Big Boy

So I knew I was marrying a big boy when I said I do. It was obvious he was BIGGER than most men. I also knew that he ate a lot and often. However, I am not sure I ever really looked past his big hands, long enough to actually watch him eat. I have to admit, I get a lot of traction out of my man being large. The whole, “look how big his feet are” comments from my friends can be a fun game. And watching those same friends as they check him out and gaze longingly at his crotch, wondering if all of him is just as large, never gets old to me either. The things that turn you on in the beginning can make you stare in bewilderment not long after the nuptials have been said. Tonight, I just watched as my big boy jumped up off the sofa, but took his phone with him to keep up with the scores, skid into the kitchen in search of yet another snack. He poured a gallon of milk into a mammoth bowl adding whatever cereal was in my pretty glass canister. It could have been dog food. Believe me, he would not know the difference. Leaving spilled milk behind,he ran back to his second favorite spot on the sofa in front of ESPN. The sunken spot on the sofa where he can hang over his trough and sprawl out his grand daddy long legs and graze in peace. As he slurped and shoveled in my Special K with fruit and yogurt, I sat back in amazement. I guess the wedge in his arse isn’t bothering him after all.

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