I remember Fabienne in Pulp Fiction saying that a woman with a pot belly was sexy. I didn’t understand that then, but today, I run a hand over my rounded tummy and I agree.
I’m not pregnant. I’m just fat. My boyfriend objects when I use that word to describe myself, but I don’t mean it pejoratively. I could say I’m overweight, but that makes it a medical term. Or I could say I’m voluptuous. He likes that better. Or Rubenesque. I don’t mind those. BBW I rejected because it also stands for Beautiful Black Woman, which I’m not. Full-figured is out because I’m short. I like fat. I have fat on my body. It makes me soft and gives me curves and makes me more attractive.
And it gives me a rounded tummy. I don’t know why I find my belly so attractive, but I do. My first childhood experiences in self-pleasure weren’t sexual, but were simply me running my fingertips over my belly, because I liked the way it felt. Now I often hold my belly while I’m relaxing. Just hold it. It feels nice. It feels whole. I rub lotion into it and use a cotton swab to clean out my belly button. I rest the bottle of lube on it when I’m playing with myself. I rest my laptop on it when I look at porn in bed. It jiggles when we’re in doggy style. It shows an unattractive buldge if I wear the wrong style of dress, but looks beautiful in the right style.
If I had another me, I would kneel in front of her so I could smell and touch and kiss her beautiful, perfect, sexy belly.
|My belly. Complete with camo pants and packer cock.|