NSFW and TMI warnings. This is a post that you mightn’t want to read if you have to look me in the eyes very often.
I’ve already written about this man. He’d been texting me about meeting up. He wanted me to squash him and the idea of taking on a more dominant role in the bedroom seemed like a fun experiment to me. We’d been due to meet up one Sunday afternoon and he’d cancelled on me because he thought four hours wouldn’t be enough time because he wanted to meet in a pub first and get to know me a bit so we’d both be at ease.
In between the cancellation and the actually meet-up, he drove me half-mad with texts. He’d whatsapp every day, four or five times a day. And we’d have the same conversation every time. Every time, he’d describe what he wanted me to do to him, what I should wear and how he wanted to come. It was fine the first time, but after 20 of the same conversations, I was already pissed off with him. He’d panic if I didn’t answer. Pestering me with more and more texts until I would answer and promise to wear a tight t-shirt that my belly would hang out under.
So I got the Tube to finally meet him. I live in Zone 3 in South London. He lives in Zone 4 in North London. It’s a long journey. As instructed, I was wearing my smallest and tightest underpants, which dug into me horribly. I was also wearing a t-shirt that was too small for me. I had my jeans hiked up high, but his plan was for us to go to a pub together and let my belly hang out from under my t-shirt while we had a pint and got to know each other, so I could “tease him with my fat” until we went back to his for the squashing session.
All the way to the station, I kept thinking “what have I agreed to?” But London Connor is open to new experiences and this was certainly that.
I arrived at the station. I’d seen one photo of this man. He looked fine. A little older than me, slim with a squarish face. This photo wasn’t exactly a lie, but he didn’t look as good as that in reality. As he approached, he did the single unsexiest thing a man can do while walking up to you before a sexual encounter. He took out a tissue and blew his nose.
He looked like a dad. Not in a good way. Imagine one of your friends’ dads from when you were a teenager. Your most boring dad of a friend. That’s what he looked like. But blowing his nose. Sigh. I’d come all this way. I may as well sleep with him.
He’d picked a pub. We went in. It was a family pub and everyone was having Sunday lunch with their kids and their mothers-in-law. No. This was not somewhere where I could sit with my belly dangling out for him to admire. It was far too well lit for that. And also there was a general smell of chicken nuggets in the air. Was this the least sexy day of my life? Possibly.
He agreed that this pub wasn’t a good choice. I suggested we go straight back to his. The bit I didn’t say was “and get this over with”.
He led me out of the pub and up to a large, expensive, black car. Oh my god. I had to let him drive me to his house. So many alarm bells went off in my head. Seriously. What was I up to, sitting into a car with a strange man like this?
I got in. We had some idle chat as he drove. He told me he worked in “credit management”. Does that mean he’s a debt collector? Gross. Not only does he look like a dad, but he talks like one. He kind of mutters every word as if talking is for womenfolk and not for the likes of us.
I decided to tuck my jeans under my belly and let it hang out under my t-shirt while he drove. I didn’t wear this bloody tiny t-shirt for no reason. He was delighted. He complimented my belly. He swerved once or twice because he couldn’t keep his eyes on the road with my belly hanging out like that. I asked if he’d been squashed before. He’d had three other guys do it apparently. I asked if he had much other experience. He said he’d had a serious boyfriend for years but they broke up last year. The last boyfriend hadn’t been fat. I wanted to ask so many questions. Was he unhappy because his previous boyfriend couldn’t squash him and “tease him with his fat”? I didn’t ask any of them.
He pulled up at a nice-looking 1970s block of flats. I got out, and while he parked the car, I considered making a run for it, but decided that would be unkind.
We got up to his flat. He had me take my shoes off. The flat was very clean. Very, very clean. He’d clearly hoovered the cream-coloured carpets that morning. While it was sweet to think that he’d cleaned up for me, there was something very American Psycho about the apartment. All the furniture and fittings were modern and they were spotless. And the place had no personality. None. No pictures or posters or wall-hangings. No books, or DVDs, or magazines, or anything with any personality anywhere in the house. Terrifying. He gave me a glass of water in the kitchen and led me into the bedroom, another personality-free room. He walked over to the bed, folded the duvet in four and lifted up, saying, “Well we won’t be needing this” and put it to one side on the floor. I don’t know why, but this was by far the most terrifying thing so far.
We undressed. He undressed fully, folding his clothes carefully before putting them aside. I left on my tiny uncomfortable underpants, as he’d told me to. His eyes lit up and he invited me to sit on his chest.
Have you ever climbed on a skinny man’s chest and sat with legs astride his head? It’s not comfortable. We alternated positions. I kept sitting on his chest. Sometimes I was to lean back and tickle his balls. Other times I was to lean forward and pin his arms down over his head while my belly battered his face. He wanted my weight to make him struggle to breathe.
The position was so weird that I strained my left hip and could barely walk for the next two days. I guess this counts as my first sex injury. Yay?
When we took breaks to let him breathe, I could see the imprint of my uncomfortably tiny underpants on his chest. Within ten minutes of starting, he was telling me how great it was and asking if we could make this a regular thing. I smiled and said yes, worried about what would happen if I said no.
He also “worshipped my fat”, by grabbing my belly and squeezing it between his fingers. This wasn’t worship. This was pinching. I had a ring of bruises round my belly when I woke up the next morning. Sex is dangerous.
The only bit I enjoyed was “belly slapping”. While leaning over his face, I would lift my belly and let it slap his face. I didn’t derive any sexual pleasure from this, but it was kind of like finding a new toy. I didn’t know my belly could do that.
Eventually I got him to come, with his face between my thighs. He’d threatened to come a few times but I asked if it was ok if we left it at one orgasm. Thankfully it was. I got dressed and left.
Can you count it as sex if you didn’t kiss and you didn’t take off your underwear?
I got on the Tube, relief washing over me. Never again. Because I’m a nice person, I texted him to say “thanks” for hosting and didn’t dump him immediately. This was mistake.
The next day, I sent him what I hoped was a kind message, telling him thanks but it wasn’t my thing and I wouldn’t be visiting again.
He didn’t believe me.
He texted me every day for a week asking, “Didn’t you enjoy me worshipping your fat and making me cum?” He also told me we could do other things. He was up for “anything apart from anal”. He texted me so often that I had to firmly answer again that I just wasn’t interested.
He answered that I must have other reasons that I wasn’t telling him.
I ignored him again. What was I meant to do? Text him and say that I just didn’t find him attractive and the whole meet-up kind of squicked me out?
Eventually, after ten days, he stopped texting me.
The next man will be different. The next man will be better.