Of Bodily Additions and Subtractions

I’m still in deep Mexico where the increasing heat has stripped me of all ambition to go elsewhere. Being a man of girth and luxury, I long since moved to a downtown hotel suite with air conditioning, a feature I had specially installed. I am, of course, in propinquity to the finest eateries and the easiest female marks of a certain age and width, though I have had to lower my gigolosaurus rates a little, since the peso must knuckle under to the dollar in the gigolo business like any other. Besides, I’m forced to compete with some normal weight Mexicans whom some North American tourist-tubbies, despite their heavily upholstered frames, strangely prefer to my Wellesean proportions. Yet unlike Wilt Chamberlain, who said, “Nobody loves Goliath,” I maintain that everyone loves a fat man, and all that psychological armor stuff that Freud started up only shows a lack of appreciation for the true price of gustatory indulgence.

I’ve cut down on my business costs by letting my marks pick up the dinner checks, which in restaurants like Harry Bissette's of New Orleans can come to a pretty peso, not to mention the expense of my gastronomic preferences, the amount thereof consumed, and the 10% kickback I get from the owner, regrettably most often accepted in the form of fresh oysters while I’m off the job. Having my own suite, I also save cash on assignations, luring the love-challenged, cellulite-dimpled, rhinocerous-thighed fiftysomethings into my lipoloungelizard lair, which I’ve carefully furnished with recessed lighting, a super king-size bed, wine rack, stereo, and a chest o f... err... accoutrements… call them sex toys for the gravity-challenged!

It’s a little-known problem that among the randy obese, penetration is occasionally impeded by mounds of subcutaneous fat tissue in both giver and receiver (and in true union, so hard to tell the two apart, eh?). In some cases, therefore, say when the total poundage of partners, both gigolosaurus and gigolosaurette, approach 700 lbs., such toys may become necessary.

Take the cheek spreader, for instance, that tight leather saddle with the fig-shaped opening that must be strapped to the backside of a particularly luscious hippobabe’s rear bumper to flatten those mountains that keep lightning from the valley. “Let every mountain be brought low,” as the good book saith. When the cheek-spreader is properly cinched in front (given that the missionary position at such poundage has long since gone the way of Captain Cook), the gigolosaurette grotto then becomes vulnerable to Poseidon’s triton. In special cases, however (and I divulge this secret at great risk to my near monopoly of bulbous bon-bon gorging giantesses, whom you may see en masse at my yearly Cosmo bonfire), a triton extender is necessary. I’ve had mine seamlessly fitted to my not unimpressive battering Rambo, since I refuse pubic liposuction, the alternative, on the basis of my pizza-gobbling pride. And although my little add-on may help protect against disease, I don’t justify its use for such a plebeian reason, as the choice walrusettes I seduce are usually so rarely serviced they have no diseases. (Some carry genuine oosiks in their purses for the same reasons of neglect.)

By the way, if the semi-clinical details of my more gravity-challenged lipoliaisons should offend the reader, I would remind them of Clintonian tolerance for diversity: Sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar— at least not a large enough cigar. And whatever you choose to do in the privacy of your own ranch-style stucco home, or Mexican suite, is yo ur own damn business.

Blue laws can make for blue balls.

Naturally I hide my pink wand extender in one of my larger waist folds and only slip it on when my globular goddesses face the headboard, full well knowing their generous necks do not allow for much lateral rotation, nor their cheeks (pick either pair) much peripheral vision. Before employing my aid I also make certain that the mirror that fills the wall behind my own exposed cushion is properly curtained.

Despite my socio-padded tendencies, I do sometimes feel a twinge of guilt when one of my bonny whales afterwards exclaims: “O Dweebler! No man has ever satisfied me so completely before!” To confess my little secret in such cases would only diminish my mystique and the joy of my marks, so I consider the deception beneficial, as it does not fall under “the lie direct,” however directly we lie. Afterwards, when my great white worm has retracted into its Al Hookah-like folds, my beloved sofa ladies are always amazed at the regression of my miracle— how such a cannon can become a puny nub in no time, as if the artillery that won the siege suddenly melted.

As for the experience, for those of you with a body mass index under 29: The “afterglow” of 700 lbs. coupling generates more BTUs than skinny folk can imagine. It’s beyond afterglow-- more like a nuclear pile. In fact, the sheer volume of perspiration discharged in such a blessed union of behemoths should be enough to cool a nuclear reactor as well, which has trained me to fit my mattress with a plastic cover under the double 300 percale count sheets, lest my custom lipolovemat tress be stained or damaged (my mattress is filled with a secret, space-age Swedish foam whose molecular memory has so far been impervious to the development of the dreaded central sinkhole, though I have four large maids turn it now and then just in case— if I don’t turn them first).

* * *

Strangely, or in my case expectedly, divulging the use of a sexual prosthesis for the adipose-enriched has opened my mind to its obverse, i.e., what body parts may prove superfluous, even a disadvantage, in select pursuits? (It may come as a surprise that a man of my physical indolence could be a sports fan, but such I am. I was even called “athletic” before my love of food overcame my love of movement.)

Presently in deep Mexico, relying on local cable without a personal satellite as yet, I don’t get to see as much Sumo wrestling, basketball, curling, horseshoes or badminton as I’d like, yet in the spirit of adaptation I have taken up the near impossible task of trying to enjoy the fine points of soccer (or futbol as it’s called here), which just happens to be the most popular sport in the world.

For the uninitiated, soccer best compares to ice hockey: in both sports scores are low and goals are rare. Thus the accompanying excitement does not derive from any adrenaline rush akin to orgasm, more the adrenal disappointment of coitus interruptus. Games often end in a 0 – 0 tie, necessitating “penalty kicks” to end such extended cockteasing, just as death row inmates are reli eved of their boredom by execution. Such a defensive game requires a change of attitude on the spectator’s part, and as I’m too immobile anymore to be anything but a spectator, my only aspiration towards some greater participation consists of the dim hope I might actually attend a game someday, though I’ve yet to do so.

With regard to ice hockey I might add that a man of sufficient size (regrettably one I have yet to achieve) could conceivably block an entire ice hockey goal like a lounging elephant seal, making millions forget about Patrick Roy and his ilk. Why no hockey coach has landed upon this strategy as yet might have to do with the number of puck-induced concussions endured as a matter of course in that slippery game.

But back to my counter-theme to physical additions, namely physical subtractions: Why do soccer players need arms? Only the goalie may touch the ball with his hands. For the rest, arms are about as useful as tits on a boar. They increase body weight, wind resistance and most likely reduce foot speed. I’d like to see a soccer team of bilateral above-the-elbow amputees take on a team whose wings are intact.

Sure, there’s a lot of talk about how arms help balance and pumping fists help propel a player, but has anyone ever determined the optimal length for upper extremities in soccer players? Japanese women had their feet bound to create the mincing walk that exaggerates the movement of their, in general, fairly flat asses (though I rank them above the average Mexican ass by a hair, see my previous column, “From the Land of Burros but No Asses”). In view of such practices, why don’t parents volunteer those children who show promise at futbol from an early age (in soccer-crazed countries) for amputation of the upper extremities? It might give youngsters an edge in competition while granting their families a helping hand, economically speaking—perhaps even two hands.

In a study of voluntary amputees, surgeons could choose to retain upper limbs of various lengths in, say, promising five-year-old soccer players, then follow their sports career for some 30 years. Eventually the exact length of the upper extremity best suited to the game could be determined and routinely applied to manufacture the world’s most elite players (excepting goalies, who might be candidates for limb extensions, which could be easily supplied by the amputated parts of study participants). Call me cruel, but as a betting man I’d put my money on an armless soccer team any day-- given the physics. And just think of the compensatory agility of their young necks and heads! Like those mammoth flightless birds, the majestic Moas! (Another thought: if kangaroos can be taught to box, might ostriches be taught to play soccer in preliminary animal studies? This might help with eventual FDA approval.)

* * *

My principle of economy, or subtraction, need not be a pplied solely to futbol. Think of Irish dancing— that “Lord of the Dance” nonsense. Why do Irish dancers need their arms? It’s been said that the Irish only dance with their legs because they’re too dumb to use their arms at the same time. Amputation is a neat solution if you don’t happen to be Irish; if you do, no doubt you think it a good one. (As Samuel Johnson said, “The Irish are a fair people. They never speak well of each other.”)

Further applications of my general theory of physical advantage by subtraction include the voluntary removal of both upper and lower incisors and bicuspids from ice hockey players after their adult complement is full, sparing them the bloody and painful singularity of losing one tooth at a time. I mean, how many ice hockey players have you seen with natural incisors?

And what about baseball? As Roseanne Barr demonstrated (and may I say, watch that weight loss, girl!), the only balls really needed in baseball have seams. The others just get in the way of overtight flannels, distracting both players and onlookers to no good end. And since most baseball players nowadays use anabolic steroids anyway, testicles have become hormonally extraneous, so why not just castrate good players when they make the big leagues, sort of a big league baseball-bar-mitzvah thing?

And what good is a nose to a boxer? Why not simply saw the cartilage down to a defensible stump rather than watch it go crooked a hundred times?

And why do swimmers need ears? They already shave their bodies and use caps to reduce resistance.

Then think of wrestling—of what use are legs? If two wrestlers compete at the same weight and one is a double above-the-knee amputee, said amputee (after tackling his opponent) would by his superior upper body strength no doubt pin the leggy challenger in record time.

(John Irving, are you listening?)

Beyond sports, why do newscasters need anything but their heads, conveniently set in dummy suits with expressive ties? Rather, Jennings, Brokaw— they may play with pens but really only read Teletype into the camera. Fughedaboutit.

* * *

If the reader has come with me thus far, remember that I began my bloviation with a confession about my hockey stick and concluded with a discussion of natural endowments, which, in certain pursuits, may prove to be no more than handicaps. Coaches like to say, “Give 110%!” (few of them teach math, I’m told). I’ve only suggested players sacrifice less, in terms of total body mass, for an even more felicitous result!

I should add that my theory holds no appeal for me: I have no such dedication to any physical enterprise which takes place outside of a bed or a dining table. I treasure every cubic centimeter of my near 400-pounds, knowing that each portion has been stuffed with the best caviar, camembert, filet mignon, head cheese and blood sausage money can buy. I’m sure my fat cells, if properly pan-fried in butter and salt, would give off such aroma as to render any self-respecting gourmand speechless with saliva. If anything I’d like to add to my body. Why not two mouths to doubly enjoy my food? Why not two penises, set at appropriate angles, to doubly satisfy my precious superpigeons? Yet I want no more brains; merely observe the boring contributions of my brother, Mycroft, and our less gifted cousin, CE, in Melic’s 5th Anniversary Issue, just to see how damaging “intellectual” gifts can be! Can you believe CE wrote an entire essay on a poet who feared sensual pleasure, that desiccated blueblood, T. S. Eliot? And Mycroft’s weary apothegms don’t stimulate a single cell in all my corpulent glory.

By the way, I’m the only writer in the history of Melic who ever had a website erected in his honor (by those inscrutable Neo-Luddites from down under!) And stats prove that my pieces are the most popular. Thus the editor, against his wife’s objections, opted to include me in the anniversary issue not only to maintain Melic’s free speech policy (which costs him any advertising revenue), but because many highbrow literati types who browse this magazine find my art a secret, guilty pleasure.