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A Curvy Girl Erotic Adventure - Book One
    I’ll just say it like it is: I am a plus-sized woman and men absolutely adore me. In fact, I am so sexy that men can’t get enough of me. It’s not that I am sexy in spite of being bounteous, either: it is part of my allure. It’s a package deal. You can’t be plus-sized and have a pretty face. That’s bullshit. Your entirety is what makes you beautiful. I am a bodacious woman oozing with sex appeal.

    I didn’t always feel beautiful, and I haven’t always felt so comfortable about being curvy. It was one particularly hot experience that I had in my mid-twenties that helped me to see that all of me is gorgeous. Since then, I’ve gone on to have many experiences that confirm this. But today I’ll just tell you this one story.

    I’d finished my day’s work and research at the university and was waiting for the Broadway bus on a rainy Vancouver day. I was shivering in my bones and couldn’t wait to get home and crank up the heat and put on my flannel pajamas. I was wearing woolen tights that were sagging in the crotch, my Mary Janes were reservoirs of water and my hair had become a scraggly mess; my retro chic dress and my black wool cardigan were sodden. No doubt my mascara was running as well and my dark rimmed glasses were steamed up, just like the day. I was well and truly soaked all the way to my under-wire bra that had been digging into my breasts all day. Needless to say, I neither looked nor felt divine.

    As I sat and waited on the damp bench in the rain shelter, I was too cold to read the historical romance I had stowed away in my briefcase that I usually saved for waits like these. Being an academic, I used to be embarrassed reading romance novels on the bus, but then one day I decided, “Who cares what people think of me?” I was sure that at first glance people probably thought of me as some pathetic fat chick whose only romantic outlet was reading trashy novels on buses. In fact, they were right. I was apathetic and listless. I had really hit a new low.

    I finally boarded the Broadway bus and found a vacant seat, squishing myself past an old lady with arthritic-gnarled hands she was wringing obsessively and who possessively guarded the edge of her seat. I squeezed against the window to avoid physical contact with her, embarrassed by my girth next to her frailty. We sat in miserable silence.

    When she got off at the Dunbar Loop a fiftyish-something man with gray, close-cropped hair and a well-defined jaw got on. He carried a large black umbrella with a wooden handle and wore a black tailored raincoat. Unlike most of the bus patrons, he was dry.

    He squeezed in next to me, saying, “You don’t mind, do you?”

    I replied, “No, of course not. I hope you don’t mind; I’m soaking.”

    “On the contrary,” he answered, smiling. “I’m grateful to be sitting next to a lovely woman.”
    I blushed at the nicety. We were silent for a moment. I began to dig in my briefcase for my novel. I pulled out the tattered library copy and found the folded-over page I had ceased reading on my morning commute into the university where I was working on my PhD in 19th century classics. (This, of course, made it even more embarrassing that I was reading a romance novel of questionable integrity.)

    “You like romance, do you?”

    It startled me that he actually commented on my reading material. No one ever had.

    “It’s good escapism,” I answered. “Good for a laugh,” I added.

    “Yes, escapism is good,” he agreed.

    I started pretending to read, feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

    “Do you indulge in any other forms of escapism?” he asked with his proper English accent that so complimented his debonair appearance. It seemed a rather personal question, and I wasn’t sure what he meant.

    Sensing my confusion he said, “It’s all very well to read about someone else’s desires and escapes, but do you ever do just exactly what it is you want?”

    I