If I could, I’d become a liposuction vampire: a bat that would suck out fat rather than blood. I’d be a popular creature of mythology, pursued by many women. After all, the early 21st century is interminable purgatory for the vaguely over-weight. But like Humbert Humbert, who claimed a spidery sense for discerning Lolitas, I’d only puncture the flesh of real BBW. Many women claim to have been a fat child, or fat teen (the latter almost a badge of outsider pride), but only a few really continue to make fat seductive. And I’m not talking some abject pornographic fetish for fat chicks here either, or old style ‘Dimpled Dolly’ circus freaks, but a rare unselfconscious defiance that stops my heart in its tracks. It’s a certain style that is commensurate with flesh, rather than any form of compensation for it. If these women wear a black furry Cossack hat, it’s not to create a visual decoy. They can be butch (with biceps to die for) or femme (in op-shop frocks). I don’t usually go for Americans either, as somehow it feels trademarked and coy, way too pumpkin-pie. Nor am I going to trawl sites like Suicide Girls, as context is all important. While you may be able to glean on the internet, you can’t really glimpse. You can’t preempt that moment where you are following someone down a corridor and it’s like they are a ghost, but a larger-than-life presence rather than an ethereal absence. There’s something about the banal reality that makes it all the more like a visitation. The last woman I saw that enthralled me was just shopping in a clothes store in New Delhi. I couldn’t tell where she was from, she had a kind of pan-Asian aesthetic and an almost rock star quality. She may have had tattoos, but I might just be filling them in. I imagine my bat will be a kind of androgynous lothario. My eternal pain will be that I am destined to destroy my desire at its very source. These women will leave me looking like wet kittens rescued from a still warm bag in a river, all bones and mew. Where did my fat house cat go? I think it’s fat orgasms that turn me on the most, the density of the shudder. May I add that I also like deep voices and even facial hair. I wonder if guys really get all that. Here am I, the purist, accusing them of mere perversity. That said, most of my prey will probably be straight (except for the tiny bite marks just above the clavicles). I understand that feeling the waitress in Carver’s ‘Fat’ has, where the grace and politeness of the fat man puts her weedy lover to shame. But I’m not into emasculation—in fact I imagine I’ll wish for my lovers the same rugged yet intellectual men that they’ve always lusted after, that I may ultimately grant them.