I don’t want to body shame anyone here. Rather than detracting from the wonders of the scrawny, angular male physique, I want to celebrate its antithesis: the tubby guys. Because you know, as it turns out, I’m a bit of a chubby chaser.
Photo by Justin Baeder, via Flickr
Occasionally, I sleep with this one really skinny dude and after we do it, I get these bruises on my inner thighs from where his bony hips slammed into me. I kind of love mild sex injuries. I run my fingers gently over the purple contusions flanking my groin, and it reminds me of being a teenager and wearing hickeys and carpet burns like badges of honor—proof that I was a real grown-up. Even though I am fond of my thigh bruises, sleeping with skinny guys isn't my favorite.
I don’t want to body shame anyone here. Rather than detracting from the wonders of the scrawny, angular male physique, I want to celebrate its antithesis: the tubby guy. Because you know, as it turns out, I’m a bit of a chubby chaser. I also happen to be a feeder by default, but I blame that on my Greek heritage.
I’m interested in a very specific kind of tubby: a thick roundness rather than an actual fatness. Like a dude who looks like he might ride a bike because his legs are huge, but who looks like he likes beer a lot. I want a man who’s built like a tree trunk, but like, a waterlogged tree trunk. A man my mom would describe as both “healthy” (remember, Greek mother) and “cuddly,” but that my high school gym teacher would have egged on with comments like, “Come on now, you’re not here for your good looks!” as he tried to keep up with the rest of the class in sprints. A man whose belly isn’t so much flabby as it is sort of pregnant-looking—hard but protrusive.
I once dated a man with a pretty round belly, and I remember what it felt like wrapping my arm around it. We were lying in bed one evening, watching a movie projected onto the wall, and he pulled me into his nook. With my head resting in the joint of his shoulder, I threw my arm around his middle, and I couldn’t reach all the way around. I couldn’t quite see all of the picture, but it didn’t matter—I was transfixed by the subtle rising and falling of my arm as he breathed. I was definitely turned on by the immensity of this very large man I couldn’t hold entirely, but whose nook I was almost completely absorbed into, like memory foam.
If I were to examine my preference deeper, I’d say I enjoy the feeling of being tiny with a big huge meatloaf of a dude smothering me in his beefy manhood. It’s the inner cavewoman, or inner heteronormative-US-sitcom wife in me. Growing up in Australia, popular television culture taught me something different: that the only sexy men are ones with perennial tans, washboard abs, flippy beach-blond hair, and names like Shane and Robbo. US television culture is all Homer and Marge Simpson, Ralph and Alice Kramden, and I guess as an alternative to the surfer-boyfriend-eventually-goes-pro-or-gets-eaten-by-a-shark romance, the American version is a fetching domestic ideal. So rather than playing beach bunny to a surfer dude, I always wanted to play loud-mouthed, often Mediterranean-appearing, teeny-tiny little wife to a huge, maybe-blue-collar, cheap-beer-loving, fatty husband. I’ve just always wanted to be one of those scratchy-voiced, uptight-but-always-right, super adorable little women who run the show, with a husband who, through all his folly, knows he hit the jackpot. I know: What is wrong with me, right?
Beyond pop culture norms, at a primal level I think there’s something super sexy about a larger man. He takes up space, but you’re invited to inhabit that space with him. I feel completely consumed. Also worth noting is that I’m not particularly bony myself (let’s just say the booty don’t lie), and it feels quite feminine to be with someone who has more flesh than I do. And, come to think of it, if we were ever in a snow/plane crash/survival situation and someone had to be eaten, having a big guy around means he’d be the logical choice to be cannibalized first.
Also, too many skinny dudes simply can’t throw down. Big guys, more often than not, are strong guys, and I like the idea of a thick-chested man being able to hold me with one arm around the small of my back and flip me over from being on top to being on bottom, without it ever coming out. Now that is some serious man sex, even if he is short of breath while doing it and needs to take a rest afterward.
As I mentioned already, a lot of my girlfriends have a skinny dude “thing," and there’s nothing wrong with that, but often when I’m attracted to a bigger guy my friends become superficial little bitches and say things like, “Ew, that’s gross,” which is ignorant and utterly wrong (except that big guys do have a tendency to sweat more, which is definitely gross, but in a really hot way while you’re fucking). To that argument I say, girls, crawl out of your own butthole for a second and smell the Cheetos and beer. A guy with double the body to love will, a lot of times, have double the love to give.