BBW, Food. moderate gaining, ecstasy
A little original poetry for your day:
Women in a Land of Plenty
Its just another dinner,
drinks first, a few sticks of fried mozzarella,
bread and a Caesar salad.
The prime rib au jus,
particularly rare,
garlic potatoes,
gingered carrots, bread and butter
and of course, butter and bread.
Candy discretely signals
the ritual, each bite acknowledged for its place in the universe,
transformed into a future I can hold.
The first bites speedily disappear to appease the local demons,
but then more slowly,
into the denim stretched tight
as a belly can take them to tribute
Amaretto mousse and pumpkin cheesecake,
chocolate syrup and caramel ice cream.
Immobilized by the moment,
my long pink nails pushed between elastic and skin,
rolls of pleasure
my eyes close,
rubbing slowly,
a happy volunteer
giving myself to the sacrifice.
Small waists are only for nymphs and television stars,
real women enjoy possibilities,
possibilities of pasties and potato latkes,
and besides he enjoys wrapping me with himself,
my soft belly
attaching to his
body in the cinnamon candlelight.
Perhaps a candy bar at eight
a handful of tortilla chips at ten
sacrifice is certainly intimate,
an immediate reaction to years of palpable preparation,
in fact it was possible not to notice the minor shift
the inch or two over time,
from 10 to 12 , 12 to 14.
Slow and enticing, not noticing myself sometimes
until too late to
wear exactly what I want to wear,
but the new clothes always felt so free,
blouses full enough to hug me completely,
silk and satin, cotton and rayon,
perhaps an overflowed polyester skirt, but not the jeans yet,
he likes them tight,
and the bras holding less and less of more and more.
Lips red and soft, and neck soft and more snuggly,
he looses himself there entirely,
nonchalantly a second piece of cheesecake he says,
a Godiva liqueur chocolate milkshake perhaps.
The size sixteen blouse liberates me again,
no one to notice the unsnapped snap
beneath its long tails untucked
encouraged by the administration of the results,
unprompted and unquestionedgenuine exaltation,
confrontation of your own desire with my desire.
We are cruel to our inventions when they do not reflect convention
not dreamy ecstasy,
still able to think and drink,
a communion of soul and body,
a future realized in a distant twinge of tight leather belts
sprung waistbands
the convergence of constraints
that unlatch scrawny goodness.
All they ever want is a cookie when they
look at the camera with dark-circled-black-and-white eyes
a betrayal and a kind of villainy
to enjoy a cookie as a cookie,
but it is the comments that
signal my affection for my thighs when they touch
it is just natural to hold him perfectly
with an objective personal tie to the nuzzle of his beard on my belly
sure I will have another helping of helping myself
a moment unable to contemplate starving my own desire
and now especially satisfied by your devouring my
red hair
brown hair
big smiles and
lets set down for awhiles
hopes and fears and
you look beautiful dears
eyes and thighs and
long good byes
hands and demands
and Ill make my stands
fattening treats
and private retreats
The confidence of influences confirms
yams and marshmallows,
a little more mellow,
a glass of eggnog and brandy
he thinks I look dandy,
a slow hand on tighter tight jeans,
18 is just perfect with the pumpkin pie,
relaxed into January
and the 18s into twenties,
and the rain falls, and the snow
piles outside slowly against the window sill,
gingerbread and divinity,
freedom from the kitchen of December
fast food and local restaurants in big sweaters and sweats,
no need to torture myself over summer now, not yet,
not never,
only for the glory of appreciation for those that dont really appreciate
those that want to eat immensely
to feel our bodies own themselves
to acknowledge these rituals as real things
not codified but revealed in their own way of revelation
when a man acknowledges that youre more is something more
that there is sanity in a milkshake or a double chin,
in the undeniable pleasure of warmness pressed in a satisfied wait.
It proves really no sacrifice at all.
This is how all women should feel in a land of plenty.
Enjoy!
A little original poetry for your day:
Women in a Land of Plenty
Its just another dinner,
drinks first, a few sticks of fried mozzarella,
bread and a Caesar salad.
The prime rib au jus,
particularly rare,
garlic potatoes,
gingered carrots, bread and butter
and of course, butter and bread.
Candy discretely signals
the ritual, each bite acknowledged for its place in the universe,
transformed into a future I can hold.
The first bites speedily disappear to appease the local demons,
but then more slowly,
into the denim stretched tight
as a belly can take them to tribute
Amaretto mousse and pumpkin cheesecake,
chocolate syrup and caramel ice cream.
Immobilized by the moment,
my long pink nails pushed between elastic and skin,
rolls of pleasure
my eyes close,
rubbing slowly,
a happy volunteer
giving myself to the sacrifice.
Small waists are only for nymphs and television stars,
real women enjoy possibilities,
possibilities of pasties and potato latkes,
and besides he enjoys wrapping me with himself,
my soft belly
attaching to his
body in the cinnamon candlelight.
Perhaps a candy bar at eight
a handful of tortilla chips at ten
sacrifice is certainly intimate,
an immediate reaction to years of palpable preparation,
in fact it was possible not to notice the minor shift
the inch or two over time,
from 10 to 12 , 12 to 14.
Slow and enticing, not noticing myself sometimes
until too late to
wear exactly what I want to wear,
but the new clothes always felt so free,
blouses full enough to hug me completely,
silk and satin, cotton and rayon,
perhaps an overflowed polyester skirt, but not the jeans yet,
he likes them tight,
and the bras holding less and less of more and more.
Lips red and soft, and neck soft and more snuggly,
he looses himself there entirely,
nonchalantly a second piece of cheesecake he says,
a Godiva liqueur chocolate milkshake perhaps.
The size sixteen blouse liberates me again,
no one to notice the unsnapped snap
beneath its long tails untucked
encouraged by the administration of the results,
unprompted and unquestionedgenuine exaltation,
confrontation of your own desire with my desire.
We are cruel to our inventions when they do not reflect convention
not dreamy ecstasy,
still able to think and drink,
a communion of soul and body,
a future realized in a distant twinge of tight leather belts
sprung waistbands
the convergence of constraints
that unlatch scrawny goodness.
All they ever want is a cookie when they
look at the camera with dark-circled-black-and-white eyes
a betrayal and a kind of villainy
to enjoy a cookie as a cookie,
but it is the comments that
signal my affection for my thighs when they touch
it is just natural to hold him perfectly
with an objective personal tie to the nuzzle of his beard on my belly
sure I will have another helping of helping myself
a moment unable to contemplate starving my own desire
and now especially satisfied by your devouring my
red hair
brown hair
big smiles and
lets set down for awhiles
hopes and fears and
you look beautiful dears
eyes and thighs and
long good byes
hands and demands
and Ill make my stands
fattening treats
and private retreats
The confidence of influences confirms
yams and marshmallows,
a little more mellow,
a glass of eggnog and brandy
he thinks I look dandy,
a slow hand on tighter tight jeans,
18 is just perfect with the pumpkin pie,
relaxed into January
and the 18s into twenties,
and the rain falls, and the snow
piles outside slowly against the window sill,
gingerbread and divinity,
freedom from the kitchen of December
fast food and local restaurants in big sweaters and sweats,
no need to torture myself over summer now, not yet,
not never,
only for the glory of appreciation for those that dont really appreciate
those that want to eat immensely
to feel our bodies own themselves
to acknowledge these rituals as real things
not codified but revealed in their own way of revelation
when a man acknowledges that youre more is something more
that there is sanity in a milkshake or a double chin,
in the undeniable pleasure of warmness pressed in a satisfied wait.
It proves really no sacrifice at all.
This is how all women should feel in a land of plenty.
Enjoy!
