Genre: Adult (Contemporary/Fetish) 18+
Date Published: January 15, 2016
Publisher: Self
Every single thing I’ve been taught not to do…I just did.
Talk to a stranger? Check
Get in a car with a stranger? Check
Go to a second location? Check
Go into a stranger’s house? Check
Take candy from a stranger? Check
If this is a kidnapping, it’s the kindest one I’ve ever heard of.
I’m living a fat girl fantasy. Snatched from a Weight Watcher meeting by a powdered-donut eating stranger, was by far the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. Who knew I didn’t need to make appointments or attend meetings to have someone to talk to. A Friend. Two Friends. A dark, intense stranger. Secrets.
Everything I ever wanted, and something’s I didn’t. Not every tasty treat is for eating.
To each his own….right?
This is my third first meeting at Weight Watchers in as many weeks. If I don’t get myself on track now, I might as well buy a hospital bed and an XXXL muumuu, become a shut-in, and pay someone to throw a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs in a day. Maybe a couple burgers, some ice cream, oh, and baby wipes. I’m serious!
Looking around, I can’t even figure out why some of these skinny Minnie’s are even here. Pretty sure the skeleton in a dress next to me is anorexic. Newsflash! You have nothing left to lose! I might have a Snickers in the bottom of my bag that I could force-feed her. Does lint have any protein?
Besides the Blue-Haireds that belong to this women’s club establishment, complete with pastel cafeteria smocks and disapproving looks, glaring at all the rest of us like we might steal a plastic bouquet arrangement, there’s a gay couple canoodling in the back, which makes me jealy. I can’t even get a man to eat noodles with, let alone canoodle with me. Even the Rexie Queen held together by skin has a much skinnier friend, if that’s even possible.
Maybe I’m a sizeist. None of my acquaintances from my old life were bigger than me. Not one person I knew growing up could even swap clothes with me. ‘One size fits all’ is a myth!
I’m the only one sitting by myself, having my very own pity party—without the cake of course. No one to talk to, share my inner thoughts with. I look down at my iPhone; it’s dead, but no one here needs to know that, so I pretend to text. Really trying to sell it, I smile at the black screen.
Seeing my round face reflected back at me in the blank screen brings me down another peg. I thought I looked pretty good when I walked out of the apartment today. I’m fat, obese even, but my mom always called me ‘cherubic.’ Ugh. More like chubby in all the wrong places. Big fat boobs with the always-charming pink, silver dollar nipples, a bloated Buddha belly with arms and legs to match.
I’m a 27-year old loser, but not of pounds. Never been considered, kissed or picked first in a kickball game, that’s me. A Weight Watchers dropout, never making it past the first week, always looking to score those elusive five pounds that are promised to be dropped immediately. All my life all I’ve ever wanted to be was a normal weight. That’s it. Not a supermodel, an astronaut, or even a star. I’d just like to be able to look at one of those charts in a doctor’s office, slide my finger across the 5’5” column for a normal, average, American woman and see my weight is the same or slightly under the guideline. Not double, I’m not a wildebeest, for f***’s sake. Not much to ask for. I’ve starved, exercised, drank a pool’s worth of water, never all at the same time mind you, but nothing ever removed the rolls around the middle. Those I can suck in. Well, when I’m not holding water, that is. There is no sucking in my fat ass. Hell, my trunk has so much junk in it, the lock is broken and being held together with frayed rope! And my thighs, ‘thundery’ would be one word—times two. That about sums up those ham hocks.
Lost in the mental berating of my temple, I’m startled away from my pity party by a pack of white-powdered donuts, the sleeve kind, my favorite, which fall out of the sky and land on the above mentioned thighs, smack dab in my lap.
“Important text?” I’m embarrassed to see an unknown face, peering over my shoulder, reflected back at me on the dark screen. I can see her eyes searching it, looking for the meaning of life I’ve been smiling at and contemplating for the last five minutes. My face heats at being found out.
“Uh, my phone uh...it just uh.” Why can’t I even make polite conversation?
“Died?” she fills in for me. “It’s okay. Didn’t mean to creep on you. Just looking for fresh recruits.” An Amazon of a woman bends her six-foot frame into the plastic chair next to me. Bright green eyes, made up like she’s draggin’ on the side, twinkle at me. I’m at boob height when she’s folded herself in. Two torpedoes clothed in a tight, pink sweater. She could be a linebacker if she went on a diet and started exercising today. And there’s no way she got into those skinny jeans by herself, unless a crowbar, a pack of gum, and duct tape were involved.
Wait…did she say ‘recruit’?
“I’m Sasha Berlin.” I shake the hand that is extended, careful of the long black nails filed to points.
“I’m Sara, no H.” No H? What? Is she corresponding with me? Why would I say it like that? Mentally, I smack myself.
Looking down, not wanting to lose my first WW buddy, I spy the pack of donuts nestled between my thighs.
Nodding down at them, “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to bring Hostess into the room.”
I try to hand them back discreetly, palming them, always mindful of the watchful rheumy eyes of the blue-haired group that runs the place, but Sasha isn’t having it.
She takes them alright, and makes a big production of ripping them open with her teeth! Dropping two in the process. Plop! Right on top of those torpedoes! And commences with the crinkling of the cellophane like her life depends on it, before popping two of those powdered goodies between her scarlet lips. Powdered sugar is everywhere, coating her lips, dusting her sweater, raining down on her lap. “And I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to force luscious ladies, such as yourself, to listen to this ‘points’ bull****!”
At least that’s what I think she said. There may have been something about ‘Scale Nazis’ too, couldn’t make that part out, but I sense the canoodling in the back has ceased. The gays recognize one of their own. Commence flamboyance!
I’m staring, along with all the other skinny rejects, as she chews loudly, and unbelievably, stuffs a third in, crammed into the mashed pile on her pink tongue. Her mouth is so full she can’t even chew with it closed. Everyone, including myself, gets a view of the train wreck.
She catches my eye—not hard, since my eyes haven’t left her face—and tears open a second pack of donuts. My eyes widen. She couldn’t, wouldn’t shove any more in there, would she? Her eyebrows wiggle as she snorts loudly. You know, the sound pigs make when someone’s uncurling their tail? Yep, that’s the one.
A tiny, unused, weak, and pitiful giggle escapes before I can stop it.
“What kind of laugh was that?” she says around a mouthful of sugar, spraying me with donut in the process as she throws back her own head and belly laughs.
How is she not choking? And do I remember the Heimlich? That does it. I’m laughing now too, wiping donut from my face, just as the Grand Poohbah of the Blue-Haireds approaches, hands on her aproned hips, glaring at both of us. “Ahem.” Before she can even begin to berate us, Sasha’s up, towering over the little lady on her black, stiletto-heeled, Cat woman boots, white donuts rolling everywhere, grabbing my hand in a death grip, exclaiming for all to hear, “I’m here to save my sister in chub from the brainwashing! You won’t win this one! Come to the dark side!” And then we’re running.
Yes, full-on running. Me, who hasn’t run since someone stood counting my laps in high school. I think I hear a cheer from the gays in the back, but I can’t be sure. My left arm is busy trying not to drop my phone and simultaneously support my flopping boobs, since she’s got a death grip on my right one.
We hit the double doors right in the middle, fling them to the winds, and race—well, as ‘racy’ as two fat girls can be—to the parking lot beyond, laughing the whole way.
“C’mon Thelma! We’re busting out of here!”
“Okay Louise!” I giggle back.
Looking around, I can’t even figure out why some of these skinny Minnie’s are even here. Pretty sure the skeleton in a dress next to me is anorexic. Newsflash! You have nothing left to lose! I might have a Snickers in the bottom of my bag that I could force-feed her. Does lint have any protein?
Besides the Blue-Haireds that belong to this women’s club establishment, complete with pastel cafeteria smocks and disapproving looks, glaring at all the rest of us like we might steal a plastic bouquet arrangement, there’s a gay couple canoodling in the back, which makes me jealy. I can’t even get a man to eat noodles with, let alone canoodle with me. Even the Rexie Queen held together by skin has a much skinnier friend, if that’s even possible.
Maybe I’m a sizeist. None of my acquaintances from my old life were bigger than me. Not one person I knew growing up could even swap clothes with me. ‘One size fits all’ is a myth!
I’m the only one sitting by myself, having my very own pity party—without the cake of course. No one to talk to, share my inner thoughts with. I look down at my iPhone; it’s dead, but no one here needs to know that, so I pretend to text. Really trying to sell it, I smile at the black screen.
Seeing my round face reflected back at me in the blank screen brings me down another peg. I thought I looked pretty good when I walked out of the apartment today. I’m fat, obese even, but my mom always called me ‘cherubic.’ Ugh. More like chubby in all the wrong places. Big fat boobs with the always-charming pink, silver dollar nipples, a bloated Buddha belly with arms and legs to match.
I’m a 27-year old loser, but not of pounds. Never been considered, kissed or picked first in a kickball game, that’s me. A Weight Watchers dropout, never making it past the first week, always looking to score those elusive five pounds that are promised to be dropped immediately. All my life all I’ve ever wanted to be was a normal weight. That’s it. Not a supermodel, an astronaut, or even a star. I’d just like to be able to look at one of those charts in a doctor’s office, slide my finger across the 5’5” column for a normal, average, American woman and see my weight is the same or slightly under the guideline. Not double, I’m not a wildebeest, for f***’s sake. Not much to ask for. I’ve starved, exercised, drank a pool’s worth of water, never all at the same time mind you, but nothing ever removed the rolls around the middle. Those I can suck in. Well, when I’m not holding water, that is. There is no sucking in my fat ass. Hell, my trunk has so much junk in it, the lock is broken and being held together with frayed rope! And my thighs, ‘thundery’ would be one word—times two. That about sums up those ham hocks.
Lost in the mental berating of my temple, I’m startled away from my pity party by a pack of white-powdered donuts, the sleeve kind, my favorite, which fall out of the sky and land on the above mentioned thighs, smack dab in my lap.
“Important text?” I’m embarrassed to see an unknown face, peering over my shoulder, reflected back at me on the dark screen. I can see her eyes searching it, looking for the meaning of life I’ve been smiling at and contemplating for the last five minutes. My face heats at being found out.
“Uh, my phone uh...it just uh.” Why can’t I even make polite conversation?
“Died?” she fills in for me. “It’s okay. Didn’t mean to creep on you. Just looking for fresh recruits.” An Amazon of a woman bends her six-foot frame into the plastic chair next to me. Bright green eyes, made up like she’s draggin’ on the side, twinkle at me. I’m at boob height when she’s folded herself in. Two torpedoes clothed in a tight, pink sweater. She could be a linebacker if she went on a diet and started exercising today. And there’s no way she got into those skinny jeans by herself, unless a crowbar, a pack of gum, and duct tape were involved.
Wait…did she say ‘recruit’?
“I’m Sasha Berlin.” I shake the hand that is extended, careful of the long black nails filed to points.
“I’m Sara, no H.” No H? What? Is she corresponding with me? Why would I say it like that? Mentally, I smack myself.
Looking down, not wanting to lose my first WW buddy, I spy the pack of donuts nestled between my thighs.
Nodding down at them, “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to bring Hostess into the room.”
I try to hand them back discreetly, palming them, always mindful of the watchful rheumy eyes of the blue-haired group that runs the place, but Sasha isn’t having it.
She takes them alright, and makes a big production of ripping them open with her teeth! Dropping two in the process. Plop! Right on top of those torpedoes! And commences with the crinkling of the cellophane like her life depends on it, before popping two of those powdered goodies between her scarlet lips. Powdered sugar is everywhere, coating her lips, dusting her sweater, raining down on her lap. “And I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to force luscious ladies, such as yourself, to listen to this ‘points’ bull****!”
At least that’s what I think she said. There may have been something about ‘Scale Nazis’ too, couldn’t make that part out, but I sense the canoodling in the back has ceased. The gays recognize one of their own. Commence flamboyance!
I’m staring, along with all the other skinny rejects, as she chews loudly, and unbelievably, stuffs a third in, crammed into the mashed pile on her pink tongue. Her mouth is so full she can’t even chew with it closed. Everyone, including myself, gets a view of the train wreck.
She catches my eye—not hard, since my eyes haven’t left her face—and tears open a second pack of donuts. My eyes widen. She couldn’t, wouldn’t shove any more in there, would she? Her eyebrows wiggle as she snorts loudly. You know, the sound pigs make when someone’s uncurling their tail? Yep, that’s the one.
A tiny, unused, weak, and pitiful giggle escapes before I can stop it.
“What kind of laugh was that?” she says around a mouthful of sugar, spraying me with donut in the process as she throws back her own head and belly laughs.
How is she not choking? And do I remember the Heimlich? That does it. I’m laughing now too, wiping donut from my face, just as the Grand Poohbah of the Blue-Haireds approaches, hands on her aproned hips, glaring at both of us. “Ahem.” Before she can even begin to berate us, Sasha’s up, towering over the little lady on her black, stiletto-heeled, Cat woman boots, white donuts rolling everywhere, grabbing my hand in a death grip, exclaiming for all to hear, “I’m here to save my sister in chub from the brainwashing! You won’t win this one! Come to the dark side!” And then we’re running.
Yes, full-on running. Me, who hasn’t run since someone stood counting my laps in high school. I think I hear a cheer from the gays in the back, but I can’t be sure. My left arm is busy trying not to drop my phone and simultaneously support my flopping boobs, since she’s got a death grip on my right one.
We hit the double doors right in the middle, fling them to the winds, and race—well, as ‘racy’ as two fat girls can be—to the parking lot beyond, laughing the whole way.
“C’mon Thelma! We’re busting out of here!”
“Okay Louise!” I giggle back.
Angie loves dark and twisted, which she refers to as Dark Ever After books, but is known to read an occasional HEA story as well. When she’s not writing, she working, saving lives. A busy Trauma ER nurse for over twenty years, she gets enough reality in her life, and is always looking for a story to take her away from the harsh reality of Emergency Nursing.
If there’s football on, she sure to have a huge party going on to cheer her team on…Go Patriots!
As a new author, she’d love to hear from you!
To learn more about Angie M. Brashears and her books, visit her on Goodreads, Facebook, and Twitter.
Thanks for hosting today! :)
ReplyDeleteA fun blurb. Looking forward to a great read.
ReplyDeleteDef getting this next paycheck!!
ReplyDeleteSamantha D