So, turns out this guy Bakerman70 is a thing.
The people in his pictures are almost always clothed, which is sexy – this is about the idea, not the body. We are seeing a public representation of what will happen in more detail later, in private.
Ass-kissing is a big theme, but no one’s face is getting crushed and the women look comfortable and pleased with the situation.
The style kinda reminds me of Archie comics somehow.
I have not much else to say except you should check the guy’s work. He does other types of stuff too. Including pictures indulging his pie in the face fetish. He must be the only person I have ever heard of who has this fetish. How about you?
This is my ex-girlfriend Caprice. When I met her she was 23, working as an office temp and absolutely hating it. In fact she hates a lot of things about life, but she is very well-named – she is capricious, and loves games.
Anyway, I took this photo of her on a train down to Dover. We were just starting a three week break over summer. I just couldn’t resist snapping her. We’d known each other four months and she knew I loved taking pictures of her.
‘Hey John,’ she said. ‘You know how you wanted to take nude photos of me? Well, now is your chance.’
‘On the train? What if someone comes?’ I said.
‘Do you want to take photos or not?’ she responded.
‘Well, it will cost you. You have to let me stay at your house for a week when we get back.’
‘I…sure, sweetie. I’d love to have you over.’
She took off her panties, lifted back her skirt, and let me take this photo.
Then straight away she pulled it back down again and crossed her legs.
‘I wasn’t finished. Can I take some more?’ I said.
‘Another week,’ she said, straighfaced.
‘You want to spend a whole fortnight at my house just for two photos?’
‘You want to take photos of the scenery?’ she said. (The scenery was trees and fields.)
‘OK. Another week. You know you could just ask to stay at my place and then I could take photos, seperately.’
‘Two weeks, you get another photo,’ she said.
The deal made, she let me take this photo.
‘I get so absentminded when I am on holidays. I totally forgot to pack a bra,’ she says, deliberately coquetteish. Then she covers it all up again.
‘I still want to take more,’ I said, loving the moment, even if she was being a pain. ‘How about the other one.’
‘A third week?’
‘A third week! Sweetie, why don’t you just move in?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said.
”Is that what this is about? You want to move in with me?’ I said.
‘Yeah. I really do. Then I won’t have to send the next three weeks thinking about money. I hate worrying about money.’
So I agreed to let her move in with me and she let me take this photo. Totally worth it I’m sure you would agree, even if she was a bit of a troll.
Then, she covered up temporaily, and made a phone call to her landlord and gave him the obligatory six weeks notice, and told him that she hated him. Then she started flashing me again, but just a split second at a time, not long enough for me to take a good shot.
‘I can see the door, you know,’ she says. ‘If anyone comes down the hall I can put it all away again. I have great reflexes.’
She keeps demonstrating this, by quickly covering herself and then exposing again.
‘You look like you have practiced that,’ I said.
‘I have to do this quite a lot when I am teasing myself at work,’ was her reply.
The thought of her playing with her clit while she is at her desk makes me ache to fuck her and I can’t wait to get her to the holiday house.
‘You are too talented to be working as a temp,’ I say.
‘I’m working on it,’ she says. ‘But you know I hate working!’
Then she throws her underpants out the window, and shows herself again, this time letting me take it all in.
‘What do I owe you for this one?’ I said.
‘Oh, this one is complementary.’
So, my story of masturbation has been going on for a long time, really. Men come into the story a bit later, but there’s been plenty of them, too. But things have come to a head lately and I want to tell you about it. Let’s start one Friday night, late last year, in 2012.
It was an important time for me. I was waiting for a call to see if I got a design fellowship offer in the United States, and it hadn’t come in yet. So I went out to make my mind off things. I did not get to the bar until just after ten, and when I got in my work crew were already well into it. Some of the men would already be starting to calculate how many more drinks they could squeeze in before the bell was rung at eleven. Some sounded like they had been there since just after five.
I like James. He’s an accounts manger, not an artist, but he is polite and well mannered, and makes decent conversation, and when he’s cocky he usually gets it right. I know he likes to look at my armpits and his eyes went immediately toward them, but he found them covered, and he settled for a good look at my breasts. Then he was back in the room.
‘Um, hi, Joanne. You’re here pretty late. Do you want a drink?’
He smiled and disappeared into the throng at the bar. That was when Mike from my office came up.
I like Mike too. He’s an artist like me, at a junior level, and technically I’m his boss. I like him because he works hard and never lets me down, and then when he goes out, he always gets very drunk and doesn’t say anything. He just stands there grinning like a big drunk Ox.
While I waited on my drink I poked him gently in the stomach and offered him some chocolate.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You OK?’
I could smell the beer and the cologne and the day’s sweat on him, and I didn’t mind it at all, because that is exactly what I would expect my big drunk work Ox to smell like.
‘Yep, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Good night?’
‘Oh, the usual.’ He grinned again and sort of faded into the background when James came back.
The VAT was not a double and James did not say “get that into you” when he handed it to me. More points for James. His eyes were quickly back on my chest again.
‘Looking for someone?’ I said.
‘You’re going to do a lot of exercise or you’ll get back problems,’ he replied with a cheeky smile.
‘I should,’ I admitted. ‘But I still feel fine so there’s not much incentive.’
He laughed, and nodded. Still more kudos for James. I thought about asking him to go dancing with me, when everyone else had gone home.
But then, Gareth came over.
Gareth is my ex-boyfriend and I do not like that fact.
Actually, I dislike it so much that I wish there was such a thing as an ex-ex boyfriend because then he could be in that category; formerly my ex-boyfriend, but now no longer, because of time travel.
That’s right. Gareth is not my ex-boyfriend. I never started sleeping with Gareth. I was never taken in by his charm, and do not have the misfortune of knowing how charmless he is when he is alone with a woman. I have never been on the receiving end of one of his eleven minute power fucks. I do not have that fading memory of the seven rushed, panicky orgasms he gave me. I did not have to go to the bathroom afterwards and hastily finish the job while I pretended to pee. And, I did not have to put up with him questioning me afterwards, about whether I was satisfied.
All thanks to the wonders of time travel.
I do not like Gareth, obviously.
Actually, I don’t really like many of my ex-boyfriends. And I don’t really ‘date’ men any more. I just pick them up sometimes.
I work in real estate, and quite often I need to go to clients’ houses to assess their value. After my new secretary Loora had been working in the office about four days, I got an opportunity to go to assess an empty house in the suburbs, and I invited her to come along. There was really no reason for her to go; she was just supposed to be my secretary, after all. But I thought maybe if I could get her out of office surroundings, she might loosen up, and stop calling me ‘sir’, and I could find out a little bit more about her life. As I said last time, I had a crush on Loora, which I did not quite care to admit, but which still influenced a lot of things I did around her.
Things did not go as planned. To begin with, Loora did not take the opportunity to dress any differently than she would normally. She came to the house looking like this.
I walked in to the empty room and said hello, and asked her if she was all right, and she said: ‘Yes, sir. But it is very cold in here.’
She was right. It was March, and still freezing. The bar heater by the window was the warmest place to be, by far. I moved over and stood next to her. My eye was immediately drawn to her left hand, and I noticed there was no ring, like she normally wore.
‘What do you think of the place?’ I asked, trying to make eye contact, and not to stare too hard at her ring finger.
‘It’s too good to sell right now,’ she said. ‘The last few Victorian terraces along this street sold for 350,000 pounds. I don’t think they will get that in this market.’
As she says this she moves herself onto the heater to keep warm, and I found it impossible not to stare at her ring finger, although it is hidden behind her leg. I keep hoping the musky smell of her will wash over me like it has done in the office, but someone has sprayed the place with cheap air freshener just before the inspection and all I can smell is ‘Pine Breeze’ or whatever stupid name they all it. Certainly it is nothing like the smell of Loora.
‘Sir?,’ she says. ‘Are you all right?’
I realize I have been staring at her hopelessly for half a minute and clutch for an excuse. ‘Ah, you’re right, it is very cold in here,’ I say, effecting a shiver.
‘Do you want some space by the heater?’ she says, and sits down next to it, and like a fool I squat down next to her, and just then I do catch her smell, and this time, I am pretty sure it is of salt, and spice, and is coming from the places in her body where hair wants to grow, and which she cannot cover.
‘So, ah, Loora,’ I said. ‘What would you do with the place.’
‘Rent, definitely,’ she says. ‘You could get 500 pounds a month here. I’d be having that as income, and trying to buy in somewhere a bit closer to town.’
I try to remind myself that she is only twenty-five, but at this point she seems to know as much about the market as I do. Not that it matters, because she turns to face me so she can continue the conversation, and sits down with her legs towards me. I catch sight of her left hand, and there is definitely no ring on that finger.
‘Sir?’ she says again. ‘Are you sure you are all right? You look a bit red.’
‘Ah…’ I do not know what to say, and then another wave of her incredible musk comes over me, the strongest I have known it, and I am forced to go to the bathroom, claiming a stomach upset, and let her deal with the client (which she does very well, needless to say).
Retire hurt, is the cricket term. I have had to retire hurt.
But sooner or later I am going to find out about that ring.
Apparently, there’s no longer any such thing as a guy who is attracted to chubby, or natural-looking women. ‘Chubby chasers’ are a myth. And so is anyone who doesn’t mind a bit of hair down there, I’m guessing.
The truth is, anyone who sleeps with such a woman is actually just a low-status guy, who can’t get with properly attractive women, so we pretend that we like another type of woman instead.
Obviously, this revelation means that everyone is attracted to the same type of woman and her physical appearance is the most important thing. Being attracted to someone on an interpersonal level is a total waste of time; it doesn’t matter if your potential mate make you laugh, or make you feel safe, or excited, or challenged. Or if they are some total idiot who bores your cock off. It’s all about their waist measurement.
Also, physical chemistry does not exist – and the buzz you feel when you get close to a partner who would make healthy children with you, that’s all a load of scientific mumbo-jumbo, too. It’s all about dress size. If you say otherwise you are lying.
If this is confusing for you, the easiest way to remember it is this: it’s not about whether you are actually enjoying your time in the company of the woman of your choice. Her looks and waist size are a symbol of your status as a man. After all, this is mostly about impressing other guys, right? The two of you can be having an absolutely horrible time together, and that’s fine, just so long as she is skinny.
The demise of the chubby chaser is bad news for nearly everyone. For skinny women, it’s bad news because it means all of a sudden a lot more really boring men will be chasing after them. For chubby women, it means they have to admit that no one was ever really into them, and all their many boyfriends past and present were lying. For ‘high status’ guys – and those who treat dating like a video game – it’s bad news because it means there will be more competition for the ‘actual’ sexy women they used to have all to themselves, supposedly. I feel for them, I really do.
But for low status guys, like me, it’s actually OK. Me and my cock are both pretty good at pretending we like all sorts of different types of women, and while some of whom look like bikini models, most of them do not. And I don’t have to worry about all the skinny but boring women either, because I never have to talk to them.
So a moment’s silence, please, for the death of the mythical chubby chaser. From now on, I will only pretend to find plus size women attractive.