Big love

I thought I'd make a sudden leap into a new world of physical bliss, but I realized I wasn't just looking for sex regardless of personality. I wanted to fall in love, to share a life together, to do all the things I'd done with the thin women I'd dated. I started visiting dances for big women and the men who loved them, and immersed myself in online communities of like-minded men and women. Slowly, liking fat girls stopped being something I needed to hide. I believe my preference is akin to liking polka or silent movies; not everyone is into it, but just because you are doesn't make you a freak. You're just a part of a lesser segment of society. I find many fat women profoundly beautiful to look at and touch, though I realize that by saying so I am embracing an altogether different standard of beauty than does most of the Western world.

I finally saw her sitting in the window of the Coffee Pot on West 49th. She was 24, had a mane of red hair, freckles on her plump arms, and sported a tan vinyl skirt over a size 18 frame. I'd placed a personal ad, she'd answered, and we agreed to meet. We didn't intend to spend the night together, but our first date ended up being 16 hours long. Neither of us wanted to go home, and home soon became wherever the other one was. A few months later, Julie moved into my place; five years later we were married.

She'd always been plump, even as a toddler in Dayton, Ohio. When we met, she told me about enduring doctors' snide comments and how her mother was always urging her to lose weight for her health or because, as she said, "Men don't like fat girls." That Julie turned out a healthy, happy, confident person thriving in Manhattan, making a living as a singer and actress, and working in the plus-size fashion industry was remarkable; I was and am very proud of her. I am also still desperately attracted to her, 10 years later.

My family never said a word about our relationship. I know it must be tough for them to keep quiet, because they read the New York Times and all the other papers of record that regularly announce that obesity is a national health crisis. But other than one conversation I had with my 5-foot-tall, 100-pound mother two years ago, when she asked, "Don't you think Julie should lose weight?" I've heard not a peep from anyone. I don't know whether that silence is born out of acceptance, politeness or indifference.

Which isn't to say I don't privately fret. I'd like Julie to live a long, long time, and I, too, read every article about heart disease, joint pain, diabetes and the innumerable other ailments afflicting the obese. But usually, in chorus with the fear, another small voice in my head chimes in. Health, it says, is not only physical; it's also mental, spiritual and emotional. And not only is Julie physically healthier than I am -- though I eat raw veggies, run and lift weights six days a week -- but she's also more balanced, less impulsive and kinder to herself and others, all things I'd like to be.

Finally, my wife was big when I found her. It isn't as though I grew her from a seedling into a 200-plus-pound tomato. I can't take responsibility for someone else's body; it's all I can do to take care of my own. I won't accept being labeled a closet Kevorkian just because I love a woman and her fat, too.

And how does she feel about me and my passion for her body? "I love it," she says. "For years I thought I would have to find someone who loved me in spite of my size, someone who would be willing to put up with it. To have someone adore me and my body is a gift." Julie isn't big enough for people to gawk and say, "Oh, my God, look at that enormous woman!" though she still does, from time to time, come home stung by cruel comments from jerks on the Manhattan streets. But these are balanced by the number of compliments she gets everywhere else.

Now I don't keep quiet when people make comments about fat people in front of me, and I sometimes make a point of telling colleagues I like big girls if it comes up -- or if they linger over the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. When someone makes a sizeist remark about fat women, though, my fists clench and my heart beats a little faster.

Not long ago, at a business breakfast of eight men and one woman, another colleague, a 50-something journalist -- with a sizable gut himself -- told a fat-chick joke, the one about "rolling her in flour and finding the wet spot." I took a deep breath.

"I gotta tell you something, Mike. I love fat women, and I'm married to one. You're entitled to your opinion, but comments like that aren't going to float with me..."

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