OuiWeight

During Jasmine’s junior year abroad in Paris she’d become quite fond of a young man in her class who we’ll call Ouiweight. She was out one late night with the girls. It was one of those nights, well, that she barely remembers. Jasmine was supposed to meet Ouiweight after she “finished this one last drink with [her] girls.” Next thing she knew it was 2 hours after she should have been, by this point, enjoying a wee bit of Ouiweight. Miraculously, she found a cab and off she went…she went so off that she missed his building by two blocks. As Jasmine stumbled down hill, she saw Ouiweight waiting and wasn’t werey wappy. A wise weight, he advised Jasmine to “just go to sleep” and so she did. Shoes and all. In the morning, the sun woke her up. The morning after monologue (a common trend among most girls who do a bit of boozing and feel the need to string together the multitude “incidents” that may or may not have occurred the night before). IN HER HEAD: “Jesus I sweat a lot last night. My pants are totally soaked. Wait, if I have my pants on that probably means I didn’t have sex last night. Oh yeah…is he mad? Well, I guess I will have sex now and make it up to him.” Jasmine peeled off her pants and climbed on top of Ouiweight. As he woke up to the rocking of his boat, he began to feel the moisture of the ocean. He was actually feeling the bed around their loveboat. “Did you pee the bed?!” The pants, the sweat, shit, it wasn’t sweat at all! It was pee! Realizing she’d peed, Jasmine debarked. It was then she realized not only had she had sex with him a top her pee, but she had been surfing the crimson tied. Blood was not only on the pissed on sheets, but all over Ouiweight. To try and recompose herself, Jamsine, perched on the edge of the wet foam (yes, foam) mattress and lit a cigarette. Two pulls and one wave of nausea, rushed 16 drinks up from her stomach. Puke. Everywhere. That was it. Jasmine apologized, for the third time, gathered the gross sheets with promises of bleach and a good ironing and off she went…wee wee wee wee all the way home.

BroadWeight

It was Jamie’s first date with a manweight she’d met at a bar, Wicked Willies, over the weekend. That Monday, a coworker had offered her two tickets to a Knicks game. Instead of calling her best girlfriends, as Jamie normally would, she called the manweight. I mean, how cool would she be? A girl taking a guy to the Knicks game for a first date…that screams cool chick. And what better place to have a practically blind date? (Jamie barely remembered what the manweight looked like (besides the fact he looked really good in his t-shirt), so it had to be a public place). Madison Square Garden is totally public and if they had nothing to say to each other they could always just watch the game. Plus, with the price of a beer, there was no way she could get embarrassingly drunk. Jamie waited for her weight outside of MSG, looking at every buff, black guy that walked by with suspicion. Then he appeared. This guy’s broad, muscular shoulders filled out his hoody as well as they had his t-shirt. That had to be him. He strolled up to her, “Jamie?” he asked. “Yes!” replied Jamie, proud she could pick his body out of a crowd as well as she had the night she’d met him. They made their way inside to their seats. It was then Jamie realized the kind of weight she was dealing with; BroadWeight. He took up his chair plus some, and in a good way. He was so muscular he could barely contain himself in his seat. BroadWeight’s quad muscles pressed against his jeans, as if they were trying to burst free. He struggled to find a comfortable position to rest his massive arms and, fortunately for Jamie, that position would be around her. Just like the cliché move to yawn and stretch, BroadWeight extended one of his wonderfully large arms around her, encompassing her whole upper body. It felt so good to be surrounded by manweight. From tip off to fourth quarter buzzer, Jamie reveled in the comfort, and weight, of her BroadWeight. If the weight was this amazing in plastic, stadium seats, Jaime imagined how amazing it would be somewhere softer, say oh, a bed. (PS It was even better in bed).

JWeight

Michelle was sick of meeting douchebag dudes in downtown dive bars. She wanted more than just the drunken make out and fake numbers, so she did what any woman does nowdays…and signed herself up on a dating website, jdate.com. After a few clicks around, 25 profile readings , and a couple winks later, Michelle had settled on one fine fella, Jweight. Dark hair on his head on his chest made for one intrigued girl and it wasn’t long before the two started exchanging dirty messages . It was in the third message that Jweight proposed a class. His class sucked. Literally, sucked. He offered to teach Michelle how to smoke his pole. An avid learner and born adventure, Michelle knelt at the challenge! The date was set for a Monday evening at 4 pm. It was 5:59 when Michelle was recounting the details to her friend Emily: “It was unbelievable…he came over, taught me how to give porn star head! Then we fucked against the window!” Michelle said, with pride and amazement of her won actions. Jweight and Michelle had the suckiest jdate ever.