Chapter 1: The Ring

My eyes and my brain were having an argument. I sat with my family on some pull-out bleacher seats, the kind you might see in a high school gym, mounted against two walls of a large room. In front of me sat a standard square boxing ring, twenty-four feet on a side and four feet above the floor. Four corner posts held up the four enclosing ropes, and as far as I could tell, all of this equipment was absolutely standard off the shelf.

So, what was my internal argument about? First, the whole ring was pink. Not pale pink, but the intense pink Mattel used with Barbie. Hanging above the ring was a huge pink banner advertising the “BBW” in giant hollow letters over two smaller lines of text.

BARE BUTT WRESTLING
for
BIG BEAUTIFUL WOMEN

bbwleague.com

On another wall was a banner reading:

BIG BEAUTIFUL WOMEN with BIG BREASTS—WOW!
NOW HIRING!
BRATTY BITCHES WIN.

Second, my mom would be one of those wrestlers. Yes, those NAKED wrestlers—it’s a long story how we got there, but here we were! We sat together in bleacher seats designated for the families of the women who were competing, so we could root for our mom!

My entire family was there—absolutely thrilled that my mom was going to give this competition a shot. She’s big and beautiful, but if you ask her, she’d tell you she has an ugly face, and she’d smack you in the arm for trying to butter her up and blow smoke up her ass.

To my right sat my two sisters and then my dad. On my left sat my best friend, Nate. Standing in front of us, a tall man in his thirties wore a referee’s uniform.

“Welcome, Ericsson family,” the man said in a friendly, practiced tone. “I’m Emmett Franklin, president of the BBW League. Your mother’s in the locker room through that blue door in the corner. She’s going to be in the red thong; her opponent will be wearing blue. Now, I want to reassure you, our league is all about safety. The mat provides ample bounce, and the large, squishy square-shaped pads on all four sides provide protection. We’re all about silly fun.”

“And big beautiful women, like Phoebe,” Dad crowed, eager to see Mom in action.

“And like your lovely daughters, Earl,” Franklin said smoothly, with a little showman’s bow.

Next to me, Melissa, who we called Sissy, shifted her weight and looked away with a tight mouth. Susan smiled widely at Franklin and preened, shoulders back, chin up. Enjoying the attention, Susie gave every indication she was ready to wrestle herself. I could tell he saw potential in my sisters, since they both shared Mom’s generous curves.

“Excuse me, I need to get ready to start the show,” Franklin said as he moved off to check the two cameras angled to cover the ring.

The genetics Dad and I shared meant we were almost the same height and weight, with the same curly black hair, blue-gray eyes, slender build, and enormous genitals. I’m kidding!

I will say, Dad seemed to get a lot of looks and interest from other women, causing giggles from my sisters and scowls and growls from Mom. I didn’t think Dad did anything to encourage the attention. I just wished that a few of those women would notice me, as if I were raising my hand to offer myself as a substitute.

I noticed, though, that those catty bitches were barking up the wrong tree. I don’t mean to be unkind, but my father was completely loyal to Mom, and ordinarily proportioned women left him cold, or at least cool. Mom was about five foot six and weighed two hundred pounds. Are you surprised I knew this? She kept a chart on the fridge of her weight, trying to maintain that number. Why? Dad told her she was PERFECT, and he meant it. She loved his enthusiasm, and she only stopped at two hundred because she would rather not stress her knees.

I had to guess about my sisters. To my eye, Susan, older and the same height as Mom, looked ten or twenty pounds lighter. Sissy was lighter still, as she was a couple of inches shorter than Mom. I didn’t dare ask them directly. Again, genetics ruled the three, with the same blonde wavy hair, bright blue eyes, turned-up noses, sweet round asses, and their honking big naturals.

Fake tits don’t do it for me—I love heavy, pendulous, imperfect tits, swinging like two sacks filled with creamy, melted butter and bulbous, oversized red nipples like clown noses.

Despite how obsessed I was with all three pairs, I never quite learned the measurement system. I would grade them all “A+,” but my buddy Nate told me that A was actually the smallest. What I knew for certain was their breasts were ideal. Sure, Mom’s had more sag, but their fullness seemed more inviting.