Body positivity in romance novels: my ode to Cream of the Crop by Alice Clayton

Over at Lady Smut, I sang the praises of romance novel Cream of the Crop by Alice Clayton, part of her delicious ode to the food and men of the Hudson Valley.



I wrote about her size 18 and ultra confident heroine Natalie, who knows what she wants in the bedroom and on the job and goes after it with this attitude I wish I could possess even a small fraction of. Here's a small sampling of her attitude, from the book:

Size-eighteen women were supposed to be timid. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be shy. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be grateful for any male attention, and to feel especially honored if a good-looking man paid attention to them.

Fuck all that noise. I took the best-looking guy home with me whenever and however I pleased.

I got very personal, more so than I intended when I started, sharing my weight and my body image issues and hopefully by doing so, helping break down that social custom that says either we shouldn't talk about our "numbers" and/or that we must all always be perfect feminists who love our bodies every second of the day.

I got to meet Alice Clayton this weekend at romance novel convention Shameless Book Con in Orlando and when she saw my name tag, she leapt up and hugged me for writing the post. Plus she was wearing an I'm With Her Hillary Clinton t-shirt. Both those things made my day, as did people telling me they were going to check out the book based on what I wrote. If you like humorous romances, food and amazing characters, definitely check out Cream of the Crop. I recommend her other wonderful books too; I started Roman Crazy (set in Rome) over the weekend and am loving it.

Why Khloé Kardashian is my favorite Kardashian

I know today everyone is talking about Kim Kardashian's second pregnancy and/or Caitlyn Jenner's Vanity Fair cover, but what I wrote about for YouBeauty is Khloé Kardashian's November Regan Arts book Strong Looks Better Naked and why she's my favorite of the Kardashians. Yes, I'm a Keeping Up with the Kardashians fan. If I wasn't moving, I'd have attended her signing yesterday at BookCon. I previously wrote about Kim Kardashian and posing nude for YouBeauty.

Why I'm not down with dad bod

At Salon, I wrote about why "dad bod" is a not so subtle way of fat-shaming.

What happens when you write about fat people positively

Last week, my DAME column was titled "Yes, Fat Women Are Sexy".



Not my most imaginative title, but I never said I was good at coming up with them (I'm better with short story titles, like "Secret Service," about an oral sex restaurant). It's certainly not the first time I've written about fatness. I wrote "My Boyfriend's Fat" in my essay collection Sex & Cupcakes and also wrote about that same topic in a YouBeauty essay, along with "Why I'm Hot for Fat Guys" for Nerve. An old column about my own body image issues was reprinted at Jezebel.

So I'm not unfamiliar with what happens when you write about fat people, but I'm still appalled at the go-to reaction, which is basically one giant word used to obscure prejudice: HEALTH. In a public Feminism on Facebook group I'm part of, I shared the DAME link with these words: "My latest column DAME Magazine is on fat women, sexuality and body image." The very first comment left on it was: "Hi Rachel, I hope you included a list of the health risks that come with being overweight xx Including those you could pass on to your children xx"

Needless to say, this caused a lot of responses, accusations of trolling and debates about what exactly is appropriate when talking about fatness. I think it's interesting just how predictable some variation of this argument is, as if fat people, or even "not fat" but "not skinny" people don't have it drummed into their/our heads exactly what the health consequences may or may not be about our body size.

My response on that thread reads: "Reece, I'm pretty sure any fat person has been told more than enough that they are not only going against our restrictive society's beauty standards but also by their health care providers what they need to do to be healthy. I write a sex column so that isn't my job. I was talking about society's expectations of what's sexy and what's not and how these women are reclaiming fatness as part of sex appeal for themselves and the broader culture. Also, see http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/10/09/the-healthy-obese-and-their-healthy-fat-cells/?_r=0"

I think that sums up my position, but I encourage you, especially if your first reaction to "fat" is negative, to think about why, exactly, that is. I somewhat hate the title I gave my DAME column not only because it's obvious, but because why should that need to be said? Why can't we recognize that "sexy" comes in as infinite variety as people do? Yet I'm proud of it and glad it's fostering discussions like the one on Facebook, because we need to start thinking more critically when we talk about "fat." And be "we," I of course also mean me. I'm in the process of getting rid of a lot of my clothes that no longer fit due to the weight I've gained since moving to New Jersey, while also trying to live and eat healthier and, if I get the one thing I truly want in this world, trying to get pregnant. It's a lot to ponder when it comes to "fat" and weight and who the hell to look good on a daily basis, when I do venture outside of my home, or even when I just don't want to sit around wearing sweatpants day in and day out. I'm not suggesting it's easy to suddenly switch our thinking from one that tells us "fat is bad" to a more nuanced view that takes in true health and genetics and so many other factors. But in the last three plus years of dating and loving a fat man and seeing how he is often treated by the world at large and in person, I have come to care very much about this topic. And do I also care about his health? Of course! How could I not, especially if I want to have children with him? But I care for his physical health along with his mental and emotional health, and those of other fat people. That's why someone like April Flores inspires me so much, and why I was thrilled she let me interview her and use her photo with my column. She's been "fat" and "thin" and has come to a place of peace and happiness with her body, which is something I wish for everyone. Including me.

"Yes, Fat Women Are Sexy" is my latest at DAME

It's one thing to write something in the plain old Times New Roman font I use in a Microsoft Word document, and another to see it in bold type on a website I contribute to. My first instinct when I saw "Yes, Fat Women Are Sexy" was to think, Duh. I mean, obvious town, right? But it's still something that needs to be said and reinforced with word and image, and the women I spoke to and quoted, namely April Flores (about her soon to launch site Fat Girl Fantasies), Substantia Jones, Kitty Stryker and Brittany Gibbons, are doing just that. Please check it out, and see the full archive of my DAME columns here. Suggestions for future topics related to women and sex? Email me at rachelkb at gmail dot com with "DAME" in the subject line.

Snapshot at Sugar and a moment of self-indulgence

I bought this new blue dress yesterday (at Anthropologie, if you're wondering, and there's some cute designs at the bottom you can't see in this photo), something I very rarely do these days; I can't actually recall the last time I did.



I got it partly because I didn't feel like I had anything exactly right for Friday night, when I'm part of the keynote opening panel at CatalystCon, and partly because I wanted to treat myself. The current me, not some future me, to celebrate my recent successes and, to honor my current body. I don't weigh myself so I don't know the exact numbers, but I can see in my face and other body parts that I've gained weight since moving to New Jersey. Many of my clothes still fit, because based on the way I tend to dress, I am not wearing too much that's super tight. But still, it can be frustrating when I go to put something on and it either doesn't fit at all, or hangs differently than I remember.

As for buying myself a present, that too felt like a way of saying: you're working hard, you deserve to look your best. I sometimes think if I'm not stressed all the time or plotting my next pitches/books/essays in my head every moment of the day, or getting up crazy early to work, then I'm not being a "good enough" freelancer. Of course that's ridiculous, but I have my moments of ridiculousness. Body image is an ongoing problem/process for me. I wrote about it in 2010 in "Loving My Body—Kinda, Sorta ,Sometimes" and I'm sure I will again.

Wearing something that made me feel at the top of my game lets me take the ups and downs of life in stride. I had a small but great group at Sugar in Baltimore for my writing workshop last night. Would I have preferred more people? Yes, but there was nothing I could do that late in the game. I also know one of my CatalystCon writing workshops is almost sold out and I'm planning the next steps for more online teaching. I want to be able to handle the moments when things don't go my way, and yes, it helps to be wearing something I adore and that feels soft and cozy inside.

It also meant that because I felt great, when I got to Blue Pit BBQ, which my friend co-owns and which was truly delicious, I could fully enjoy my pulled pork, brisket, mac and cheese and collard greens. It turned out that even though I thought I was ravenous, I ate about half of what was given to me (though I ate all my pickles) and took the rest home. Since I'm a leftover fan, I now have breakfast! Win/win. So that was my evening in a nutshell. Oh, and just because I said that, doesn't mean I'm not nervous as hell about being on this keynote panel. I love talking to small groups, but a big one? That makes me want to freeze up preemptively. But I'm going to practice over the next two days, and if I get nervous, stroke my new dress and remind myself I can do it. I do some variation of that countless times each week, and for me, it helps. Whatever works, right? Now, I'm not advocating that I or anyone else go into debt to be a clotheshorse to boost their self-confidence. But in this case, yesterday, I felt justified. Now I just have to find the perfect tights to go with it.

Sexy fat guys in erotica and real life

Not all of my erotica is realistic (most of it isn't, actually) or inspired by real life, but there are some types of characters I often return to, both because I enjoy them and I think it's important to showcase them. One is bisexuals, and I plan to write about more male bisexuals in my fiction soon, but I'd say many, possibly half, of my female characters are written as bisexual on some level. The other is fat guys. As you probably know, I'm in love with a fat man and generally lust after them (you can read more about it in "My Boyfriend's Fat" in my essay collection Sex & Cupcakes. I'll actually be on HuffPost Live today at 10:50 a.m. EST (will update with link) talking about my YouBeauty essay linked first above on what I've learned about body image and size from my fat boyfriend.



There's a funny thing that happens to me sometimes, especially with fiction: I forget exactly what I've written. If a year or more goes by between when I write a short story, send it off, and it gets published in print, I will recall the general outline of the story, but not the specific details. So when D.L. King invited me to read from my story "Big Bottom" in her new BDSM erotica anthology The Big Book of Domination: Erotic Fantasies at Purple Passion, I asked if I could have the book in my hands.


photo by Stacie Joy

As I was reading, I thought, I really like this. I sometimes surprise myself, especially with femdom stories, at how twisted and kinky they can get, at the ideas that pop into my head, at how funny they are, which you sometimes only hear when you read them out loud. I surprised myself, basically, and it made me want to write more stories like that, about fat men who have various sexual appetites and proudly own them. I also think it's something that helps make a story like this stand out. So here's a snippet of my story, inspired by Purple Passion and an actual set of talons I coveted there for years but, last I heard, are no longer available because the person who made them stopped making them:

from "Big Bottom" by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Gemma smiled at the crowd that had formed to watch the three of them. Kevin nestled his head against the side of the blonde’s neck, while she beamed a beatific smile. Before she began, Gemma leaned down to whisper in their ears. “If either of you need to stop, say ‘jagged.’” She liked the image that formed when she said the word—the jagged edge of a knife, something rough and uneven. She liked to get Kevin to a point where he was no longer sleek and smooth, but jagged in his own way, tumbling, tipping over, uncertain but clinging to that uncertainty because he always knew she’d take care of him. This was not their usual safeword, but a spontaneous one she gifted to them, a souvenir mouthful to ponder as she took her place.

Gemma started with her hand, which she always treated like the most delicate of instruments. She made sure her hands were soft to the touch, covering them at night with a special moisturizer and gloves. She paid meticulous attention to her manicure, needing her sharp red nails to signal to Kevin and the world just what kind of woman she was. She knelt down and found the most comfortable position with which to deliver her first smack. When she found it, she waited, counting silently to ten. She knew too many tops who rushed their scenes, so intent on their own dominant desires they forget that keeping a sub at their mercy is a torment in itself. Plus, making Kevin rest his hefty body on top of the blonde dreamboat gave her more time to admire the view. She could stare at his ass all day—forget bubble butts, give Gemma a solid, hairy, and, best of all, eager bottom like Kevin’s any day. There was more room to smack and stroke and squeeze and pinch, though she was well aware it would take some pretty firm smacks to jostle him against the blonde. She was up to the task.

When Gemma sensed that Kevin had started to relax an infinitesimal amount, she let loose with the first blow, digging her nails into his skin at the end for an added treat. “Thank you,” he murmured against the blonde’s neck, but the sound was drowned out by the next blow, which she’d already landed on the opposite cheek. Gemma heard whispers from the onlookers between each smack as she covered each cheek with successively harder blows. When her hand started to sting, Gemma decided to give Kevin his birthday present—or rather, give Kevin’s back the gift of her using his birthday present on him. “Your ass is going to get a break now,” she said to him. “But there’s more in store for it soon. I have something else planned for you. Are you both ready?”

Of course it was an unfair question. How could they be ready for something when they didn’t know what to expect? But they were subs, and good subs are always ready for anything, as long as they trust the person they’ve let control their fate. After getting a chorus of confirmation, Gemma took out the talons and allowed an eager boi from the crowd to place them on her dominant hand, her right.

You can get The Big Book of Domination at New York City's fabulous kinky store Purple Passion in Chelsea (211 W. 20th Street) as well as on Amazon, for Kindle (out December 30th), direct from publisher Cleis Press or at your local independent bookstore.

Not how I'd hold a whip if I was beating someone, FYI:


photo by Stacie Joy

Essay on dating a fat man at YouBeauty

Yes, size is something that comes up in a lot of my work, from my erotica, such as in my new story "Big Bottom" in The Big Book of Domination to my book Sex & Cupcakes. It's something that's personal and political and that I think touches so much of society. So my latest essay is "What I’ve Learned About Size and Body Image by Dating a Fat Man" at YouBeauty. It's my first piece for them, so if you like it, I'd love it if you'd share/comment there. Jessica Wakeman is an editor there now (formerly at The Frisky) and is bringing lots of fascinating content around looks, gender, body image and more.

Fear, writing and doing it anyway with my essay "My Boyfriend's Fat"

Writing about other people can be such a tricky endeavor; you might think it's old hat to me, but it never is. In my new essay collection Sex & Cupcakes I included an essay that got rejected from Modern Love in The New York Times called "My Boyfriend's Fat." It's one I'm proud of but also have been worried about putting out into the world, precisely because it's both personal and about the most important person in my life. Having been featured as a "character" in short stories, I know that it's probably not a barrel of laughs to be the focal point of a personal essay by your significant other. And yet. I did it. It was important to me and for me a way to express both love and frustration at the way our culture talks about fatness and bodies and "health."

So far, the four reviews of the book that are up on Amazon and a blog, all mention the essay.

Clitical:

The essay that hit me the most from a personal point of view is entitled, ‘My Boyfriend is Fat.’ As the wife of a portly middle aged man (ok, he’s fat), I felt for Rachel, and understood every word she wrote. The stupid comments that people make, the judgements that people (who should often know better) make. Although our circumstances are different in someways there were so many things she said through the words on the page that simply made me go, yes, that’s it! Why DO people say that? What does give people the right to judge?

Alyssa on Amazon:

I also liked 'My Boyfriend's Fat' because she talked about the judgement and comments that people make in our society aimed at those who don't fit the "skinny" group. This essay itself had so much emotion and it stuck with me as I myself am overweight.

Ilovebooks on Amazon

They are all entertaining, but I found myself really struck by the essay she wrote about her overweight boyfriend. It was about the prejudices he faced as an overweight man and her attraction to him. I had an overweight family member and I just related a lot to what she had to say about this.

Wendy W on Amazon

I was especially drawn to her compassion for her boyfriend's weight "issue." I put issue in quotes because the people who are making an issue out of seem to be those who are NOT either Rachel or her beau.

Is it wrong to link to those reviews as if they alone validate my desire to write about that topic, or rather, is it wrong for me to want and crave that feedback? I hope not, because I do genuinely crave it. When I've been sending the ebook out to reviewers I've said something like, "I hope you like it, but even if you don't I want to know your thoughts." And I do, even though I also brace myself, because I don't think there's a way to separate judgment about the writing from judgment about, well, your choices, if you're writing memoir or essays. That's the risk you take by going there.

I wrote that essay not for my boyfriend as target audience but for everyone else who's expressed "concern" to me about his size, and for people who make judgments about fat people. I didn't write it from some World's Most Enlightened Person perspective about the topic, because how could I? I grew up in this same culture and have plenty of body issues myself. But even when we don't want to be changed, the people in our lives changed us. I love that that's the essay, along with "Monogamishmash," being highlighted by readers. I already got an email from a stranger via the Thought Catalog Books site (where, it should be noted, "Fuck" gets its full four-letter glory but on Amazon has to be F***" commenting on the title. Those are the essays that are all about my vulnerabilities and some of the conflicts of both my relationship, but hopefully, something a little more universal.

I was uncertain about publishing this fat essay, about naysayers and judgment, and more protective than usual because it's not my life on the line, exposed. The dance between public and private is an ongoing issue in my relationship. It's such a delicate line sometimes and clearly I so often fall on the public side. But for the last two years and nine months, I've learned to treasure all the private, often ridiculous, sometimes sappy moments that are just ours. To me those make what I do share all the more important. It sounds so lofty even as I type this, but I don't just write to purge or for catharsis, although I do believe writing is inherently selfish for me. I write to connect and learn and find out what other people think.

So if that intrigues you, all 9 essays are just $4.99 with the click of a button. I'll post more about the tattoo essay soon too. My heart surprises me all the time and even though the essay about it remains what it is, an essay is never the end of the story, but a moment in time, frozen in words on the page (or screen, as it were).

My first byline of 2013: "Loving Your Body, Even When You Don't"

I wrote about attending a Loving The Body You're In workshop taught by burlesque performers World Famous *BOB* and Legs Malone. It was a challenging piece to write so I'm proud of myself for remembering something I forgot a lot in 2012, and pretty much my entire life: the perfect is the enemy of the good. That applies equally to body image as writing. Even as I strive to both make a living and be a smarter businesswoman (and not just as president of RKB Enterprises, Inc.), I know that my job is to continually push myself, each and every day, and accept my flaws and failings. It's a huge tension in every area of my life, but something I endeavor to work on to the best of my ability.

What I'm trying to say is this isn't my best piece of writing, though surely it's not my worst, but I'm proud of it anyway. Sometimes writing is the hardest thing in the world for me, and sometimes it's the only thing I know how to do; often, it's both at once, and I hope this is the year I can finally be at peace with that tension, to love and learn from the rejections, of which there are and will be many, as much as the pieces that find a home. They all have a home, on my laptop, and now that I am a businesswoman in the sense of living off my words, I have to prioritize the words that sell, but to be comfortable with myself, those can't be the only ones that matter. That's something I will probably wrestle with as much as I do all the ills I see when I look in the mirror, but I want to be a better student this year. Not a resolution, per se, just a way of appreciating every lesson that comes my way, and being open to new possibilities.

Free Big Handsome Man erotic romance story from Obsessed: "I Want to Hold Your Hand"

Updated February 29, 2016

For a limited time, for the week of February 29th, I Want You Bad: Obsessed Erotic Romance for Women (formerly titled Obsessed) is on sale in ebook form for only $1.99 on Kindle, Nook, Google Play, iBooks and Kobo. You can still read the free story below and I hope you'll want to read all the other amazing writers in this collection. The sale will probably end on Friday, March 4th, so act fast to get them for a bargain price.

Updated September 27:

Obsessed has been reissued as I Want You Bad.



In conjunction with the super bargain sale price of $1.99 for Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women on Kindle, here's my entire Big Handsome Man story (yes, taking its name from the Beatles song, part of a series of song title stories), "I Want to Hold Your Hand," FREE! You don't need a Kindle to take advantage of this big bargain. My book Passion: Erotic Romance for Women is also for sale for $1.99 on Kindle, both for a limited time!



I Want to Hold Your Hand from Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Shelly looked over at her husband, Ron, across their gleaming lawn, finding him instantly amidst their party guests. She smiled slightly, then set her lips into a straight line; not a frown, but more of an adjustment. Adjustments were what she’d been making for the last two years, ever since he set out to, and did, lose over a hundred pounds, going from severely overweight to big but in shape, the kind of guy who could help push a car out of the snow or carry a heavy box or other tasks that required bulk, strength, power. Now instead of being fat and cuddly, a sexy teddy bear of a giant, he was more like a linebacker, thick and stocky⎯and sexy, at least, by conventional standards. While it seemed to Shelly that men had more leeway than women in acceptable weight gain, the old Ron had crossed over into invisibility in the sex appeal department, though not for her⎯never for her. Now, people, especially women, were fawning over him like he’d cured cancer, while she, in her same old not-too-big, not-too-small size-six jeans, smiled along, trying to adjust to the new man she was now married to.

The truth was, she had preferred him bigger; it went with his outsized personality, not to mention the way he held her down in bed, the way he kept her warm, the way she curved up against him, the way he looked at her, like he was the Tarzan to her Jane. Now, even though technically he weighed more than her, Shelly had trouble getting into that same submissive mindset, perhaps because his personality seemed to have changed too. She didn’t like to think that all the recent adoration had gone to his head, but maybe it had, because even when he was on top of her, even when he pressed her hips deep into the mattress the way she liked it, even when he spooned her at night, curling up around her, she couldn’t quite recapture the magic. She wanted to, but she liked her men bigger, brawnier, huskier. It was hard to fantasize about him being the brute who ravaged her when she could sense that soon she’d be able to feel his ribs. Soon she might not be able to pinch the inches she so welcomed, and would have to twist and squirm to find ways to fit into him, rather than just next to him. She still loved Ron and had no intention of leaving him, but seeing all the girls fawning over his new muscles made her want to gag. Where had they been when he’d stared unhappily at himself naked in the mirror, when there was nothing she could do to make him see what she saw in him? She felt like the heart of their relationship had slipped away along with the pounds; why didn’t Weight Watchers ever tell you about this possible side effect?

At least he had two body parts that hadn’t lost their heft: his hands and his cock. She knew that saying about a man’s feet predicting his size below the waist, but with Ron, his hands and his cock were both, well, manly, while his size-nine feet were what she considered average. His hands, though, were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her. They were soft, and seemingly tender, but when she dared to try to get to know them, he’d crushed her fingers within his own, letting her know that he would be the one to master their manual dexterity.

She was still curious, as she’d been then, eager to get to know him by running her lips along his skin, by listening to his heartbeat, though the parts that everyone else was so eager to talk about and salivate over were not the ones that interested Shelly. His abs, his biceps, all sounded like clichés to her ears. Her Ron wasn’t the macho bodybuilder they were making him out to be, and if he were, she wasn’t sure she would want him anymore. She’d caught a couple of college girls, home on break, whispering about what he might look like underneath his clothes, and had huffed her way through their conversation, stalking right in between them and giving them the stink eye. Who were these brats and why didn’t they find someone their own age?

“Honey, I want to go to the movies,” she said, pulling him aside, not caring how petulant she might sound.

“Now?” He looked at her in confusion.

“Well, tonight, yeah.”

“What do you want to see?”

“I don’t care,” she said, then lifted his right hand and brought it to her mouth. With that, she sucked on his index finger, making sure his eyes stayed on hers, taking it all the way before releasing it to lick his palm, not caring if any of their guests saw. Let them watch; let them see that she wasn’t impressed by Ron’s trimmer body, but by the things she knew his body could do, things that had nothing to do with how much he weighed. She knew what she was doing tickled from the way his hand quivered, and she liked making him squirm. Then she moved down to his wrist, where she thought she could feel his pulse racing. “I just want to hold your hand. You know, like we used to.”

It sounded innocent enough, but they’d done a lot more than hand holding back in the day. There was one movie date in particular she recalled, though not the actual movie itself. They’d gone to the theater at 12th and 2nd Avenue in the East Village, during the middle of the afternoon, back when they’d lived in the city, rather than the ’burbs in Jersey. It hadn’t been too crowded, with just a smattering of people. She’d been sitting on the aisle and he’d been next to her, his arm taking over the armrest⎯not that she minded. Shelley was drawn to Ron for his size, for what it symbolized, for how he used it. He could dominate her space any time, especially when his hand reached for hers and then held it, lightly at first, but enough to let the pressure seep into other parts of her body, so it almost seemed as if he were touching her pussy. The tingling increased as he lightly stroked his fingers along her palm, and by the end of the movie, she was shocked she’d been able to restrain herself from dipping her fingers into her panties.

He looked at her and paused, as if she’d said she wanted to go to the movies in Paris. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

With those three words, Shelly knew she hadn’t lost her man completely to his newfound popularity with the ladies. He could tell, from her innocent-sounding suggestion, what it was she was talking about, and that she wanted an escape. He could tell she didn’t mean holding hands like in a romantic 1950s photo, but in a way that signaled so much more. He took her hand in his and squeezed it hard, squeezed all of his love into the press of his palm against hers, his fingers digging deep. He’d lost some of his size, but none of his strength, and when she looked down at their joined hands, she smiled, and reached for his other. They stood there, smiling and squeezing, until he upped the intensity a notch, squeezing so hard her breath came out in gasps.

Trying to ignore the twinges, she sputtered out, “It’s just⎯all these girls⎯they don’t care that you’re married, they don’t care about who you were before. They just see, well, the new you, and it makes me wonder if we can hold onto us when you’re so different.”

He let go of her hands and she moved into his arms, letting herself relax against his bulk. She smiled as a tear rolled down her cheek, because he was still bulky; she was still shorter and smaller than him and fit into the crook of his arm, even if that arm was more solid and less fleshy than before. Ron patted her smooth hair and let his breath land against her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, Shell. Those girls…it’s flattering, I’m not gonna lie. I’ve never had that kind of attention, but all it does is make me prouder to be your husband, to be with the woman who’s loved me all these years. But I’m the same, and I love you the same. I want to celebrate with you, not with anyone else.”

He held their joined hands up in front of him, and Shelly stepped back, still sniffling. “So are we going to hit the movie theater? I’m thinking the art house, something with subtitles.” She blushed, because there was that one time when he got down on his knees, not an easy task for a man pushing 280 pounds, and planted his face between her legs. He was doing it because he loved giving head, but also because he knew how loud she usually got when she was close to orgasm. He was throwing down a dare, a challenge that would either make her come or get them kicked out. She loved that he was willing to take such a risk.

“We’re just gonna leave everyone?”

“Leave it to me,” he said, and then took his hand and wrapped it around her wrist. It was still big enough to encircle her there, and she felt the breath whoosh from her body, the blood circle below her waist. She went to get her coat.

She smiled at a neighbor who gave her a quizzical look and didn’t try to answer anyone’s questions as Ron hustled her into his car. “I left Katie in charge; she’s good at that sort of thing.” Their friend was, indeed, the type who could problem-solve her way out of most any situation. Shelly relaxed against the seat and as Ron drove, his hand wandered to her lap. She reached for it, staring down at their entwined hands, his slightly tanner than hers.

They didn’t speak during the twenty-minute drive, and she moved as if on autopilot. This wasn’t the way the afternoon was supposed to go, but she knew they needed it. She especially knew it when, after giving the clerk their ticket order, Ron leaned over and whispered, “Take off your panties and give them to me.”

She didn’t protest, though she did hurry inside and use the bathroom to perform the task. She slipped him the balled-up red mesh and instead of simply tucking it into his pocket, he made a show of slowly letting the fabric flutter loose, just enough for Shelly to stare at him in horror, to look around in an exaggeratedly slow way, to catch his devilish smile in return. “What are we seeing?” she asked, even though she didn’t really care.

She didn’t know the film or the director or the language. Subtitles weren’t really her thing, but they weren’t really here for the story. At least, not that story. Shelly wasn’t there to eat Twizzlers or popcorn or drink Diet Coke either, but she let Ron buy them for her, and let him put his hand on her ass while she carried the soda and Twizzlers.

But it wasn’t until the lights went down that Shelly truly relaxed. She felt herself sink into the seat; this time they were near the wall, with her closest and Ron beside her. He’d made sure to pick a row that wasn’t crowded, and he put the popcorn on his other side, then opened the Twizzlers and fed one to her. She smiled at him as she chewed the licorice while he held it, until she reached his fingers. She licked them gently, enjoying his soft moan, feeling almost giddy at having run off in the middle of their own party to play at being luststruck. Or maybe they weren’t playing at all, because when he reached for her hand with his free one and held it, she felt nothing but love and lust coursing through her.

“I’m always going to be here for you,” he whispered in her ear, so softly that had her hearing not been as sharp as it was, she might have missed it. She felt a tear roll down her cheek and brushed it away, not wanting to ruin the moment. He took her hand and guided it up under her sundress, the one she’d bought at their local thrift store, the one he’d said made her look like a sexy housewife. They’d both laughed, because she was the chief breadwinner in their home, designing websites and doing consulting while he wrote plays and taught at the local university. But still, she thought of it as her slutty housewife dress, and reaching under its red and white polka-dotted hem to touch her bare pussy, with his hand atop hers, was exquisite. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used her fingers on herself, certainly not going slow and sensual like this. Usually it was a quickie with her plug-in vibrator and she was lucky if she could focus on it. Usually she was on all fours, and she loved that, but they hadn’t made love in any sense of the phrase in a long, long time. Fucking was one thing, a wonderful thing, but she’d missed this.

“I want to feel you,” he whispered, again, so soft, so tender, and both of their fingers pressed inside her, two of hers, two of his. His thumb managed to find her clit and she forced herself not to lock her legs tight, to stay loose and open, all while trying to look at the screen and produce some semblance of the same laughs or groans as were coming from the other audience members. Thankfully the film had a loud rock soundtrack, because even with her biting her lip, Shelly couldn’t keep from making noise. Ron’s hand, the hand she’d fantasized about holding, was suddenly over her mouth, his fingers inside her overtaking hers. She let her wet fingers drop to her side and he became the king of her body, the invading conqueror intent on his prize. She curled her hand around the seat and this time looked down, watching in the dim light as he pushed and twisted inside her, watching as he crouched halfway down, not caring who saw as he silently but swiftly worked his manual magic on her cunt.

Soon she was shaking, squeezing him tight, closing her eyes as she focused purely on the sensation of her husband, her he-man, her true love giving her something no one, not even she, could. This was no longer about the girls at the party, or his weight, or even him proving himself to her. It was a reminder that they’d neglected this side of their relationship for too long, and the orgasm that shook through Shelly made her feel like she’d never come before in her life, not like that. And after, when Ron kept his fingers inside her, insisting they stay for the whole movie, even though she was desperate to go, desperate to see him fully, to pay proper homage to every inch of him, the new muscles and the old favorites, they sat there, with three fingers of his left hand gently inside her, and his right holding hers until the lights came up.

If you liked this story, please check out ALL the stories in Obsessed, by authors including Kayla Perrin, Bella Andre, Portia Da Costa, Logan Belle, Justine Elyot, Charlotte Stein, Kristina Wright and more!

Buy Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women:

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Read My Hips by Kim Brittingham is out now: watch out Jenny Craig and bad PR firms!

I highly recommend Kim Brittingham's hot-off-the-press memoir Read My Hips: How I Learned to Love My Body, Ditch Dieting, and Live Large! I blurbed it and found it funny, moving, occasionally dark and all-around excellent. You will never look at Jenny Craig the same way after reading about her time working there. I also like that while it's, in a sense, a "feel-good" book, it's not trite. It's not just saying, "Love your body and it'll love you back," even though it somewhat is. It's deeper and more personal and honest and raw and real than that phrase could ever be. Also? Best call-out of a PR firm EVER. That prejudice and stupidity was on Gawker and Kim expertly skewers the company that told her she was too fat to represent their clothes (Avenue) and the PR firm (5WPR) that tried to talk their way back into her good graces. Priceless.

So check it out! Read more of Kim, who got famous from her Fresh Yarn (FUCK YEAH Fresh Yarn forever!!!!) essay "Fat Is Contagious" at kimwrites.com and @kimbrittingham on Twitter.

"'Real women' are all women" and the lovely fat positive blogs on Tumblr

I’m not gonna lie: I have body issues. It's not a secret. I would like to lose 20 pounds. Am I nervous about not being at that dream/goal weight and getting naked with someone new? Hell yeah. I try to eat green vegetables and fruit every day and listen to my doctor about only drinking two cups of coffee a day (the latter is probably the toughest thing). I have plenty of issues about my body but I also am working on liking it just the way it is and accentuating the parts I like, on dressing up and not worrying about how my stomach or my ass or my arms look at any given moment.

So I loved this quote on the I love Fat!" blog on Tumblr:

There’s no such thing as a “fake woman”. A real woman may be your best friend or your worst idealogical enemy. They’re fat, skinny, and everything in-between, some shave their legs and some don’t, some have vaginas and some have penises (and some have both), some are near-saints and some are murderers, and some are even Sarah Palin. It’s no good to pick out your favorite group of women and single them out as “real women” because of their biology, psychology, or ideology. There’s no point in feminism unless it’s working for the equality of ALL women, not just the ones you agree with and like.


Dig in for just two minutes and you'll find a huge wealth of fat-positive blogs on Tumblr, including fashion ones that'll likely inspire you if you like girlie type fashion. It helps if you're on Tumblr but you don't have to be. Style is eternal is just one of many, many fashion bloggers rocking her style (and sense of humor). And tattoos!

A related announcement is coming soon...already happened if you read my Tumblr, actually, but stay tuned.

My sex and body image column up now at SexIs Magazine and Jezebel!

For my latest Secrets of a Sex Writer column, you have two places you can read it - SexIs Magazine, of course, and, very excitingly, Jezebel, where there's a lively comments section. I sent it to them thinking they might want to link to it and they asked to reprint it. I couldn't be more honored to see my byline there!