Men suck.

Well, not exactly. Part of being a feminist means realizing that men and women are worthy of the same amount of inherent respect. Men are pigs? Hmm, no, I think men are dogs – how about us girls be the pigs? Now, I know how that sounds, but I think it’s an interesting analogy. Dogs are blind, stupid creatures that obey there most base instincts – whereas pigs are one of the most intelligent animals in existence (fun fact: law enforcement actually considered pigs for bomb sniffing but opted out of it, not due to intelligence, but their speed). I say we retract that little piece of feminist bravado, and keep it for ourselves. The next time a woman refers to some dickless simp as a chauvenist pig, correct her. Let her know that whatever piece of shit she’s dealing with is likely being undeservingly compared to one of the more intelligent mammalian species. In pop culture, pigs are treated as dumb, filthy animals, but in reality, they’re sensual and intelligent. Sound like anything else? Hmm. How about a nice big fucking metaphor for the mistreatment of womankind, and the stark dichotomy of our comparative [superiority and] differences? I’m a fat pig, and I’m damn proud of it.

So, one big thing about me. I like guys and girls. I’m *not* bi, which implies I’m sexually attracted to both men and women (I actually find that label offensive). I love sex and the human experience, and to me the gender I desire that with is secondary. I may have that sexual experience with a guy, maybe a girl (I actually prefer the term “transamorous”) But when I do like guys, I tend to like hipster guys. No, not quite. Skinny hipster guys. And I mean skinny – my friends have actually made fun of me for my taste in “manorexic” boys, but I honestly don’t care. I’m bi in most cases, but when the mood strikes me and I desire a boytoy to play with for a while (before throwing away) I’m going to have to go ahead and demand that he be thin. Skinny. Skinny and tight.

Here’s the thing, girls: We keep hearing shit about accepting bodytypes, everyone being beautiful, etc etc. We’re made to believe that LIKE thin women, we, as fat women (I’m not afraid to say fat…it’s not a bad word) are *also* attractive. Guess what? I reject that notion. I’m willing to go one step further and postulate that women are *supposed* to be fat. Women are soft and curvy. Big tits. Nice hips. That’s what matters? Men, well, they’re supposed to be lean and muscular. Hard creatures. How I like ’em.

So, a couple months ago I meet a guy. My type. Skinny, hipster, dorky hair, progressive politics (no guns, minimal capitalism, and no meat is a plus). We hit it off. So, we go back to his place. He was so embarassed, and trying so hard to impress me, it was almost cute. The first thing I do is ask him where the bathroom was, and spent a good twenty minutes freshening up and pinching a loaf. Here’s the thing about me: I’ve had enough partners over the course of the years to *know* I’m a good fuck, and without going on a spiel about the inherent misogynist dichotomies between gods and goddesses in most pagan faiths (wrote a paper about it my first junior year…may post it later), I’m pretty much the closest a woman can get to being a sex goddess.

We’re fat sluts. We’re fat disgusting pigs. We’re designed to be healthy at any bodyshape, but especially the larger sizes – it’s just the most natural example of the female form. And we’re designed to make love freely to whoever – and how many ever – men that we want. No more of this fake princess shit, we’re real women with real needs. We curse. We spit. We might fuck you and not call you. We might eat a plate of wings and shit all over your bathroom (and still not decide to fuck you). If you don’t like it, there’s an internet full of porn out there to occupy your time. I don’t care, little boys. *Yawn.*

So, the first date, after leaving his place he took me out to dinner. I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, just so he knew I was worth it. There’s an interesting little bugaboo about dating etiquette that’s never made quite clear when you’re young and your interesting in the opposite gender starts blossoming. Be polite, but not to polite. Chew with your mouth open, take food from his plate, talk loudly. This isn’t about him – this is *your* night. I ordered a plate of ribs with their most expensive draught beer (ugh gas lol), and we ended the meal with their signature dish, “The Big Fat Cream Pie.” It wasn’t bad, I ate all of mine. I got a little on my nose, and was a little peeved that he didn’t tell me how cute it looked (I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, lol!). But, eh.

So, a few dates later I took his virginity. As a matter of speaking. Er, I took his *real* virginity. I told him it would be kinky if I tied him up before we got down to business. I told him to promise me, no matter what, to let me do what I had to. No safewords. No sissy shit. Nothing. Why? Because it would be hotter this way. Needless to say, he eagerly agreed. For foreplay, I warmed him up with a wonderful little [gender asserting] sex move I call the “stinky-thumb screamer.” I’m not going into details about what exactly this is (you should know this, ladies), but just for the sake of a helpful pointer, use lube with your boy if you’re proud of being a girl. Don’t use lube, however, if you’re proud of being a woman.

So, fifteen minutes later he’s totally confused and worried, so I finally get down to business with my ten-inch strap on. So I enter him, and he just goes BALLISTIC. He forces me to untie him, and he’s flailing around clutching his ass and yelling at me. Now, I’m completely furious – not just because of his outburst, but furious at ALL men. I’ve had quite enough of this imbalance in intergender sexual power. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, boys, and don’t penetrate a lady if you don’t want to get penetrated back. To top it all off, my gout is acting up and I couldn’t stop farting from the earlier meal (we ended up returning to the rib joint). So I leave (admittedly after a few muffled sharts), and call him return a few days later to officially break up. I cannot, and will not, tolerate such *blatant* gender double-standards. But, it was clean. He got off easy.

Breakups, I must say, are something of a specialty. It’s bad enough the us larger women have suffered as a whole, how can I dare tolerate being a larger woman who suffers at an individual, personal level? So, luckily, I have a few little techniques for making him regret the day he trifled with a fat feminist.

Now, this delves into a particular story involving a certain ex lover, but this can apply to any woman who wants to fuck with a guy who did her wrong (which can honestly be pretty much any given guy). There’s a little secret weapon that we bitches have on our side: Bros. How I hate that word. It’s basically become analogous to a guy’s male friends that he exchanges gender-based prejudiced comments with. You know your ex’s best friend, that guy he couldn’t do without (and you might have awkwardly double-dated with? Fuck him. I remember one guy I was living with while I was finishing up my bachelors. It was a wonderful time for me, I was still a wee lass back then (I had just turned twenty-eight…where did the years go?). So, we had a breakup. It didn’t go too badly (I initiated it, of course – I had needs that just *one* man wasn’t quite up to satsifying). So, I go back to collect my stuff from the apartment we shared a little while after he left for work. His best friend was there, as I knew he would, to “help me out” with the packing-up process. So, I start doing a sexy little dance as he’s sitting on the couch. He was confused at first, but utterly became completely entranced. I took off my pants, and he instructed me to leave. I actually felt bad for him – he was so frightened by his attraction to me that he wanted me to leave, lest he dishonor his friend. So, I gyrate a little, and drop my panties. He gets up and is “threatening” me with calling the police before I force him back down, and pounce on him like a sexy minx. So, I pivot my ass on his face and just start gyrating ( I LOVE sitting on mens’ faces). Now, as we all know, men cannot help themselves. He starts absolutely loving it, and his body and breathing shows it.

I don’t mean to go all TMI on you, my dear readers, but he was orgasming so wildly that he was literally gasping to try to catch his breath – he was so overtaken by his carnal desires that he couldn’t get enough oxygen. I kept sitting on him until he finally finished, and by the time I got up he was so wiped that he literally didn’t even move at all – he just laid there, motionless – completely overcome by the complete and utter sensual pleasure that a REAL woman. I went to the bathroom for like ten minutes, and cleaned myself up, only to find that he still hadn’t moved. I smiled, went to the fridge, grabbed my tub of Nutella, and left without another word. Revenge is sweet. I never spoke to my ex again, though I heard from other sources (never got the specifics) that he was – and continued to be – distraught for weeks.

Another time I broke up with a guy who took things a lot more gracefully. He had caught me having a thing with his roommate, a Nigerian exchange student named Mugumbu (I shit you not). I felt bad about all this, but the most important part of it all was that I had the strenght and courage to realize that even though I did something “bad”, it was only because I was reacting to longstanding environmental stresses and prejudices. So after a lot of talking, I told him I understood his points. I told him I still would love him, even if we didn’t stay together. I told him I cherished my time with him. Like most men who’s cerebellum can barely process a megapixel, he believed me, and then left for work while I packed. So, I called up my bitches, and after only taking about an hour to pack (I only packed what I didn’t want to trouble him with, lol) my bitches come over, and we do a little something I call a “Mississippi fudge dump.”

Now, here’s the thing about ladies our size. We’re real women. I’m on the lighter side at 211, but my fellow bitches are a little grander in proportion. They include the lovely Lisa, Becka, and Bertie (all of which are excess of 230 pounds – we actually met at a fat-feminist activist ralley that Becka, the plus-sized bombshell, actually organized).

So we naturally do what we do best: fuck with guys who fuck us over. Lisa plugged her ipod into the dock and started blasting Alanis as we took eachother by the hips, formed a fat betch congo line, and danced our way into the kitchen. After having a little cat-fight with the whipped cream (which I somehow always end up buying before a breakup…huh!) we formed our little girl-power congo line and danced our way into the bathroom. In here, it’s worth noting, that we cooked up our legendary Mississippi fudge dump. The recipe is simple: You take as many fat activists as you can (they have to be proud, too!), take them into the bathroom of someone that’s persecuting you for being a woman of size, and then you all take a bit shit AFTER turning off the water.

The thing about us bigger gals is often difficult to understand that having the courage to maintain one’s status as bigger woman (as we’re supposed to be) means taking in enough fuel to maintain the *body* of a larger woman. More woman = more food. This makes sense. The thing is, the more food you eat, the more of a numero dos you leave behind after. This is nothing to be ashamed of; everybody poops. I poop. Alanis Morisette poops. Susan B. Anthony poops. I know the whole blah blah story of how guys are supposed to be all “rough-n-tough” and do whatever they want (including, disgustingly, pissing standing up, which sprays), but c’mon ladies, so should we. So be proud. The FIRST thing you should do when a guy brings you home is to take a big shit in his toilet, just so he knows that you do NOT give a shit (teehee, pun most definitely intended) and that you’ll do what you please.

So we turn off the water to the toilet, it drains, and we all take turns shitting in the now bone-dry bowl. What makes this so deliciously devilish is that, of course, having shut off the water – by the time the unsuspecting man returns that evening, the shit has hardened and become something analogous to cement (I’m no scientist but I’m pretty sure it’s the same process).

So we left, went to a club, and got a bunch of guys to buy us cosmos. We got totally hammered and parted ways. I went home with a guy, he seemed really nice – he also seemed like he wanted to sleep with me. He leaned in for a kiss once we got to his house (honestly pretty swank for a trashy guido dude), and I was all “no fucking way.” I didn’t realize that accepting a drink and checking out your place all of the sudden mean I “owed” you anything, especially not a kiss. That was all it took. I was done. But I wasn’t rude, or abrupt – I was polite. I simply just excused myself to the bathroom discretely, took just a few moments, and then left early because “something had come up.”

He had toilet paper, but the hand-towel was softer. I asked him for thirty dollars for cab fare, and he gave it to me. I used the cab to go right back to the bar, where I had a couple more Cosmos (this time, from some fat older gentleman who actually that that he’d have a chance), and took him up on his offer to “come by his place.” Unfortunately, like a lot of spirited ladies, my enthusiasm overtook my capacity to imbibe – we barely made it out of the parking lot before I simultaneously threw up and shit myself. I got upset and said something about leather seats, but I told him to go fuck himself. He got mad, and said some bullshit about how a giant fat woman shitting herself in an overtight cocktail dress looked like someone dropped a hoagie in an oil spill. I slapped him, and forced myself to shit a little more before demanding him to pull over. I got a ride from Becka.

As I got out, I told him clean the stain, but not too well. This way he can commemorate the time he *almost* slept with a real woman.