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!

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

The Reluctant Femme

If I was to write a blog with a less confrontational name, I would call it “The Reluctant Femme.”

I’ve never felt such pressure to be feminine since I’ve been actively engaging in the lesbian communities. I know I bring a lot of this on myself, since I seem to be attracted to bois, tombois, and–my favorite–studs. I’m attracted to women right up to the razors-edge of Trans. (I don’t think I’d want to date a woman who was actively trying to turn herself into a man. I support his right to do it, but I think that the chemical and physical alterations would turn me off.)

Of course, I’m also attracted to femmes. But the thing is, I can pull both dressed as a femme, and I can only pull femmes as a butch.  (And I don’t think I would be attracted to the kind of butch who likes other butches.)

I’ve been having dramatic gender-identity swings: I feel like a femme to a butch and a butch to a femme. But I do have a preference for butch women, and they want femmes!

I keep being told I’m a femme, and  I dress very femme when I go out to the club…but then the next day I wear my baggiest jeans, boots, a big T and chain. I’m a big woman with broad shoulders, and never learned the lady-like thing all that well, so trying to be femme can actually be harder than being butch…but I don’t yet know which side I’ll end up coming down on. If I come down…

After one of my “boi day’s” as I call them–which happen about once a week–I’m tired of the hostile looks from other butches (hilariously, the butch at my office practically hisses at me like a cat guarding her territory when I dress butch, but is totally friendly when I’m dressed femme) and some men–tired of, I don’t know–the type of energy I’m putting out…and I settle back into my normal girl jeans, blouse and necklace–my  low-key femme thing.

I can’t help it if I like auto mechanics and knitting

Fixing computers and fixing dinner.

That I worked for years as an adult to teach myself how to apply make-up–only to have my date ask why I don’t wear any!

The closest thing I had to a successful relationship was a totally non-sexual arrangement I had with a male friend of mine: he cooked and cleaned and took care of my kids, and I went to school and worked, paid the bills and shopped.

Which makes me think I should cut my hair and find a nice femme to settle down with.

And then I see a sexy stud across the room, and just want to giggle and twirl my hair.

I Saw Red–at Target

I ran into Target yesterday to get the final item for my Stud costume (See previous post)–a sports bra.

After going through the bra section and not finding any, I headed over to “Active Wear.”  Combing through the sports bras I was disappointed to see that the largest size I could find was 38D.

“I guess I’m too big to be considered active?” I quipped out loud. (I’m a 40D)

“No!” a pretty, slender redhead nearby reassured me.

But Target thinks I am.

(I haven’t been so mad since I went to JC Penny and could not find one matching suit my size in the slovenly plus size section–which was right across from a pristine array of at least  40 “miss” sized women’s suits. It’s only my pure civic-mindedness that prevented me from following my instinct and burning the place down–but believe me, I saw flames all the way to the door!)

Double Standard for Double D’s

The commercial Fox and ABC did not want you to see. Go to Lyne Bryant’s Blog for more info.

Really friggin hot!