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  • From theory to practice, we’re getting naked and more exposed. If descriptions of naked obesity trouble you, read no further. You can head for the explanation here .

    Chase is a passive lover, almost a somnolent one. It’s more like giving a massage than fucking.

    My autopsy approach to sex too often unsettles people. Makes them uneasy at a time when everything should be smooth. Too much staring, pausing, turning over. Blissful, brainless, carried away by the moment fucking has never been my style. But I love getting naked with people. What fascinates me is where their body takes me. The kind of shit people have going on under their clothes. Deviant bits bubbling away, distorted and marked.

    Although he was a bloated, abnormal wreck of man who was never going to give me the time of my life, there was something in it for me. Discovery at least, and you never know what other treasures he might be hiding.

    Of course, what I really want from any strip is to go deeper, to get under the skin. To feel the heart pump and blood boil, touch fibers and bone, see muscles contract and cells divide. You know, get into it. But, back to Chase.

    I begin with a perfunctory strip, nothing too fancy, not wasting time, kicking off my shoes, shrugging off my dress, so I’m there in underwear.

    -You’re beautiful, he pants, and I’m a little disappointed because he’d been so much more fascinating earlier.

    -You’re not bad looking yourself, I smile at him. Now, make yourself comfortable. Because it’s your turn.

    He lies back, head lolling on the sofa cushions, looking down at me through eyes that are half closed.

    We start with the feet. I pull off each sock gingerly to reveal the first victims of his vast appetite and unfortunate genes. They are red of course, red verging on purple that speaks of years of being cramped into small spaces under excessive pressure. They are damp – as the night progresses, I find out that most of Chase is damp. Some of Chase is rotten – and the skin on the soles of the feet is yellow, peeling away from the toes. A spray of shedded skin, some cheesy substance accompanies each sock as it leaves his foot.

    The toes are mashed together, overlapping, squeezed into one fleshy point. And the outside edge of his foot, the part that takes the heaviest toll, because each step he takes becomes a roll, this outside edge is a party of callouses and blisters and sores and strips of flesh. Avoiding the open wounds as best I can, I dig my knuckles into the soles of his feet, kneading gently away, and prise the toes apart, revealing a fungal infection in full effect. I had, originally, thoughtfully, contemplated some compassionate fondling and rubbing, but realize that’s over ambitious. I can deal with the visual horror of the whole scene, but I don’t want that kind of shit touching my fingers.

    The strip continues. As does my autopsy. I’d wondered about the mechanics of undressing him, and was looking for a way to get this body naked as efficiently as possible. So I start cutting at the bottom of his trousers, every now and then letting the blade brush against his skin, every now and then giving him a little poke with the point.

    He squirms, his eyes open slightly.
    -It’s okay. Just letting you know who’s in charge.

    The legs are a whole other story. Hairless, and varying between translucent white and angry violet where more chafing has occurred. Scaly ankles give way to patches of eczema or some other skin complaint which pebbles his shins. Or where I imagine his shins hide under mounds of flesh. For they are less like legs than bags of a heavy clay, with little structure or shape, just spreading sideways across the sofa. I run my fingers up and down his legs, avoiding any weeping or blighted areas, marveling at the lack of give or bounce in his flesh. I can push my finger right up to the knuckle in some areas, and once removed the hole remains, only closing slowly, long after I’m exploring some other disaster.

    I’m taking my time of course. Curiosity, and staying out of reach of his hands for as long as I can. But I have to see more so I kneel to one side of him, and start to unbutton his voluminous shirt. I start at the top, and each button sighs as it is released from containing him. Beneath the rolls of fat of his neck is an expanse of white flesh, and I find his nipples just above his trousers, veering off to each side, forming a pink stain at the base of the curved triangles that are his chest. The flesh of his chest is mottled. Darker brown areas line his folds, while vivid pink zones under his arms surprise me as I start to ease his shirt from his belt. I feel his hand start to stroke my hair as this happens.

    The shirt is long. I imagine if I wore it, it would come to my toes, and as I’m pulling it out I have a vision of cloth that never ends, that just keeps on coming, until there is nothing left of Chase at all. But the end pops out, and I whirl out of Chase’s reach, and look at my work.

    He lies there, part exposed, trousers split ragged to the crotch, like some specialist erotic dancer, the shirt louchely open, white fabric billowing around his breasts and onto the seat on either side of him. Only his belly remains concealed, tucked under the stretch of trouser that reaches from belt to crotch.

    There’s more here if you want to follow this to its end.
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