Fat Sex

There’s something ironic about taking your date out to a restaurant for dinner.

All week, you anticipate your romantic Friday evening. You picture yourself laughing over a bottle of wine, holding hands while waiting for a cab, then going back to your place for a little impromptu slow dance.

Friday night comes, and it turns out perfectly. Your waiter is attentive, but not overbearing. The food is creative and well executed. You even tip a little too much—the cabernet was a good choice.

By the time you get home, you can barely move. The four-course meal you devoured is sitting in your belly like the boulder from Indiana Jones. Skipping the tiramisu would’ve been an absolute travesty. And the appetizers, how could you pass up bacon wrapped dates? They’re the perfect combination of salty and sweet.



As you lay in bed, you realize it’d be a shame to waste such a night by not getting frisky. You have an obligation, not just to yourself, or your date, but to the amount of dough you just shelled out on dinner. Seriously, you could’ve gotten a high-end hooker for the paper you dropped.

You muster the energy to roll over to your side and look at your prize. In the back of your mind, you’re hoping this person will put on the conductor hat and steer this train into the station. But, wait! You’re greeted by half-closed eyes, and you can sense the unconscious leg kicks of sleep setting in.

Time for quick action. Emphasis on quick.

Missionary is out. You’d have to be an Olympic gymnast to hold yourself up at this point. Plus, the sloshing sounds of your belly, alone, could kill a Viagra woody. You get an idea, “Hey baby, do you want to spoon?” You roll her over like a corpse on CSI, and prepare for the laziest position of sex possible—side sex.

For a guy, the one redeeming quality of this moment is you can get away with the most pathetic, shortest amount of effort, without being completely demoralized. Because, hey, this chick just got treated like a princess—you went out, killed the brontosaurus, paid someone else to cook it and clean everything up—and she’s too tired to perform the one womanly act still required of her? Permission granted for getting off, rolling back to your side of the bed, and mumbling “sweet dreams.”

This, my friends, is fat sex.

The alternative is going to bed and making up for it in the morning. But it’s not as fun. Mornings are too lucid, and you have to prepare by brushing your teeth. The whole spontaneity of sex is lost. So before you become one of those couples, who only gets-it-on once a week, partake in the gloriousness that is fat sex.