This letter was edited and may be slightly less amusing in order to make publishable on the “G” rated Paul F. Blake dot ORG.

 

Dear Paul,

 

I have discovered that I am attracted to fat, grouchy women with asses wider than the chairs they crush.  Something about that overhang really turns me on.  Just the other day, I spotted a heffer sitting at a cubical on the far side of a government office and chewing on a cluster of hard candy.  A fold hung off each side of her chair.  Ahhh, the size of her.  I became very excited.

Then she looked up and scowled, obviously annoyed that I had caught her playing internet checkers on the job.  She didn't say a word.  Neither did I.  Our eyes locked into something I thought would last forever.  Her gaze was charged with irritation.  Mine with lust.

I froze, mesmerized by her bitchy lard.  My mouth hung open.  I couldn't move.  I couldn't speak.  She had me right where she wanted me, and she knew it. Then it happened, a moment I will never forget.  The hose beast growled.

"Do you want something?" she said.  He half-rotten teeth glistened from the black pit.  Candy slober ran down her chin.  I was so nervous I could barely contain myself.  That's when I realized I wasn't wearing any underwear.  I stuttered and stammered.  How could I explain?  How could I tell her that the more she scowled, the harder it would be to break away?  I wanted to tell about the abrasive Levis fabric and how it felt.

But I couldn't do it.  The anxiety was too much.  I figured I had better take it slow.  Ease into it and the romance will come.  Maybe we could gorge ourselves at all-you-can-eat buffet.  Maybe I could lure her to a discount store with the promise of deserts in bulk.  Then to a cheap motel.  I should get to know her first.  One step at a time.

"Hey," I said as I started walking towards her.  "I'm not wearing any underwear."

Her bitchy expression faded and took my excitement with it.  Something was wrong. I panicked.  I had to regain the excitement.

"I'm not kidding," I said in desperation.  "I don't have any drawers on."

Then I started to prove it.

My plan backfired.  We didn't adjourn to a local doughnut shop for a round of high-calorie complaining as I had planned.  Nope.  I got arrested.  Charges were filed.  A deputy cuffed me and hauled me into court.  People stared.  The judge banished me from her office.  Can you believe it?  I just wanted to share my feelings to the porker who had inspired them and look what happened. What should I do?  How can I express my longing for the double-wide type without turning them away? Should I abandon my true fixation?  Should I give up my heart-felt pursuit of slow-moving gubment workers in favor of erotic dancers?  Surely not.  I don't think I could live that way, not without the comfort of good whiskey to get me through it.  I can already feel my life slipping into a haze of drunken debauchery, hard bodies.  Please help.  This is America for #$%& sake.

 

Sincerely,

 

Fat and Nasty

 

 

Dear Fat & Nasty,

 

It sound like you tried to come on too strong.  Fat women are people too.  They are just like regularly sized women but eat loaves of bread instead of vegetables, and they need to be romanced.

Try a song or poem.  Channel your sick perversions into something sweet that will woo her.  I have a song you can download here, that addresses the type of in”Fat”uation you speak of.

As for the particular woman you speak of, try a sincere apology after the court order expires.  It may take some time, but chances are she doesn’t have anyone knocking on her door and a non-perverse explanation of your passion could woo the fat cow moo.

 

Sincerely,

 

Paul