Jay West Coast
Witness to the Thickness
Essay - an exceptonal FA reality post and comments taken by permission from a WG Forum thread, eventually destined for our Fine Arts Forum
I carefully sat in a 1909 neo-gothic Catholic church in Illinois, carving the plaster of a trefoil on the church’s main alter screen. I was eighteen years old, and working diligently as an apprentice restoring one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen. The rest of the workers were in the shop, and the sound of my lone dremel echoed through the church’s majestic chambers.
My mind wandered. Perhaps, the master craftsman, who was also my humorously unforgiving uncle, would have scorned me for doing so in such a moment, but I couldn’t resist. Suddenly, it seemed to me that I craved a symphony of silence in that church. I turned off the dremel, and put it down. I hadn’t talked to God in some time, but I think He still had something to say. I sat, and meditated.
Months before, I had graduated from high school as part of the popular crowd. I lettered in two sports, and enjoyed the attention from being a smartass in school. The popular girls all dated my friends and I, being as dating seems to be more of a social maneuver at that age then wrought of true attraction. Or, perhaps that is easy for me to say; since I never once felt attracted down deep to the girls I was dating.
I had found Dimensions at 14, and was all too aware of what I really wanted. A growing set of crude fat-girl printouts and weight-loss ads clipped from the local paper sat secretly slipped between my mattress and boxspring throughout adolescence. I had been an FA dating skinny chicks.
As I sat before the house of God, I reflected on the absurdity of it all. There was a true happiness to be had. A blessing that I had been foolishly ignoring; something not without struggles, but ever-rewarding to pursue. The coming years of college were my chance to explore who I really was, to explore the sensuality of the women that God Himself had designed me to be with. I picked up the dremel tool, turned it on, and I began to hum.
“So far so good, Jay,” my uncle announced as he slipped into the sanctuary. His hand found my shoulder. “You know, perfection is all I ask.”
Months later, I had found the first love of my life, and dove headfirst into my first meaningful relationship. She was exotic, and beautiful. Her father was the hereditary monarch of an island in the Pacific, and she carried his hazel eyes and coffee-with-cream skin. She studied at my university, had lived in a year in Japan, and waxed long nights about dreams of education reform on her island. She was smart, funny, and cute. It was getting late, and I asked if she was ready for me to walk her back to her dorm.
“No, Jay,” she replied. “I’m perfectly comfortable right here.”
The winter night crept into the tiny room through my dorm window, so I got up to pull it shut. I turned around to find that she had already slid herself between the sheets to keep warm, so I slipped in next to her. Her big eyes captured the fortunate rays of moonlight that had evaded the Venetian blinds. Her wispy black hair trickled from behind her ears, past her breasts, and onto the sheets. She was so beautiful that I couldn’t think anymore, I just felt.
My hand reached behind her ear to move her delicate hair down her neck, where I grasped softly the back of her head. My body slid against hers, almost without me realizing it. As my hard stomach pressed against her soft belly, my edges of my mouth wandered perilously close to her big, wide lips. I could feel the heaviness of her breath in my ear, and I felt so distracted I could barely remember to exhale.
I lifted her head toward mine, and as my lips carefully touched hers, I could feel the endorphins maniacally rush through our intertwined bodies. My other hand crept along her voluptuous breasts, along her wonderfully soft sides and traced her wide hips. My fingertips shivered in restrained ecstasy as they touched the sensual fat that adorned her body. “This is what a woman should feel like,” I whispered in my head. Her soft flesh seemed to cry out to my innermost passions, to the primal desires within each man that lets him know he is alive. And in that moment, I was truly alive.
My lips dove into hers, my eager hands carefully memorizing each curve of her body. Our eyes still chased each other as we moved like liquid inside the tiny bed. It seemed as though I could feel the very color of her skin as it wrapped around mine. Her thick thighs, her wide hips, her big soft belly had purchased every bit of my passions that weren’t already captured by her natural intellect, warmth, and playfulness. We had breathed so heavily for so long that we had exhausted every crevice of oxygen in the room. In my ruffled boxers, I rose from the bed to open the now-fogged window and let the crisp Oregon winter pour back into the steamy room.
We spooned under the sheets, my arm perfectly wrapping around the soft rolls of her waist. I tucked the free strands of her ebony hair back behind her ear, and then traced its lobe with the very skin of the back of my fingers. As I held my breath, I could hear hers slow its rhythm. She was finally asleep. I kissed the side of her neck, and laid my head beside hers on the down pillow.
“Oh, God,” I whispered into the cold night air, “this is what you made me for. Thank you. Thank you for making me the kind of man that could understand the immaculate beauty of a fat woman. I don’t want anything else for the rest of my life.”
My First BBW Experience
by Jay West Coast
by Jay West Coast
I carefully sat in a 1909 neo-gothic Catholic church in Illinois, carving the plaster of a trefoil on the church’s main alter screen. I was eighteen years old, and working diligently as an apprentice restoring one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen. The rest of the workers were in the shop, and the sound of my lone dremel echoed through the church’s majestic chambers.
My mind wandered. Perhaps, the master craftsman, who was also my humorously unforgiving uncle, would have scorned me for doing so in such a moment, but I couldn’t resist. Suddenly, it seemed to me that I craved a symphony of silence in that church. I turned off the dremel, and put it down. I hadn’t talked to God in some time, but I think He still had something to say. I sat, and meditated.
Months before, I had graduated from high school as part of the popular crowd. I lettered in two sports, and enjoyed the attention from being a smartass in school. The popular girls all dated my friends and I, being as dating seems to be more of a social maneuver at that age then wrought of true attraction. Or, perhaps that is easy for me to say; since I never once felt attracted down deep to the girls I was dating.
I had found Dimensions at 14, and was all too aware of what I really wanted. A growing set of crude fat-girl printouts and weight-loss ads clipped from the local paper sat secretly slipped between my mattress and boxspring throughout adolescence. I had been an FA dating skinny chicks.
As I sat before the house of God, I reflected on the absurdity of it all. There was a true happiness to be had. A blessing that I had been foolishly ignoring; something not without struggles, but ever-rewarding to pursue. The coming years of college were my chance to explore who I really was, to explore the sensuality of the women that God Himself had designed me to be with. I picked up the dremel tool, turned it on, and I began to hum.
“So far so good, Jay,” my uncle announced as he slipped into the sanctuary. His hand found my shoulder. “You know, perfection is all I ask.”
Months later, I had found the first love of my life, and dove headfirst into my first meaningful relationship. She was exotic, and beautiful. Her father was the hereditary monarch of an island in the Pacific, and she carried his hazel eyes and coffee-with-cream skin. She studied at my university, had lived in a year in Japan, and waxed long nights about dreams of education reform on her island. She was smart, funny, and cute. It was getting late, and I asked if she was ready for me to walk her back to her dorm.
“No, Jay,” she replied. “I’m perfectly comfortable right here.”
The winter night crept into the tiny room through my dorm window, so I got up to pull it shut. I turned around to find that she had already slid herself between the sheets to keep warm, so I slipped in next to her. Her big eyes captured the fortunate rays of moonlight that had evaded the Venetian blinds. Her wispy black hair trickled from behind her ears, past her breasts, and onto the sheets. She was so beautiful that I couldn’t think anymore, I just felt.
My hand reached behind her ear to move her delicate hair down her neck, where I grasped softly the back of her head. My body slid against hers, almost without me realizing it. As my hard stomach pressed against her soft belly, my edges of my mouth wandered perilously close to her big, wide lips. I could feel the heaviness of her breath in my ear, and I felt so distracted I could barely remember to exhale.
I lifted her head toward mine, and as my lips carefully touched hers, I could feel the endorphins maniacally rush through our intertwined bodies. My other hand crept along her voluptuous breasts, along her wonderfully soft sides and traced her wide hips. My fingertips shivered in restrained ecstasy as they touched the sensual fat that adorned her body. “This is what a woman should feel like,” I whispered in my head. Her soft flesh seemed to cry out to my innermost passions, to the primal desires within each man that lets him know he is alive. And in that moment, I was truly alive.
My lips dove into hers, my eager hands carefully memorizing each curve of her body. Our eyes still chased each other as we moved like liquid inside the tiny bed. It seemed as though I could feel the very color of her skin as it wrapped around mine. Her thick thighs, her wide hips, her big soft belly had purchased every bit of my passions that weren’t already captured by her natural intellect, warmth, and playfulness. We had breathed so heavily for so long that we had exhausted every crevice of oxygen in the room. In my ruffled boxers, I rose from the bed to open the now-fogged window and let the crisp Oregon winter pour back into the steamy room.
We spooned under the sheets, my arm perfectly wrapping around the soft rolls of her waist. I tucked the free strands of her ebony hair back behind her ear, and then traced its lobe with the very skin of the back of my fingers. As I held my breath, I could hear hers slow its rhythm. She was finally asleep. I kissed the side of her neck, and laid my head beside hers on the down pillow.
“Oh, God,” I whispered into the cold night air, “this is what you made me for. Thank you. Thank you for making me the kind of man that could understand the immaculate beauty of a fat woman. I don’t want anything else for the rest of my life.”
