But People Don’t See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?



Via riotclitshave


It all started when the BHM licked my armpit.

"Oh my god,” I giggled, playing the scornful femme, “what kind of pervert licks people’s armpits?”

The BHM gave me his most wicked look—the look he usually reserves for when he’s about to tie my arms behind my back. “Oh yeah?” he said. “What kind of pervert likes it?”

I blushed deep. It had, in fact, been very pleasurable: a warm caress across one of my most sensitive zones. Try it some time, seriously…if you’re brave enough not to let your usual experience of armpits deter you.

This why, even though I have a sex blog, so little of it has to do with sex. Even in this wacky alternative universe called sex blogging, where working for Kink.com is a legitimate career and mothers of three can have baskets of sex toys on top of their refrigerator as a matter of course, I can hardly bring myself to tell people what I’m really into. I’m never able to forget how rare my desires are—and how potentially a hard-on ruiner. What would you do if you were in the same place I was two weeks ago: a sexy boy running his hands down your breasts and crotch, breathing, “So what’s this fetish you have?” into your ear.

I can’t say, “I like corsets” or “being flogged.” In order to avoid lying, I’d have to say: “I enjoy encouraging skinny men to overeat until their stomachs bulge out and they become helpless.”

Still there, readers? I congratulate you.


Several times I’ve taken part in the Sugasm. It’s pretty much a fancy traffic generator for new sex bloggers: submit your week’s best post, vote for your favorites at the end of the week, and all they ask in return is that you post the week’s winners on your own blog. Some people love it, some people hate it, but the point is that the majority of posters has to do with BDSM, gay and lesbian, or heterosexual encounters.

Which is fine, but it raises the quandary: how do you write a smart, engaging sex blog if what turns you on is seen as a turn off by the majority of people—even by ones thought of as kinky? What if you get off from fucking balloons? What if you wank to castration? Is there a famous furry blog that I’ve never heard of?

Case in point: imagine a curvy, busty girl giggling in bed as her arms are tied behind her by her lover. The window is open, so a cold night breeze titillates and tingles over their overheated bodies. He pulls her towards him by the hips, pressing his hard, thick cock into her ass, giving her anal for the first time…slowly…

Now add the fact that the man weighs around 300 lbs.

Hear that? That’s the sound of a thousand pussies screaming in pain as I ruin their orgasm.

Which, some people say, shouldn’t really matter: no one gets into sex blogging for the money, and I’ll be very lucky indeed if, after a year, I have 300 readers (not even a drop in the bucket compared to the views on, say, one Lonelygirl15 video). But I am into it for the attention, comments, page views and discussions I can start in the pointless/sexy/disgusting/beautiful world which is teh internets. But there’s this hang up: unless a person has their brain wired in a special way (held by how few?) they won’t be able to get past the small fact that what turns me on isn’t leather, high heels, and fancy sex toys but stuffing, fat sex, and large amounts of fizzy soda water.

All I knew (and all I still know) is that I hadn’t seen a blog quite like mine before. (I do, at least, have a unique voice in the sea of BDSM blogs.) I wanted to celebrate and write intelligently about a fetish that, at worst, gets called anti-feminist, the biggest thing holding back the fat acceptance movement, or—as The Naked Trombonist told me when I tried to explain it once—just plain stupid and dangerous. I figured I would have the fact that almost any deviant sexual behavior has had these accusations thrown at it on my side. I was inspired by the best in the biz: Always Aroused Girl, Violet Blue, Jefferson (before it all went so very wrong) and Sinclaire Sexsmith: writers who believed in their own unusual desires, sought them out, and wrote about them in a very hot and intelligent way. I remember coming in contact with what seemed a whole new world when I read Sinclaire’s blog, having never come across the terms “femme” or “packing”, and I imagined I could do something similar for my own strange fetish: make it beautiful, make it more accessible and safe, and start discussions about a sexual preference I’ve once or twice seen described as “the new gay.”

Instead (though mine is a very, very young blog and I may simply be impatient), I still feel like an outsider even in the big wide world of internet sex. The rule of “If you get off to it, someone’s already done it and put up pictures about it” notwithstanding, I find myself trying to justify my likes and dislikes in such a way that they fit into the accepted language of what’s sexy. I will play up the BHM’s intelligence, his dominant tendencies, and his big dick, even if one of my biggest turn ons is how my thighs will ache as they are forced apart to accommodate his girth when he’s on top. (*Winces at the sound of hundreds of readers skipping to another website because of that image.*) I’ll struggle not to think about the undertones of eating disorders I see in most feeder erotica, and play up the fact that I am a smart, curvy, college educated woman…who just happens to have always gotten off to disgusting things. My fetish can be just a legitimate as homosexuality, I’ll say, even when 90% of the emails I get are from people who are creepy…or I fall in love with men who are thousands of miles away.

But there’s Lolita, right? One of the world’s classics, by some measures—and it’s about a rare fetish seen as either crazy or disgusting by the majority of the population. Yet somehow the author was able to tap into the universal feelings of obsession, love, and heartache that made his work mean something even to straight white hetero academics.

Though sometimes I wonder if his secret was simply admitting that Humbert Humbert was, in fact, sick.

I’m a sexual screwball, dear sexblog readers. I don’t have multiple orgasms, no one sends me free sex toys, and I love having sex with a man that’s obese. I encourage men to indulge in behaviors that even I see as dangerous, altering their weight, appearance, and their edge in physical sports. But they love it, my stuffer boys, do it to themselves if there’s no one to “encourage” them. And I love it. Since I first learned what it meant to orgasm, I’ve never been able to get off to anything else.

It’s a struggle to think about these things. Sometimes I swear I will never do it again, sometimes I think it’s entirely legitimate. I want to be told my fetishes are as important to my happiness as your whips and glass dildoes are to yours, no matter how little they might turn you on. I want someone to tell me there was a mistake, that I can rewire my brain so that I will be able to get off to sex in the missionary position and never have to go digging through the filth of the internets ever again. I want to lose weight so I can fit in tiny clothes and boys will hit on me in bars, and I want to keep it because The Colt and Alex tell me I’m beautiful.

I want answers to all these things, but I don’t have them yet. That’s what this blog is for.

Related:

Erosblog has a very interesting post about how, in reality, the majority of internet erotica is less the work of sexual revolutionaries and more that of Nipples the Bear.

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I’m writing about? Check out the Who’s Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly’s Flickr favorites!
Dirty Stories

All my life I’ve hated the idea of finding love on websites because I was afraid of branding myself as being socially inept. When I thought of looking for a girl/boy using a dating service I was faced with two images in my mind: that of a unwashed geek who spent five hours wanking in his basement hiding behind a computer screen or those dumpy conservative couples on eHarmony. I didn’t drag myself up from being a virginal high-school bookworm with no fashion sense just to be shoved right back into that closet, I vowed.

Then I discovered I had a fetish.

As feederism, Myspace porn, BBWs, BHMs, and the hidden uses of Mentos and Diet Coke all exploded into my consciousness I realized I was spending at least as much time on my computer in the dead of night as that stereotypical geek. I also realized two things simultaneously: (1) this wasn’t going to “just go away” and (2) it’s almost impossible to tell a stuffer boy by looking at him. Unless I found a bar where the patrons regularly competed by drinking gallons of beer or started frequenting the completive eating circuit my chances of meeting one would be few. With a sigh of relief I realized my time spent on the internet was a forced necessity, not an acknowledgment of my own insecurities, and I set about trying to find out if there even was such a thing even as my friends wondered why they never saw me any more after school.

As Violet Blue says in her podcast about fetishes, finding a fellow fetishist on the internet is “hit and miss”. Once I got over the sweaty palms and chair-rubbing reactions of simply being on such websites (hey, for a virgin feeder girl it doesn’t take much), I discovered their flaws: they are uniformly ugly and they all seem to be populated by men that are at least fifteen years older than I am, a native of India whose spelling and seduction techniques didn’t get far beyond fifth grade. “Ah”, said some of my college friends, “it’s the same level of people you meet in real life.”

Intellectual snobbery aside, it is sometimes quite difficult to find someone who shares your same tastes in bloating and stuffing as well as your level of vocabulary. As I tried to condense the essence of my desires into an easy to read paragraph that still allowed for those lovers I’d never imagined to slip through the loopholes, I reflected that this was why eHarmony’s elaborate screening process had been invented, never mind their inherent homophobia. I was wandering in the back alleys of the internet where transactions were shady and boys sometimes threw bottles to get your attention.

At the same time I posted this story in the forums, simply because I liked the idea that the most-read stories ended up on the front page of the website after the readers had voted for their favorites.

Without even knowing it, I had done the right thing. Before I posted “Water Bottles” I was having to comb my way through the archives looking for someone who might be what I wanted; after it appeared on the front page boys started messaging me. Even after it had disappeared into the archives I received e-mails from boys that were intelligent, articulate, and grammatically correct, saying that they’d always wanted to do that, that they wanted me to help them start stuffing or they looked like Mister Six or knew people that were like Rufus. I had stumbled on one of the truths of writing that happened way back when things were still written on paper: good writing calls out to good writers, and they will respond.

So this is my advice to people who are just starting dating on the internet: if you have a specific thing you want to do, a life-long fantasy, or are even looking for a specific body type, lock the bedroom door, get out a little lube, and spin a bit of smut. My dirty story in which I’d written out my main fantasy had attracted more like-minded people than my short “personality profile” or even my photographs ever did. For whatever reason, a little tale with characters gets deeper to the heart of most people and crosses more barriers than filling out pages of “likes” and “dislikes”. And, If you are at all good at writing (and most readers of sex blogs tend to be), people who also value the written word will be drawn to you: the creative geeky stuffer boys, in my case, who can make me melt with a well-written e-mail or whose wit can stand up to my own.

In this way, I realized, I was carrying out a fact of writing that was happening even when words were only written on paper. Anias Nin, who was sadly born too late for sex blogging and whose juicy private journals were published after her death, wrote to a friend that when one puts oneself out in wiritng, others will come bringing gifts. Among writers who are still alive, Jefferson is an excellent example of the power of smut to find you the kinky literate partner that you would never look twice at in real life. He meets women almost entirely through his blog, which details his exploits with sometimes dozens of men and women in a week. It would be easy to simply write him off as as a user, but the reason women seek him out is because his writing makes you trust him. He tells stories against himself as well as his experiences hosting the Bukakke Social Club, and his blog archives (going back three years) are so detailed that after reading them you feel you could walk through his apartment with your eyes shut. In being so explicit about so many things, from his relationship to his children to giving a woman her first orgasm, you forget you have never actually met him. You can fake a persona, of course, and there is always the danger that someone writing about him/herself will leave out their most glaring flaws, but I remain awed by the depth to which you can glimpse another human being’s mental world in such simple things as a choice of word or how they construct a sentence.

It’s so intimate talking to someone whose read my stuffer stories and really paid attention to them. If we haven’t met in real life before this, I can have the exquisite feeing of a partner having read my mind, coming to me already filled with the knowledge of what turns me on. Writing honestly is making your mind naked to another. In the act of writing, you have already taken the first step towards intimacy, opening yourself to anyone who’s listening.

Chocolate Milk

MOLLY: have you always liked girls this way?

BERLIOZ: Well I really started noticing it in high school…..but I actually remember having fantasies about big women years and years ago when I was younger

MOLLY: so you knew right away

BERLIOZ: Basically I think I did

MOLLY: Took me a while to figure it out. stufferboys are a lot less visible than chubby chicks

BERLIOZ: Very true, lol

MOLLY: always had dreams about skinny guys drinking milk until their tummies bulged, though

BERLIOZ: Oh I’ve done that before

MOLLY: *happy daydream*

BERLIOZ: Really?

MOLLY: Can’t help it

BERLIOZ: lol….well I can do a half gallon easily…then it gets fun

MOLLY: fun how?

BERLIOZ: Because thats when my belly really starts getting hard of course

MOLLY: ooh

MOLLY: ahh

BERLIOZ: In your day dream, whats your favorite part may I ask?

MOLLY: I think you just mentioned it…

MOLLY: I also like the idea of just milk, for some reason
it’s such a sensual thing to drink

BERLIOZ: Very true
Thats actually the first thing I bloated with
I would go to my store on campus back at college and buy half gallons of whole milk and quarter gallons of chocolate milk…
It’s an awesome feeling. All nice and tight…..feeling a small skinny tummy get bigger and bigger…it’s quite intense…
What are you thinking about right now may I ask

MOLLY: stuffer boys!
drinking chocolate milk!

BERLIOZ: Like me?

MOLLY: you might be in there somewhere

MOLLY:deep in the chocolate milk guzzling orgy

BERLIOZ: Is it coming out of garden hoses into all of our mouths

MOLLY: it is now

Molly Loves… Desire Unbound

In a nonstalgic moment I took down my big book of Surrealist porn from the top shelf and flipped through it. So many old and wonderful things in here: Man Ray’s photo of Barbette Dressing, Max Ernst’s erotic collages and The Story of the Eye.

The book also has crazy wide margins. I used to write in it, like a journal:

All the signs are there: the scattered clothes, shed in luxurious heaps to the floor; the shed jewelry making tantalyzing tips as it loops, thrown down… the smell of aloe cream, rum [cake] & lavender…



The desire is there, at times so strong that in anticipation I will shed all these things and then turn to the bed, faintly surprised there is nobody.

Stuffer Stories: Stomach Stretching

In the mornings Mister Six usually got up before her. The bedroom had two large doors that opened straight outside onto the patio, and thus to the pool—he often went out first thing in the morning, just as he was, to swim a few laps. Rihanna, waking a little later, would see him come up out of the pool and dash the water from his skin, glowing pink from the exertion and the shock of the cold. A few days after the first stuffing she woke up to see him standing in the doorway, squeezing the water from his hair.

"Christ," he said, "I’m hungry!"

She laughed. “You’re usually not hungry in the morning.”

"I know," he said.

"Your stomach stretched," she said. "Means you’ll have to eat more."

"I can believe that," he said, but she wasn’t sure from his tone how he felt about it. During the days after that first, amazing stuffing he had eaten like a normal person—but still, for him, quite a lot. Nevertheless they hadn’t yet tried to burst his gut again, just gotten him regularly full. However, he seemed a lot easier with eating in general, and she sensed that he had been enjoying himself.

He was still standing there, thinking, so she went to get a towel from the bathroom. He smiled as she knelt to dry his legs, lingering over his tight ass and kissing him on the most sensitive area of skin, right where his legs joined his body. His skin, still damp, grew warm with the sudden rush of blood, and he leaned down to kiss her hard on the mouth, biting her lower lip.

Suddenly his stomach growled, startling them both. She laughed and caressed his empty belly. “Well,” she said, “let’s see what we can do to fix this.”

She fed him with gentle fingers from a big box of doughnuts, and he managed to drink about half a gallon of milk. When they were finished his tummy was fatter than before, but he seemed no more used to it than he had been the first time: he held his swollen tummy with both hands, rucking up the front of his shirt, as if constantly amazed at himself. Laughing a little, he told her that he wasn’t sure what they had done to him, and didn’t know if they shouldn’t feed him again, just so he could finally figure it out.

"That was just breakfast," said Rihanna. " You’ll get used to it soon enough: there’s still lunch, and dinner, and snacks…:

"Oh no," he begged, leaning up against her as if the weight of his belly was exhausting him, "please Rihanna, no more today—I’ve never been this stuffed in my life before, and now you want me to do it twice in one day!"

"We’ll see," she said, stroking his round tight belly—he belched, but tried to smother it into a more decorous hiccup. She was fairly sure if she waited long enough he would do it all over: he had discovered that he loved eating too much to pass up another chance at it. His utter gluttony shocked her, it was such a contrast to how she thought he had been, but it was also satisfying to her as she watched him fill himself up when he had been too skinny before: his tummy had already begun to relax and stretch out into the tight swell that she had been wanting. In a week or two he would begin to lose his face’s hollowness, she was sure, and at least partially fill up the gaps in his ribs.

At five-o-clock they did it all over again. He said he hadn’t meant to, but what she gave him was so delicious that he couldn’t help himself. Now his belly was bigger than ever, and he lay on the bed reading and smoking—only, though, as an excuse to look busy. After a little, when he thought she wasn’t watching, he rolled away from the book and ran his hand down his waistcoat in a long, slow stroke, moaning quietly to himself with one arm over his eyes.

She got in bed with him and nuzzled him, startling him out of his introspection. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

He took a long drag on his cigarette.

"I really can’t describe it," he said. His white hand, against the dark purple of his straining waistcoat, caressed his belly in long slow strokes.

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no," he said, levering himself up on the pillows a little, so as to be at least nominally sitting up. "Quite the opposite, it’s just…" He couldn’t think of the word and glanced involuntarily down at his solid, well-rounded belly.

"Stuffed," she said.

"If you insist on using such an unromantic term for it," he said, and blew a smoke ring at her.

"But do you like it?"

He looked up at the ceiling, smoking, but then he started to grin. “Yes,” he said. He stroked the swell of his tummy from where it began to where it ended just above his dick, and rested his hand there. “I like it very much.”

"That’s good," she said, snuggling into his shoulder. Then she began to slowly undo his buttons.

"Oh no!" he said, pushing her away roughly, "no, no, no, I’m too fat for that—I’ll burst—"

She straddled him gently and continued to undo his shirt and pants over his protests. The skin on his belly had stretched out until it was as tight as a drum, heavy and round, but she was very gentle as she ran her tongue down it. He didn’t made a sound, but lay with his head to the side, breathing at the same time fast and very deeply…she would have thought he was merely indulging her until she realized his hips were straining upwards where they were trapped under hers.