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My Fat Girl Story

Posted By Mark On January 4, 2011 @ 9:33 pm In Dating,Ethics,Sex,Social Life | 19 Comments

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Any man who claims he has never slept with a fat girl is either a liar or inexperienced with women. Every guy I know who gets tons of girls has at least a few fat girl stories, myself included. Now, except for the rare chubby-chaser, no man goes out with the intention of bagging a fatty. But at times it’s inevitable. With the right combination of depression, desperation and alcohol, any man can succumb to any woman, even if she looks like the Michelin Man [2].

And the best part of fat girl stories? They’re usually hilarious. They don’t just happen… no, there’s always a lead up and a bizarre set of circumstances that makes a man feel like sleeping with Baby Baluga over there is either rational and/or preferable. My inspiration to tell my story came recently after I read a hysterical fat girl story [3] from Bobby Rio over at TSBMag.

As for me, I’ve had a few fat girls in my time. Not anything to be proud of, sure, but at the same time not so many that one should be alarmed. Looking back, all of them occurred in unusual or extreme circumstances. But one story in particular stands out as more ridiculous than the rest.

It happened while I was still in college. I had been into the PUA stuff for a year at the most and although I was getting some results, I was by no means killing it yet. Me and a group of guy friends regularly threw parties at one of our apartments and by this time had built up a steady following of regulars. One of these regulars was a fat girl who had taken a particular liking to me… we’ll call her Rain.

Rain was jovial and quick-witted, by all means a fun person to hang out with… just not to look at. She wasn’t the fattest girl on the block, but she was by no means attractive. But regardless, she was fun, had cute friends, and was always down to party. So she made the rounds to our apartment. She flirted with my friends and I regularly, but none of us ever showed any interest in her.

One night we were having a get-together. It was a weekday and there were only 10-20 people there that night. Rain hand-picked me to be her beer pong partner and we were on a bit of a tear, winning 4-5 games in a row. For those of you who haven’t been introduced to the glories of beer pong, you probably average drinking two beers per game, maybe slightly less if you’re winning. So Rain and I were both probably 7-9 beers deep after a few hours.

During the games, Rain was constantly teasing me. She was making fun of my throws, teasing me about how slow I drank. It was basically some reverse-cocky-funny shit and a very effective way of flirting. We got some good back-and-forth going and I was enjoying it. But despite having fun together, I hadn’t forgotten that she was fat… yet.

We finish the beer pong games and she continues badgering me about my lack of drinking abilities. Now, I can say at this point in my life, I’m experienced enough to not fall for this trap anymore. But I was 21 at the time and full of testosterone and beer and had been going out drinking 4-5 nights a week for months straight by then. No girl, fat or not, was going to tell me I couldn’t hold my alcohol. I started to defend myself. Always a bad move.

Then Rain threw the gauntlet down: let’s go shot-for-shot. This is just the kind of stupid challenge that constitutes “a big deal” when you’re in college and it’s 3AM on a Wednesday night. Fuck if I was going to let her get away with challenging me. She would pay for her transgressions. “You’re on,” I told her, “Get the shots.” I steeled myself mentally for my upcoming adversary. I knew she already had as many beers as me, maybe one less, and even though she had a considerable weight-advantage, I figured my liver was more experienced than hers.

She walked off to the kitchen to get vodka shots. My friends gathered around to follow the spectacle. Someone was about to make a fool of themselves.

Rain came back with two shots. We cheers’d and did them. The first one went back smooth and wasn’t a problem. We sat and chatted with everyone, I purposely remained upbeat and steered the conversation and my conscience away from the impending onslaught of alcohol. Got to keep my game face on.

About 10 minutes later Rain returned from the kitchen with two more vodka shots. The second one felt slightly repulsive as it went down. We return to talking. Rain starts talking shit again, but I ignore her. Before I know it, she’s standing in front of me with two more shots. I look at her, if the alcohol feels as disgusting to her as it does to me, then she’s not showing it. Fuck it. Down the hatch number three goes.

Time becomes wavy. I’m drunk. Everything is funnier than it should be. I start leaning back unnecessarily. Rain hands me shot number four. I suddenly notice that she has a pretty face, a detail about her I had never considered before. We do the shots. She doesn’t have to say anything this time, her eyes say it all: she’s kicking my ass.

By the time shot number five comes around, I’m straight-up hammered. I take it, and feel as though I’m going to vomit. Recognizing that I can’t win, I fall back into the couch and pray for a draw. What seems like two minutes later, shot number six comes over and I’m laying flat on the couch. I concede the contest. Rain makes fun of me. My friends laugh at me. But it doesn’t matter. I’m flat on the couch and other than a genial “Fuck you,” I’m incapable of functional communication at this hour.

I never vomit from drinking and I didn’t that night either. I just pass out. I find a comfy spot on the bed or the floor or the sidewalk and lay down. I stop moving and stop enunciating properly. As I laid on the couch it felt like the most comfortable object on the planet, like it was handcrafted out of Angels’ feathers by God. I melt into it. My breathing is heavy; my body spinning. I never want to move again.

Next thing I know, Rain is over me with a glass of water. She feels bad. She apologizes and tells me that she knew I had more beer than her during beer pong, but she didn’t realize it was so much. She forces me to drink the water and eat some bread. She asks if I am going to puke. She asks if I need anything else. She rubs me encouraging me to sober up and apologizes again. She asks if I need her to take me home.

Time passed although my conception of it blurred. She’s taking me home. She feels responsible and wants to make sure I get to bed OK and don’t pass out in somebody’s front yard (it had been known to happen). We’re in front of my apartment. Now she’s paying the cab driver. Now I’m in my bed and she’s giving me more water. Now she’s making out with me. I don’t stop her. To stop her requires more effort than to not. She has a pretty face. Now she’s taking off my jeans and blowing me. I can’t feel anything but apparently I’m getting hard. I haven’t had sex in months. She’s been so sweet to me tonight and she has a pretty face. To stop her requires more effort than to not. I close my eyes…

The physical pain of my hangover the next morning was matched by the psychological pain of waking up to her in bed next to me. I hoped the obvious wasn’t true, but as the shards of memory from the night before began stabbing their way back into my brain, I knew it was true.

She woke up inconspicuously, made some generic comment about her hangover and going to class and slipped out of my apartment. It would be another 24 hours before I could muster the strength to comprehend the magnitude of what had occurred, and trust me, she had a lot of magnitude.

As predicted, my friends made fun of me all week. News circulated about what had happened. Not only did I bang a fatty, but a fatty who drank me under the table. Great. The two proudest aspects of a 21-year-old male’s life and both had been squashed by Rain’s mammoth ass.

About a week later at a get-together at the same apartment, my friend and I were talking about what had happened with Rain. My friend looked at me and said, “OK. Someone needs to tell you this. It might as well be me.”

I’m confused. “Yeah?”

“When you and Rain were going shot-for-shot… she did a couple shots of vodka. But after that she was coming in here and filling her shot glass with water and yours with vodka.” He stops and lets it sink in for a second. “You were basically drinking by yourself.”

“Wait? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah. I thought it was funny at the time, you know, like it was just a prank or something. But then when she went home with you and I heard she banged you, I don’t know… I thought it was kind of fucked up and thought you should know.”

Technically, I had been raped. Had I been a girl and she a guy, I could have put her in prison with a felony charge. I looked at my friend for a moment in shock… “This sounds stupid, but… I feel…like violated.”

“I know bro! That’s some crazy date-rape shit.”

The hurt receded into anger. How could she do that to me? Is she crazy? What kind of fucked up person does something like that?

And then that emotion receded into something else… flattery. A girl took advantage of me… she used me for sex… girls want to take advantage of me… that’s kind of cool actually. But no! She violated my trust! She embarrassed me and used me. Who the fuck does she think she is? She can’t get away with that… Then again, I’d take advantage of me too if I were a fat chick… fuck.

A few days later I saw Rain in the student union. It was the first time I had seen her since the morning she slinked out of my room. I sat down with her and confronted her about what happened. In a solemn voice I explained to her what my friend had told me: that she had been filling her shot glass with water and mine with vodka that night. That she had intentionally gotten me drunk and then taken advantage of me. That I couldn’t stop her. I came with a seriousness that demanded a defense, that demanded guilt and redemption.

“I know! Pretty fucking awesome, right?” She starts laughing, continuing to shovel food into her mouth.

“But… But…”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you’re pissed off Mark. What guy would ever complain about a girl using him for sex? You love it. You’re a total man whore and a total hottie. So I saw my chance and went for it.”

Hmm… in a fucked up way, I respect that… No matter how much I wanted to get mad at her or blame her, I couldn’t. I just started laughing. I was flattered. Maybe that made me a narcissistic asshole, or pathetic and in desperate need of validation. But you had to hand it to Rain, she had balls.

In the end, I couldn’t hold it against her, although I did remind her of how fucked up it was and how she shouldn’t ever do it again. She agreed. She said she never planned on taking advantage of me, that it just kind of happened that way, as if that was supposed to be romantic or something. Whatever.

Rain and I are still friends.

Related posts:

  1. Fat Men Last Longer In Bed [4]
  2. How to Pick Up Girls at Parties [5]
  3. My Beliefs and Mindsets [6]
  4. Lame American Girls [7]
  5. Three Modes of Travel [8]

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URL to article: http://www.practicalpickup.com/my-fat-girl-story

URLs in this post:

[1] Tweet: http://twitter.com/share

[2] Michelin Man: http://www.findatruckingjob.com/files/michelin-man.jpg

[3] fat girl story: http://www.tsbmag.com/the-fat-girls-story/

[4] Fat Men Last Longer In Bed: http://www.practicalpickup.com/fat-men-last-longer-in-bed

[5] How to Pick Up Girls at Parties: http://www.practicalpickup.com/how-to-pick-up-girls-at-parties

[6] My Beliefs and Mindsets: http://www.practicalpickup.com/my-beliefs-and-mindsets

[7] Lame American Girls: http://www.practicalpickup.com/lame-american-girls

[8] Three Modes of Travel: http://www.practicalpickup.com/three-modes-of-travel

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