them jizzing themselves on the night bus home.
I’m not trying to persuade you to start fucking fat guys – but you might be missing out on some potentially spectacular sex if you dismiss them out of hand or, worse, imply that you’re out of their league. You call them ‘tubby’, I’ll call them ‘tiger’ and we’ll see who gets the best out of them.
Sometimes sex is serious, and intimate, and meaningful. It’s passionate and intense and every shudder and pant and drip of sweat makes you fall that bit more in love with them, even if you’ve forgotten their name.
That was not how it was with 22. He was glorious and fun, although I’m going to refrain from the word ‘childlike’ – I don’t want to be put on a register.
22 was a cutie, and fucking him was a burst of unexpected joy. Like walking home through the park at midnight, and treating yourself to a cheeky go on the swings.
It was his birthday, and I didn’t know him that well but the birthday was a great way in. We were with friends who were preoccupied with drinking and having fun
“Do you fancy a birthday shag?” He looked more surprised than he should have been, but nodded. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the lifts up to my room. Awkward chat ensued, as both of us realised that we didn’t have much to say to each other, or any idea what the other one would find sexy.
I’d done the equivalent of rocking up at his house, asking if he could come out to play, then realising I had no idea what he liked playing, or if he even had a BMX.
Luckily, he was fine with that – he just wanted to play, and was happy to do it without an awkward preamble or time-consuming seduction. He started unbuckling his belt as we got in through the door, and once it was closed he pushed me backwards onto the bed and started tearing at me. He was far more beautiful than I’d expected – the sort of muscles that make me suck my own stomach in and realise I don’t deserve this.
He kissed like a 16-year-old, and got excited each time we changed up. Everything we did was like him unwrapping another layer of a pass-the-parcel – his eyes lit up, he grinned, and tore back in. Sex with 22 was like playing in the park, and being rewarded with sweets when I got up enough speed on the roundabout.
He was enthusiastic in a way that’s pretty rare, and daring in a way that more men definitely should be. He pulled my hair and whispered things, and let me lick his armpits and squeeze the base of his cock to feel how hard he was before he put a condom on.
And when I was done, and tired, and ready to rejoin the party, he let me take him deep in my mouth, and he pushed my head down so my lips were right at the base of his cock while he twitched, and shuddered, and came into the back of my throat.
We only ever did it once.