Jame Gumb, Hero and Pioneer of the Fat-Positivity Movement

“Activist and author Robbie Tripp just threw his hat into the ring for Husband of the Year with a body-positive message dedicated to his wife, lifestyle blogger Sarah Tripp. In the sweet note shared to Instagram, Tripp recalls being ridiculed for his attraction to women that don’t necessarily ascribe to typical beauty standard.” — E News, 8/2/17

I love this girl-thing currently trapped in my basement dungeon, and I just love her great big fat girl-thing body. As a teenager, I was often teased by the whole town, and law enforcement for my covetous obsession to girl-things on the thicker side, ones who had short legs and were curvier and who couldn’t run away as fast as those thin girls.

As I became a “man,” and realized how much I hated and despised my body, I started to educate myself about feminism and body tissues, and how I might combat my own disgusting body tissues by making a skin suit sewn from the hides of chubby girls — preferably size 14 or larger. The media likes to portray bigger girls as undesirable but really they make the best skin suits, skinny girls just don’t cut it.

For me, there is nothing that drowns out the demons screaming inside my head better than this girl-thing trapped in my basement dungeon: thick thighs, big booty, cute little side roll on her voluminous back pelt that I can sew darts into, add a ruffle here and there, maybe some butterfly shaped buttons, etc. Her shape and size will make the perfect outfit for me for my feature on the cover of Cosmopolitan. (fingers crossed!)

Nothing else is more sexy or confident than me trolloped-up and blasting the stereo to Goodbye Horses while masquerading in front of the mirror with my pee-pee tucked in. And this gorgeous girl-thing I have trapped in my dungeon will fill out every inch of the rest of my fun little sewing project. I remind her every day to put the lotion on its skin so I can be the most beautiful one in the room.

Guys, rethink what society has told you that you should desire. Desire me. I’m hot. A real woman is not a porn star or a sewing mannequin or even a living, breathing biologically-born female. She’s real. She’s me in a skin suit made out of a crazy-quilt of lady parts and stitched-together hides I hunted and kidnapped myself, replete with authentic stretch marks, and cute little dimples on the booty. That’s real.

Girl-things, don’t ever fool yourself by thinking you have to fit a certain mold to be loved and appreciated. I’ll love you, the bigger the better. There is a knuckle-dragging, foaming at the mouth, sociopath out there who is going to celebrate you for exactly who you are, someone who will love your soft, supple pelt so much they’ll want to wear it as their own.

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