Thought the FFA's on this Board might be interested in this article from today's NY Post. I've also attached the link to the original story too.
RV :eat1:
http://www.nypost.com/entertainment/60317.htm
YES, VIRGINIA, SIZE MATTERS
By ELIZABETH HAYT
December 26, 2005 -- I've recently had back-to-back beaux weighing in at opposite ends of the scale. Both were in their 50s, of equal intellect, professional success, and an ability to make me laugh, but the first - 6-foot-3 and 250 pounds - was a big-bellied whale, while the second - 6-foot and 170 pounds - was trim as a tomcat.
It wasn't hard to pick my favorite - the heavyweight was the champ.
Big men are sexy (and not just where it counts). Beanpoles aren't. They may have unclogged arteries on their side but welterweights seem kind of wimpy, as if they're more likely to elbow their way into the lifeboats than to put the women and children first. By contrast, husky fellows seem fearless and heroic, able and willing to rescue us from burning buildings and leap tall bounds.
My recent super-size lover was the embodiment of my masculine ideal. I wouldn't call him fat, though he described himself as "portly." Sure, it would have been nice - and certainly healthier - had he had more muscle tone than avoirdupois around his midsection. But when I lay on top of him, his body felt soft and comfortable, like an unmade, downy bed. His hands were heavy on my back. When he held me, it seemed as if I were enveloped in a cocoon.
"You're so small," he said, admiringly.
"You're so big," I replied, practically batting my lashes.
Who knew if the discrepancy actually made him feel like the he-man I thought him to be, but it sure made me feel dainty and fragile, heightening my sense of femininity. Two and half times my size, he was capable of snapping me in half, but the fact that he maneuvered with tender caution, made him seem all the more powerful and in control. I knew that he could, but never would, harm me. And that was the turn-on: feeling simultaneously vulnerable and trusting.
Although I consider myself a modern, feminist-minded woman, my sexual psychology represents an evolutionary throwback. While there is plenty of justifiable female outcry against double standards with regard to love handles, my own desires make me wonder: Are beefy guys cut more slack because women still harbor a secret, primal urge to be bedded by a caveman?
Consider King Kong. In Peter Jackson's new remake, the fair Anne Darrow (Naomi Watts), is an ambitious, adventurous actress willing to risk the high seas in a rickety vessel with a crew of grisly men for the sake of her budding film career. She gives herself over, not to the trim and emotionally tentative playwright Jim Driscoll (Adrian Brody) but to the chest-beating, fang-bearing beast with the thunderous roar. When he offers her his bone-crushing, yet poignantly sheltering palm, she curls inside, falls asleep, looking like a wee toy doll - a perfect metaphor of female sexual surrender to brutish male charms.
Not all large men can qualify as ladies' men, however. Meatheads like Bluto, Popeye's strongman nemesis, are out since anything over 30 extra pounds and under a triple-digit IQ are immediate disqualifications. A hefty man is hot so long as he's got the brain power to match, which is why the pre-bypass, Bubba-size Bill Clinton is my dream pin-up.
But how to explain the sex appeal of Tony Soprano, the no-neck, barrel-chested, babe magnet and last thing from a Rhodes Scholar?
"He is to die for," confessed a girlfriend of mine who, like me, is tiny as a teacup. "He's all strength and protection. He's paternalistic. His street smarts make up for his tackiness. Even though he's fat, his bulk is all power. He could kill you with his bare hands."
My friend isn't looking to be pummeled, and neither am I. What she's expressing is a wish that we - both not-quite-middle-aged, single mothers with brazen tongues and seemingly tough hides - share: a chance to let an able-bodied man take command and take care of us.
That man allows me to be someone precisely other than who I am in my daily life - a woman with responsibilities, making decisions and taking the initiative. Such freedom comes to me in the dark, pretending to be a defenseless creature, wrapped in the arms of a prodigious paramour. Where, oh where are you, my King Kong?
Elizabeth Hayt is the author of "I'm No Saint: A Nasty Little Memoir of Love and Leaving."
RV :eat1:
http://www.nypost.com/entertainment/60317.htm
YES, VIRGINIA, SIZE MATTERS
By ELIZABETH HAYT
December 26, 2005 -- I've recently had back-to-back beaux weighing in at opposite ends of the scale. Both were in their 50s, of equal intellect, professional success, and an ability to make me laugh, but the first - 6-foot-3 and 250 pounds - was a big-bellied whale, while the second - 6-foot and 170 pounds - was trim as a tomcat.
It wasn't hard to pick my favorite - the heavyweight was the champ.
Big men are sexy (and not just where it counts). Beanpoles aren't. They may have unclogged arteries on their side but welterweights seem kind of wimpy, as if they're more likely to elbow their way into the lifeboats than to put the women and children first. By contrast, husky fellows seem fearless and heroic, able and willing to rescue us from burning buildings and leap tall bounds.
My recent super-size lover was the embodiment of my masculine ideal. I wouldn't call him fat, though he described himself as "portly." Sure, it would have been nice - and certainly healthier - had he had more muscle tone than avoirdupois around his midsection. But when I lay on top of him, his body felt soft and comfortable, like an unmade, downy bed. His hands were heavy on my back. When he held me, it seemed as if I were enveloped in a cocoon.
"You're so small," he said, admiringly.
"You're so big," I replied, practically batting my lashes.
Who knew if the discrepancy actually made him feel like the he-man I thought him to be, but it sure made me feel dainty and fragile, heightening my sense of femininity. Two and half times my size, he was capable of snapping me in half, but the fact that he maneuvered with tender caution, made him seem all the more powerful and in control. I knew that he could, but never would, harm me. And that was the turn-on: feeling simultaneously vulnerable and trusting.
Although I consider myself a modern, feminist-minded woman, my sexual psychology represents an evolutionary throwback. While there is plenty of justifiable female outcry against double standards with regard to love handles, my own desires make me wonder: Are beefy guys cut more slack because women still harbor a secret, primal urge to be bedded by a caveman?
Consider King Kong. In Peter Jackson's new remake, the fair Anne Darrow (Naomi Watts), is an ambitious, adventurous actress willing to risk the high seas in a rickety vessel with a crew of grisly men for the sake of her budding film career. She gives herself over, not to the trim and emotionally tentative playwright Jim Driscoll (Adrian Brody) but to the chest-beating, fang-bearing beast with the thunderous roar. When he offers her his bone-crushing, yet poignantly sheltering palm, she curls inside, falls asleep, looking like a wee toy doll - a perfect metaphor of female sexual surrender to brutish male charms.
Not all large men can qualify as ladies' men, however. Meatheads like Bluto, Popeye's strongman nemesis, are out since anything over 30 extra pounds and under a triple-digit IQ are immediate disqualifications. A hefty man is hot so long as he's got the brain power to match, which is why the pre-bypass, Bubba-size Bill Clinton is my dream pin-up.
But how to explain the sex appeal of Tony Soprano, the no-neck, barrel-chested, babe magnet and last thing from a Rhodes Scholar?
"He is to die for," confessed a girlfriend of mine who, like me, is tiny as a teacup. "He's all strength and protection. He's paternalistic. His street smarts make up for his tackiness. Even though he's fat, his bulk is all power. He could kill you with his bare hands."
My friend isn't looking to be pummeled, and neither am I. What she's expressing is a wish that we - both not-quite-middle-aged, single mothers with brazen tongues and seemingly tough hides - share: a chance to let an able-bodied man take command and take care of us.
That man allows me to be someone precisely other than who I am in my daily life - a woman with responsibilities, making decisions and taking the initiative. Such freedom comes to me in the dark, pretending to be a defenseless creature, wrapped in the arms of a prodigious paramour. Where, oh where are you, my King Kong?
Elizabeth Hayt is the author of "I'm No Saint: A Nasty Little Memoir of Love and Leaving."
