I am Robert Earl Hughes, the World's Fattest Man.
Long have I suffered under that name, but my long suffering has given rise to some good, in the form of my livelihood and my devoted children. But beyond these blessings even, I have my beautiful wife, Grace ("Grace of God" I like to call her in our quiet "pillow talks," though indeed the pillows sometimes be none other than those of my massive ass halves) who, with her delicate frame, manages to give me much pleasure, despite the danger therein to her small body, a mere 98 pounds against my manly (yes, I feel I have earned the right to call my many fatty folds "manly") 1,069 pounds.
So many wondrous times has she pressed her tiny hot folds of flesh against me and against my distant tiny genitals, that I have lost count, how this tiny quivering flower hanging off my body has so many beautiful times gotten me off (forgive me, my Savior, for my occasional foulness of tongue, but I have naught but a second-grade education, what with You having seen fit to cast me out early from the "educated" masses in order that I might profit from my body's masses.) (Your ways are wise and unfathomable to me, why You did see fit to bless me with every one of my 1,069 pounds, which I view as 1,069 individual blessings (oh, and forgive me as always for that time my evil Vanity drove me to try to jettison some of those pounds that you had so generously bequeathed unto me)).
Yes, you, Grace, indeed have "gotten me off," as the Philistines say, exerting enough hysterical energy for the both of us. Sometimes I would try to bring my massive haunches to bear on the matter at hand, attempting one or two feeble and exhausting thrusts (if "thrust" it may be called; more of a quivering dick-rise, I should admit more fairly), before falling back in exhaustion; then you, my Beautiful Grace, would "finish the job," riding my mammoth girth as it were an Ox, my Belly actually hiding the greater part of your quivering hot little body. Then so many times I would explode into the beautiful hot little flower riding my body, and my seed would ride into you; three times now has it completed its wondrous journey back out of you: our little Darlings, Robert Jr., Samuel and Molly herself (may they not be Blessed/Cursed with the Blessing/Curse of phenomenal weight gain; though I do not forget that I owe my livelihood to said "Curse".)
I admit sometimes I might be a little "curt" in my lovemaking, not paying you the fullest mind, especially in the "foreplay department;" for this I beg your forgiveness. (Though on the other hand, I must assert my rights from time to time as the Master of this House and Owner of your beautiful little body. (Yes, "Owner" is a strong term, but that is the term the Father would have me use.) For all of my bread-winning and bacon-gathering, I feel I have earned (or as I like to put it, "Earled") some rights and pride of ownership to you, my beautiful crazed wild flower).
And then one day, today, as I return home from the State Fair, in only my thirty-third year of life, you paid your final homage to my precarious manhood and accepted my Gift of Seed (this time I was on my side, your back to me; a far away heat and then I exploded in flowers inside of you). I will never know if that final Gift bore Fruit, for then this thing happened: I heard you say,
"Robert, I will go cook you five pounds of bacon."
I smiled and I closed my eyes under massive lids.
Then my heart, lost in three hundred pounds of guts and entrails and so many Folds of Fat, fluttered once, twice, and then stopped.
I am the Happiest Man in the World.