Weight Loss Ambiguity

More To Love with a pic of a volluptuous white woman

I don’t feel proud to be losing weight.

Probably because I didn’t  feel ashamed to gain it in the first place.

When I started this blogg, I named myself Bigmama2x, and that’s still my email address, but–like my clothing– the name no longer fits.

Over the past year I have lost 43 pounds. If I lose eight more pounds, I will be down to my full-term pregnancy weight. That may sound ridiculous, unless you know that I lost 50lb. During my last pregnancy–weight that I gained back immediately afterwards.

If I go down one more shirt size I’ll be the same size I was in High School! Only with much bigger titts!

So why aren’t I all proud of losing all of this weight? I don’t feel like I’m doing anything to cause it. I’m not a binge eater fighting cravings. I’m not on a diet. All that I’ve done is take a few more walks and tried to make good eating choices.

I’ve never felt that my weight was something I had direct control over: when I was a lazy teenager who got little exercise and ate poorly, I weighed 140 lb. (I’m 5’8″)
When I was a malnourished, extremely active homeless girl, I weighed 140 lb.
When I had my first baby my weight went up to 200.
After he was born it went all the way up to 250.
I had just lost a little when I got pregnant again, and my weight plunged back down to 200–that’s including fetus & water weight. I felt like I was starving the whole time!
But I went right back up there!

My weight’s fluctuated mildly since then, but I’ve never lost weight at such a pace. My body feels strange: my hips & thighs and ass feel tight, although of course my stomach is still bigger than I’d like.

Still, I don’t feel proud of losing weight. Everyone tried to make me feel bad for being “overweight” or “obese” but I refused.
I refused to buy into the guilt and shame that society tried to feed me.

I realized that I preferred my lovers thick–so why shouldn’t they like me that way too?

Don’t get me wrong–I’m glad that I’m losing weight–the death of my Beloved of a heart attack at 35 woke me up to the dangers of poor diet, low exercise and bad food choices, but I’m not proud either.

Because if I was to be proud of losing weight–that would mean that before I was ashamed!


Jenny from the L word stands between her butch/trans gf and a guy

Not My Idea of a Good Time!

Start the night:

I went outside to nurse my beer by myself. I wasn’t sure if I was mad at her for her slutty ways, mad at her on behalf of all bisexuals for further tarnishing the word, or grateful that I saw her more clearly before planting my mouth deeply in her muff–which was where things were surely heading.

Who let me off the leash? I should not be allowed in the club without a chaperone! For realz people! (Like that one night, or that other time…or even with a guy!)

“Naked Volleyball!” A butch woman exclaimed. Thank god, a distraction! I thought, making my way over to the fence, where five people stood watching as two people stripped to their skivvies and attempted to bat an under-inflated volleyball back and forth.
“Why don’t you play?” a butch woman asked me.
“Me? No thanks!”
“I’ll do it if you do it.” She goaded me. (Wow I just realized she was flirting with me! I can be a little slow sometimes.)

Just then the aggressive femme came and stood provocatively next to me. I moved away from her quickly, but she followed me.
“What’s your deal?” I started to ask, almost inaudibly “you know what? I don’t want to know!” I moved even further away from her. After my fourth evasion, she gave up, looking hurt and bewildered. Did she really not understand why I would be less than thrilled to have the woman I’ve been kissing turn around and kiss a man less than five minutes later?

What is wrong with these women? It’s women like her that made it nearly impossible for me to pull a lesbian while I identified as bi.

Even when I did identify as bi, it never would have occurred to me to act like that! With the exception of a few three and foursomes in my early years: when I was with a man, I was with him–I didn’t try to pick up women–and vice versa!

The few women that did hit on me in my lonely, after high school bi years tended to do it in front of their boyfriends, something that always bothered me. (And by hit on, I mean kiss me mid-conversation, while their boyfriends looked on fidgeting uncomfortably) It’s no wonder lesbians hate bi girls, with women running around acting like that!

At one point my okcupid profile listed me as bi, and for my secret I put down that I hitchhiked three times across the country. For some reason this made guys think that I was a big, swinging slut. Apparently hitchhiker, bisexual and whore occupy the same spaces in their minds.

Look, I wasn’t so much mad that she kissed a guy right after me–I would have walked away if she turned around and kissed anyone! I’m not mad at her for being attracted to people of both genders. But, somehow, kissing a guy was definitely worse than if it had been another woman. And the fact that all of that was all out there, in public. Ugh!

After my third time avoiding her, she left me alone.

Attack of the Aggressive Femme


I was dancing by myself in an alcove when she approached me. She had a smile on her face and trouble in her eyes as she rubbed her ample bosom against mine on the dance floor. We fell into step together. She turned around, pressing her juicy booty against me. I thrust my hips into her soft curves.

She turned around and clamped her thick thighs around mine, finding that sweet spot as we bounced up and down on the floor.

Tearing my gaze away from her massive gleaming cleavage to her eyes, her expression demanded a kiss.
No. I put my hand up to ward off her lips.
“But why?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You don’t just go around kissing people you don’t know.” I tried to explain, fighting the feeling.
“So let’s get to know each other” She guided me to the couch.
She was nothing that I usually look for: I like dark, reserved, butch women, and here she was, a young, aggressive white femme. But so hot! She wrapped her arm around me assertively. Our pale legs looked so sexy together in our short dark skirts and ballet flats. She hooked her ankle around me and leaned into me.
“So do you want to get to know me, then?” She asked seductively, eyes peering out from the curtain if her dark hair.
“Uhuh.” I answered breathlessly, enraptured by the energy between us.
“What do you want to know?” We exchanged names. “It’s my birthday today.” She said, snuggling closer and trying again to kiss me. “I just turned 21.”
“Wait–really? I might have to see some ID.”
She showed me an ID that could have been her–I guess. It was printed lengthwise like a book, rather than width-wise like a drivers license. It did, indeed say she was “Underage until July 2, 2011.”
Would I even know if it was fake? Did I even care as her hands roamed my body and her skin pressed eagerly against mine.
“Is there anything else you want to know?” She asked. But all I could think of was the delicious curve of her neck and shoulder. Of their own volition my lips traced that delicate white curve.
She raised her lips to mine and this time I succumbed, her mouth dominating mine as our bodies tried to merge orally.

Just then there was a flash.

“Wait, what was that?” I looked around, but she drew me back to her, kissing me fervently. Some guys were laughing at us. One of them came over with a camera. She draped herself around me.
“Wait.” I said, as calmly as I could. “I don’t want to be photographed.”
“But this is my best friend!” she protested. “it won’t go on Facebook–I promise!”
“Come on, it’s her birthday!” He chided as she pouted.
“Oh all right.” she draped herself over me as he snapped a pic.
“She tends to get her way.” Another of the guys remarked.
“I know, she’s a bully!” I replied, but I was smiling.
We returned to snogging, her hands taking more and more liberties. I pushed her fingers out if my black satin D-cup.
“Let’s go somewhere private”
“How about the bathroom?”
“Ewe! No! I do not fuck in the bathroom!” (Have you seen the bathroom at these clubs?) “How about my car?” I countered, batting her greedy paw away from the hem of my dress. “Let’s get something to drink, first, though, huh?”
She lead me by the hand to the bar. I started to protest–but shrugged: in for a penny and all that.
“I’m so horny. I want you so bad!” She enthused as the bartenders ignored us.
“I know.” I gulped.
“We are going to car after this, right?”
“Yeah. Ok.” I responded, losing all resistance. I crossed myself, hoping I wasn’t making a big mistake.

She had her ID on the table.

“Um, why does your ID say your name is Jessie when you told me it was Chloe?”
“Oh, my name is Jessie, but my friends call me Chloe.”
Just then her friend spied her ID.
“Jessie, I didn’t know you were 21 today!” He exclaimed.

Then he gave me a smarmy look, leaned forwards and kissed her. She returned the kiss enthusiastically.

I moved to the other end of the bar, commanding the bartenders attention.

“I really need a drink!”‘

Femme Packing Part 2

Prety light brown femme in lingerie

If You're Not Into Shopping--Just Look At The Pictures!

Start at the beginning with Part 1–what, I mean packing for a trip–what did you think I meant?

Then today I started panicking. What would I wear to bed? Do I even own three nice pairs of underwear?

I sleep in over-sized men’s T’s and sweatpants that are slowly disintegratng into rags, and buy my panties in packages. I have one, maybe two black cotton panties for going out–but that’s it!

I was super-embarrassed when I went to Israel some years ago with a group aand forgot to pack any sleeping gear at all–I’d been sleeping in a T-shirt so long by myself, I didn’t even think about what it would be like to bunk up with a bunch of straight femmes with all their girly PJ’s.

So I raced to Marshall’s on my lunch break, hoping to find some decent PJ’s and panties. As I opened the door I caught my reflection in the mirror, and was once again struck by my own female masculinity–here I was, racing to buy all these girly things, but even with my long hair, and women’s clothes, I still saw a boi reflected in the glass. I even walk like a guy when I’m not thinking about it.

But whatever, I know I’ll feel all feminine when my boo is in the room.

Marshall’s was sadly lacking in the panties department. The only cotton panties were garishly colored monstrosities, and i can’t wear polyester panties, cause honey, the kitty needs to breathe!

I did score a cute little black dress–although who’s bright idea was it to add pockets?

I’ll just have to make do on the PJ’s and undies front–hopefully she’ll be too busy trying to take them off to care!

Happy Valentines Day!

Happy Valentines Titts

Boobie Hu$tle Where Are You?

I met this rapper BigWeazie aka Boobie Hu$tle (reppin’ Chicago) on Tagged, and she sent me a link to download her latest single: HEKKIE NAWWW

I loved how hard and raw her song was, so I went back on Tagged to ask her how I could get the rest of the album, but she had deleted her account! I searched the web, but I couldn’t find a web page for her, no facebook, myspace, nothing!!

Weazie hun, how you gonna promote your music and your new album with nothin’ but a YouTube Video? You need some help with your web presence?

Holla at me!

Alright y’all, here it is, the single HEKKIE NAWWW from the new album Access Denied (She’s not kidding lol)

Wrong Date to Dyke Night

I made the dubious decision to bring the biggest male flirt I know to Dyke night with me.

I was tired of flying solo: standing in line by myself while couples and groups chit-chatted on either side of me, their eyes studiously avoiding mine as I sought to interject myself into a conversation. Dykes waiting in line can be so uptight. I had seen men there before: too many the last time I went out really, their stench overpowering whole swaths of the dance floor. I hated to add to that, but well, I didn’t know anyone else who wanted to go.

So I brought my friend, who had expressed an interest in going.

I should have known this night would be slightly off when I parked in a very convenient but crowded spot downtown and attempted to share a bowl with him. I packed my glass Sherlock and bent over to light it so passing pedestrians would not see me. After taking a hit, I passed it to him. He bent down as I had.

“Could you light it for me?” He asked, streetlights gleaming orange off his shaved head.

“I guess.” Quirking my eyebrows, I lit the lighter and held it next to the pipe. A shoot of flame an inch long shot out of the lighter. After failing to really hit it, he handed it back to me. I took a hit, watching the flame suck into the bowl. We tried again, this time the flame seemed twice as long. “Suck!” I exclaimed, but despite all his stories of sucking cocks, apparently sucking pipes was not his specialty. What was that smell? Oh my god I just burned his eyebrows!

“Here.” he handed it back to me, and I took another hit.

“What’s the problem?” I asked. “I thought you smoked pot?”

“I only smoke joints .”

So after I apologized for burning his eyebrows we headed through the throngs of Saturday partiers to Dyke Night.

*     *     *

It was in a different venue than usual, and there seemed to be a lot less people. No one was on the dance floor, and my friend became even more uptight as he realized he was the only man there. (This despite his boast on the phone the night before that he wanted to be the only man there.) He started fawning on me, but I pushed him away. I felt like a traitor for bringing a man into this woman’s space.

“Don’t you know I’m here to meet women?” Now I felt bad about that too.

He is more outgoing than me. He almost immediately introduced himself to a couple sitting at a table near-bye. They were a traditional butch-fem pair. The fem one was large and well endowed, with drawn on eyebrows and long curly gelled hair. The butch was your average butch, just as unattractive as she would have been as a guy. Still they were friendly, and we soon claimed the dance floor, which filled up almost immediately, as if everyone was waiting for someone else to start dancing.

“Yes!” My friend broke out into a big relieved smile when he saw a couple of other guys line humping a group of women near-bye. Soon we were all dancing in various permutations, and I lost track of my friend.

“So, I like your friend.” Said one of the two other guys in the club, pulling me aside. “Is it weird to ask out a guy at a Lesbian Club?”

“Well,” I said, “You’re  already a guy in a Lesbian Club, can’t get much weirder than that.

*      *     *

Somehow my friend ended up dancing with the fem we met earlier, while I ended up dancing with her girlfriend. The quality of our dancing was quite different. The butch and I danced a couple feet apart. She was a decent dancer.

“I try not to dance like a white boy.” She told me confidently.”

“And I,” I said hesitantly, tracking my motions to hers, “try not to dance like a–er–white girl.”

I looked over to my friend and the fem. She was all over him: grinding up against him, kissing him.

“I know,” the butch said wryly, following my gaze. “She’s drunk.”

“You don’t mind?”

“What can I do?” She shrugged.

Her girlfriend pulled me into dancing with her and my friend. She pressed her short, round body up against mine. Was that her pussy? Was she really rubbing her pussy up against some random part of my body (the underside of my own paunch)? How did she even do that?

Suddenly, there she was, giving me a kiss. I know I should have stopped it, but it was like a train wreck. The next thing I know my friend is following up with his mouth! Ewwe ewe and double ewe!

My mouth felt soiled. Soiled by both of their skanky kisses! I couldn’t help myself, I wiped my lips, wishing I could wipe away all memory of the last few minutes. I left the dance floor.

When I went to find my friend later to tell him that it was time to leave, he was sitting on two girls laps, with a girl in his lap and the guy right next to him.

I think next time I’ll just fly solo.