To my readers: Dedicated to my friend Christy, who graciously allowed me to use her name in this story.
Too many people look at BBW's as a fetish or an aberration. In fact, as a BBW lover, I can state without reservation that a BBW is no different than any other woman.
It is unfortunate that a tag or label is attached to describe physical attributes. The women I've dated have great personalities, fantastic senses of humor, are intelligent, and last but not least, make me, and keep me, horny on a 24 hour basis.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with the cheerleader/model/pinup/calendar girl type. They are beautiful. It's a personal preference thing and I just happen to like a voluptuous woman.
So please readers. If this isn't the style of story for you, I forewarned you. This is a story for guys like me and the women we love. PLEASE NO FLAMING OR DEROGATORY COMMENTS.
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If there is one thing I cannot deal with it's a woman crying. It is the one time, and place, where I find myself in the awkward position of not knowing what to say or do. Last Friday was a perfect example.
Christy Simon and I had been car-pooling for the last six months.
I had met Christy at a neighbor's party and found that she lived a couple of streets over. In the course of the evening's conversation I found that she worked at the Barclay Building, just around the corner from my office.
With gas prices being what they were, I offered Christy transportation with me. At her insistence we agreed to split gas costs, and the deal was made.
Over a six-month period I learned quite a bit about her. Thirty-three years old; she had two children from a failed marriage. She had apparently put on weight after childbirth and never lost it.
Her husband had started seeing another woman and lost interest in her and the kids altogether.
She had filed for divorce after finding a hotel charge on their credit card. She had called the hotel, figuring it was a mistake, only to find that a Mr. and Mrs. Simon HAD spent the night there.
Problem was, Mrs. Christy Simon had been home with two sick children on the night in question. Fortunately she had been smart and the house had always been in her name.
Mr. Simon came home from work that night to find all of his possessions on the front lawn and the locks changed.
She was raising the kids on her own, as the ex wanted nothing to do with any of them.
She worked as an Account Executive for a small advertising firm. Her mom lived nearby and watched the kids during the week. She loved country music, especially Montgomery Gentry and Sara Evans.
And she had a cat. Diamond.
This brings us round robin to last Friday.
I had pulled into her driveway expecting her to be waiting at the door. I was surprised that she wasn't. In fact, I was actually sad that she wasn't.
I guess I had gotten used to the infectious smile and bubbly personality every morning. To not have that greeting was unsettling.
I parked the car, walked to her door, and knocked. When she answered I became even more unsettled.
Christy had obviously been crying, and crying hard.
A myriad of thoughts and emotions ran through me. Had her ex come by and hurt her? – Anger. Were her kids okay? – Worry. Did something happen to her mom? – Concern. Had something happened to Christy? –Trepidation.
I had never run that gamut in such a short amount of time, and it was disconcerting to say the least.
Christy looked at me with her soft brown eyes brimming with tears.
"Diamond died", she said as she burst into a gut-wrenching crying fit.
I didn't know what to say or do. On the one hand a sense of relief washed over me knowing that it was just her cat. On the other, having lost pets of my own, I could fully sympathize with how she felt.
Simultaneously we both stepped forward, me to take her into my arms to comfort her, and she to bury her face in my chest and be comforted.
"It's okay", I said as I mentally kicked my ass for making such a friggin' stupid remark as 'It's okay' when her cat had died.
My comment didn't seem to faze her at all. She just held me tighter, and cried harder. It seemed like she was letting out a lot more than just the loss of her cat.
I just stood there holding her close and letting her cry.
She felt good in my arms and I found myself savoring her warmth, the scent of her perfume, the softness of her hair.
The longer I held her the more acutely aware I became of how nice it was to hold Christy like that. I was holding her more as a woman than as a friend. I was being aroused and the feeling angered me.
Here I was, a 51 year-old man, who should be trying to console a friend, young enough to be my daughter. Instead I was letting my body, and hers, do my thinking for me.
Try as I might though, holding Christy was bringing these thoughts to the forefront.
I could feel her chest heaving against me and all I could do was picture them crushed up against me with no clothing between us.
