Buffetbelly
Nosh, destroyer of snacks
From The Times
July 10, 2007
Why I love getting to grips with a fat man
Corpulent men are, funnier, less dominated by foppish styles and better in bed. So says Tobsha Learner. And she should know shes sleeping with one
As I am an avid connoisseur of male beauty, it has surprised some of my friends that the great love of my life has turned out to be curvaceous at least as curvaceous as me. Thats not to say that he isnt handsome he is but he is probably about 2st (12kg) to 3st above svelte. He boasts an undulating belly and resembles a somewhat overripe rugby full back.
Like a Paddington Bear with dangly bits, he seems to take a huge (and enviable) delight in striding around the bedroom naked, admiring himself in the mirror. You have to love him for it, and I do: I admire him for his immunity to the increasing coercion of men to downsize, lose wrinkles, gain height, lose hair (in some areas) and grow hair (in others) now applied by the cosmetics and advertising industries.
So many guys, though, seem to be succumbing: from the City boys (witness the latest aftershave ads) to the Oi boys; even that once-rustic breed, the footballer, now aspires to the fatless, hairless, allure-free aesthetic. What has happened to the sturdy-thighed, big-bellied British foot-soldier running alongside Boadiceas chariot, naked, woad-coated and stout, who struck fear into the effeminate (and no doubt svelte) Romans? As a Chelsea fan, I note that at least a few are lurking down the Shed end. But they idolise Frank Lampard, a man who waxes his armpits.
Sailing obliviously through these psychologically choppy waters is my man, who, like a lot of northern Europeans, is naturally rotund, with a very low metabolism. He has evolved to survive the Russian steppes and the high winds swooping over the Holborn Viaduct, not the pencil-thin trousers of Alexander McQueen. He revels in his wine, his chocolate and his cheese and he loves his shape. All of which has compelled me to come to grips (so to speak) with the more voluptuous male.
Many of my former partners were svelte, conventionally gorgeous, some positively skinny. My mans comfort in his own skin proved resistant to my initial efforts to get him into the gym. What started as an ambivalent discourse with my sweethearts bulk (fantasies of liberating his inner thin self) has become a strong appreciation of the corpulent male. Theres even a name for my condition: FFA (Female Fat Admirer).
My eye has changed when I now contemplate the current ideal of male beauty that is thrown at us innocent, but equally voyeuristic, women from the billboards. The hollowed cheeks, thin flanks, bony hands and knees that once said edgy, dangerous, a challenge to seduce and illicit in bed, now says undernourished, undersexed, uncomfortable, narcissistic (narcissists are lousy lovers) and probably a closet smoker. The airbrushed, injected beefcake as opposite to the languid, rake-thin model doesnt cut it any more, either. I would not want to spend time with someone who invests more in beauty products than I do; it also suggests more time invested in brawn than brain. I suspect that for most women sexual attractiveness lies between the ears and in not the pecs anthropologically, we are the less visually driven gender.
There is something comforting about being with a man who has heavier thighs than I do, considerable love handles and breasts only marginally smaller than mine. I feel that there is less pressure to conform to a size-zero stereotype. His confidence in his body shape has made my attitude to my own more tolerant and empathetic towards natural female hormonal seesawing of size.
Years ago, a well-travelled male friend compared making love to a voluptuous woman rather than a skinnier one as the difference between driving a comfortable family sedan and driving a hard-seated sports car built for a quick spin. At the time my inner feminist was appalled. Now, though, I know precisely what he was talking about. Enjoying a plump lover for the first time is like collapsing on to a well-upholstered sofa after a lifetime spent thrashing around on a deflated air mattress. Theres also something inherently primal and womanly about having weight on top of you, to the side of you and under you.
Then there is the power factor. Take our distant cousin the gorilla: the male is often twice the size of the female, his girth and bulk (and glistening grey hair) all play a part in attracting females, but also in fighting off smaller and younger (read slimmer) males from whisking away one of his harem. Perhaps my promiscuous hunter days are over but, whatever the reason, this economically independent female is happy to lie down with the ambling heavier silverbacked alpha male (minus harem), who can encompass me with his generous dimensions as well as being able to dismiss the occasional lovelorn skinny beta male with one flick of his intellect. More importantly, the cuddle factor is huge.
Im convinced that we unconsciously think of powerful men as being physically substantial, too like the classic image of the Victorian male, paunch protruding from under a waistcoat, thick tree-like legs planted solidly on the ground, hands held behind the back: John Bull. I think of the solidity of Donald Trump, the formerly weightier (and sexier) manifestation of Bill Clinton and Charles Saatchi (Nigellas husband): all sexy, sophisticated guys (OK, maybe not Trump, but he has charisma). Physiques such as these suggest a jovial comfortableness, the confidence of a man secure in his own skin, and an expanding hedonism as well as defiant sensuality. Whether you agree or not, I suspect that the association of girth with status might be genetically hardwired in us all and despite the blandishments of Mens Health magazine and others to idolise the six-pack, the female of the species is deeply susceptible to such wiring.
Think of some of the great womanisers. Napoleon had a paunch, and Casanova, although tall, looked as if he suffered a little middle-age spread without compromising his rutting. Alternatively, we might be looking for Papa that comfortable male bosom to snuggle up against. Take the late Barry White, a great gravel-voiced tent of a man. I once heard an interview with him in which he was talking about the number of fans who had written to him claiming that they had been conceived to his songs. Thats sex appeal for you. Theres something about a deep voice that shoots right down to the proverbial female loins.
Fat guys are often funny and, as every bloke knows, humour is one of the most effective ways of wooing. I suspect that the less conventionally handsome males are driven to develop other seduction strategies, and humour is right up there in the Top Ten.
Then theres Gérard Depardieu, defiantly fat and very, very sexy. He embodies hedonism, a kind of joyful, Dionysian indulgence of the senses, and this implies a bedroom expertise that has sent many female moviegoers a-quiver. After all, hes a recognised connoisseur in food and wine, and the third arena of sensuality is a natural follow-on, nest-ce pas?
Speaking of divine men, Zeus had some solidity to him, and in some depictions of Krishna, the god is a little on the curvy side. That attractive trait, happiness, has always been associated with corpulence; think of Father Christmas (not that hes on my erotic hitlist), jolly Morris dancers and Laurel and Hardy well, Olly at least.
Interestingly, rotund men are less likely than thin ones to commit suicide so either eating what you like makes you happy, or unhappiness makes you thin, take your pick. So go forth, sisters, embrace the circumference, hug the bear. You may find that Prince Charming is a little heavier than Cinderella imagined.
Tobsha Learners novel Quiver is published by Penguin
July 10, 2007
Why I love getting to grips with a fat man
Corpulent men are, funnier, less dominated by foppish styles and better in bed. So says Tobsha Learner. And she should know shes sleeping with one
As I am an avid connoisseur of male beauty, it has surprised some of my friends that the great love of my life has turned out to be curvaceous at least as curvaceous as me. Thats not to say that he isnt handsome he is but he is probably about 2st (12kg) to 3st above svelte. He boasts an undulating belly and resembles a somewhat overripe rugby full back.
Like a Paddington Bear with dangly bits, he seems to take a huge (and enviable) delight in striding around the bedroom naked, admiring himself in the mirror. You have to love him for it, and I do: I admire him for his immunity to the increasing coercion of men to downsize, lose wrinkles, gain height, lose hair (in some areas) and grow hair (in others) now applied by the cosmetics and advertising industries.
So many guys, though, seem to be succumbing: from the City boys (witness the latest aftershave ads) to the Oi boys; even that once-rustic breed, the footballer, now aspires to the fatless, hairless, allure-free aesthetic. What has happened to the sturdy-thighed, big-bellied British foot-soldier running alongside Boadiceas chariot, naked, woad-coated and stout, who struck fear into the effeminate (and no doubt svelte) Romans? As a Chelsea fan, I note that at least a few are lurking down the Shed end. But they idolise Frank Lampard, a man who waxes his armpits.
Sailing obliviously through these psychologically choppy waters is my man, who, like a lot of northern Europeans, is naturally rotund, with a very low metabolism. He has evolved to survive the Russian steppes and the high winds swooping over the Holborn Viaduct, not the pencil-thin trousers of Alexander McQueen. He revels in his wine, his chocolate and his cheese and he loves his shape. All of which has compelled me to come to grips (so to speak) with the more voluptuous male.
Many of my former partners were svelte, conventionally gorgeous, some positively skinny. My mans comfort in his own skin proved resistant to my initial efforts to get him into the gym. What started as an ambivalent discourse with my sweethearts bulk (fantasies of liberating his inner thin self) has become a strong appreciation of the corpulent male. Theres even a name for my condition: FFA (Female Fat Admirer).
My eye has changed when I now contemplate the current ideal of male beauty that is thrown at us innocent, but equally voyeuristic, women from the billboards. The hollowed cheeks, thin flanks, bony hands and knees that once said edgy, dangerous, a challenge to seduce and illicit in bed, now says undernourished, undersexed, uncomfortable, narcissistic (narcissists are lousy lovers) and probably a closet smoker. The airbrushed, injected beefcake as opposite to the languid, rake-thin model doesnt cut it any more, either. I would not want to spend time with someone who invests more in beauty products than I do; it also suggests more time invested in brawn than brain. I suspect that for most women sexual attractiveness lies between the ears and in not the pecs anthropologically, we are the less visually driven gender.
There is something comforting about being with a man who has heavier thighs than I do, considerable love handles and breasts only marginally smaller than mine. I feel that there is less pressure to conform to a size-zero stereotype. His confidence in his body shape has made my attitude to my own more tolerant and empathetic towards natural female hormonal seesawing of size.
Years ago, a well-travelled male friend compared making love to a voluptuous woman rather than a skinnier one as the difference between driving a comfortable family sedan and driving a hard-seated sports car built for a quick spin. At the time my inner feminist was appalled. Now, though, I know precisely what he was talking about. Enjoying a plump lover for the first time is like collapsing on to a well-upholstered sofa after a lifetime spent thrashing around on a deflated air mattress. Theres also something inherently primal and womanly about having weight on top of you, to the side of you and under you.
Then there is the power factor. Take our distant cousin the gorilla: the male is often twice the size of the female, his girth and bulk (and glistening grey hair) all play a part in attracting females, but also in fighting off smaller and younger (read slimmer) males from whisking away one of his harem. Perhaps my promiscuous hunter days are over but, whatever the reason, this economically independent female is happy to lie down with the ambling heavier silverbacked alpha male (minus harem), who can encompass me with his generous dimensions as well as being able to dismiss the occasional lovelorn skinny beta male with one flick of his intellect. More importantly, the cuddle factor is huge.
Im convinced that we unconsciously think of powerful men as being physically substantial, too like the classic image of the Victorian male, paunch protruding from under a waistcoat, thick tree-like legs planted solidly on the ground, hands held behind the back: John Bull. I think of the solidity of Donald Trump, the formerly weightier (and sexier) manifestation of Bill Clinton and Charles Saatchi (Nigellas husband): all sexy, sophisticated guys (OK, maybe not Trump, but he has charisma). Physiques such as these suggest a jovial comfortableness, the confidence of a man secure in his own skin, and an expanding hedonism as well as defiant sensuality. Whether you agree or not, I suspect that the association of girth with status might be genetically hardwired in us all and despite the blandishments of Mens Health magazine and others to idolise the six-pack, the female of the species is deeply susceptible to such wiring.
Think of some of the great womanisers. Napoleon had a paunch, and Casanova, although tall, looked as if he suffered a little middle-age spread without compromising his rutting. Alternatively, we might be looking for Papa that comfortable male bosom to snuggle up against. Take the late Barry White, a great gravel-voiced tent of a man. I once heard an interview with him in which he was talking about the number of fans who had written to him claiming that they had been conceived to his songs. Thats sex appeal for you. Theres something about a deep voice that shoots right down to the proverbial female loins.
Fat guys are often funny and, as every bloke knows, humour is one of the most effective ways of wooing. I suspect that the less conventionally handsome males are driven to develop other seduction strategies, and humour is right up there in the Top Ten.
Then theres Gérard Depardieu, defiantly fat and very, very sexy. He embodies hedonism, a kind of joyful, Dionysian indulgence of the senses, and this implies a bedroom expertise that has sent many female moviegoers a-quiver. After all, hes a recognised connoisseur in food and wine, and the third arena of sensuality is a natural follow-on, nest-ce pas?
Speaking of divine men, Zeus had some solidity to him, and in some depictions of Krishna, the god is a little on the curvy side. That attractive trait, happiness, has always been associated with corpulence; think of Father Christmas (not that hes on my erotic hitlist), jolly Morris dancers and Laurel and Hardy well, Olly at least.
Interestingly, rotund men are less likely than thin ones to commit suicide so either eating what you like makes you happy, or unhappiness makes you thin, take your pick. So go forth, sisters, embrace the circumference, hug the bear. You may find that Prince Charming is a little heavier than Cinderella imagined.
Tobsha Learners novel Quiver is published by Penguin
