(This post is specifically geared towards those kinksters who enjoy, and get off on, fat shaming, degradation, and mocking of a specific body type. If any of that content makes you uncomfortable, or you know you won’t enjoy it, please find a different post to entertain you.
The phrase “beached whales” doesn’t always refer to stranded marine mammals.
Every summer, it seems that for every ripped, toned, athletic hunk who could give my fiance James a run for his money, there are at least 20 little pin dicks in skimpy speedos that highlight the fact they’re hung like a ken doll. But far, far worse, is the traumatizing and horrifying sight of ‘men’ who are blubber butts & walking, talking tubs of lard, basting in tanning oil beneath the summer sun. These roly-poly, hurl-inducing, semi-melted Jabba the Hutts who are sweating all over their beach towels while leering at my friends and I sometimes have so many rolls of fat, I can’t even tell if they are wearing a swim suit.
One particularly disgusting lump of melted marshmallows introduced himself as Moby Dick.
And even though my eyes yearned for bleach, with the same morbid curiosity that makes you unable to look away from a train wreck, I scanned his flabby, saggy, bulging and bulbous form. ‘Great white whale’ indeed. It would take a entire PETA team, or the crew of the Sea Shepherd, to roll this beached mass of blubber back to the depths, and I had the feeling it would take industrial strength equipment to even move his fat ass off the beach towel. As it was, the sheer weight of his morbidly obese form had created a crater in the shoreline. Similar to those cartoon holes you see when a character gets shot from a cannon and through a wall or into the pavement.
My face must have revealed my utter distaste and loathing.
Because the next thing I knew “Moby Dick” was grasping my hand in his pudgy, chubby, sweaty, little vienna sausage fingers, his eyes dancing with delight among the folds of fat in his piggish face, begging eagerly, feverishly, for me to tell him what I thought of him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his other hand disappear somewhere beneath the rolls and rolls of lard around his belly. I smiled at him sweetly, removed my hand from his puffy, soggy, vile grip, and told him I’d love too once he gave me a call at Humiliation Bootcamp’s number when I logged in later that night.
Wouldn’t you know, Moby Dick, the roly-poly tub of walking, talking lard, dialed me within 30 minutes of my signing in!
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