E.E.W. Christman
3 min readJun 30, 2020

You’re a stranger, but I’ve met you a dozen times already. You always find me in dark corners of loud dive bars, or, more recently, in my DMs late at night. The interest you feign is not for me, but for a perceived service you think I can provide. Like my genitalia and my gender expression are a Sexual Satisfaction Drive Thru for the convenience of your garden-variety cock. I don’t know this iteration of you, but I know you. Anybody cursed with an attraction to men knows you, has tolerated you, been hurt by you. Your scent is the beer on your lips and your shirt, your only good shirt, was chosen by an ex-girlfriend who you say is crazy to anyone who will listen.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

You offer to buy me a drink with an easy smile that doesn’t fool anyone. I smile back, not out of reciprocity, but tactfulness. No, thank you, I say. I hope that this is the end of it. What a change Oh sure, no problem would be! What an auditory delight it would be to hear you say have a good night as you take your leave!

No such luck.

The smile twists, revealing its true form like a shapeshifter. I’m not surprised, and I keep my smile just so, just in case. How far will your hurt feelings and your expectations carry you? I have to keep you calm, coax you into respecting me enough not to follow me home, stalk me, assault me. That sneer on your face could be the overture to anything.

You tell me I’m not good looking enough to be picky. That I should be grateful that someone would bother paying attention to me. With a wave of your hand, you dismiss your own advances as if I had made them up myself in a desperate attempt for your attention.

You’re too fat to fuck anyway.

I always marvel at the ease with which you switch gears. One second, I am the object (emphasis on object) of your desire, and the next, I am an ogress whose genitalia has been swallowed up by the folds of her fat. I go from fetish to freak before I have finished my drink, before you’ve even cornered some other hapless victim.

Because that is the worth of a femme body to you: how can I exploit it? How can I eroticize it for my own pleasure? And if I don’t get those things, how can I minimize that body, dismiss it, and profane it?

Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

You’re too fat to fuck. Is it a mantra meant to tear me down, or comfort yourself? I’m still not sure. Perhaps both.

You’re too fat to fuck. The to denotes the application of the fuck. My body isn’t even a participant in your eyes. It’s a receptacle for the fuck which you provide. You’re the action and the subject all rolled into one, and I am the object (again, emphasis).

You’re too fat to fuck. My body is not an object for you to draw pleasure from like a well. I am not passive, but active. And I get a say in who, if anyone, gets to participate in the many pleasures of my body.

Because my body — my large, fat body — fucks.

E.E.W. Christman

Writer. Fantasy, Horror, & Nonfiction. Queerdo. Nonbinary. HWA Member. They/Them. https://linktr.ee/eewchristman