I’m fat. Bordering on beastly. So when it comes to love, or more importantly, sex, I’ll lay down for whatever bastard with a smile comes my way, nice teeth or not.
I used to be picky, back in high school, before I realized I wasn’t “big-boned” as my mother said, but rather simply “fat” as everyone else teased, chanted, hollered. “I’m not fat,” I’d respond, crossing my thick wrists beneath my portly arms, “I’m big-boned.” But you try making that excuse float while a double serving of buttered mashed potatoes is steaming under your nose alongside a pork chop the size of the plate others eat their lo-cal salads on. Sooner than later you realize big-boned is what Andre the Giant was, I, my friend, am just plain ol’ fat.
I’ve learned that when a girl isn’t capable of attracting men with her body, she is often forced to rely on other means to get the guys to notice, and for me, that means was “hey, hey, boys, look over here, I put out…” and if necessary, “on the first date!” But getting the guys to come calling for that “first date” wasn’t easy. It wasn’t like I could rain flyers down onto my hometown from an airplane advertising my guaranteed lay status. I had to be subtle yet obvious at the same time. Through trial and error, I found certain propaganda to work well – a strategically placed telephone number in the boys’ room stall; slandering/berating the young, firm, pretty girls and their unwillingness to “go all the way;” falsified (for the better) personal ads; even taping Pawn pieces from my brother’s chess board to my nipples for that eternally excited look, which, take it from me, really gets the boys eyes and minds flowing in the right direction.
But don’t forget, I’m fat remember. All the smoke and mirrors in the world won’t work unless you’re truly prepared to go all out with your plan. When that first call comes, you better be primed to seduce and produce. If he don’t want to use a condom, don’t use a condom. If he wants to do you in the ass, let him do you in the ass. If my 300 lb. booty wanted to continue to get laid on a regular basis, I knew adjustments and sacrifices had to be made. That being said, being unsightly and easy attracts a strange sort of man, most of whom sweat a lot, smell like cheap peanut butter and fuck like they’ve been practicing on a couch cushion. So if you’re among the visually unstimulating, you’ll eventually drop your standards, too and learn that to get attention there is a price you must pay.
I remember my first time (a pothead from the nearly all boy mechanics class I conveniently signed up for during my sophomore year), it was clear he was hesitant, so I went down on him before we were completely backed out of my driveway. The date was supposed to continue on to the movies, but he dropped me off only six blocks later, which was actually fine by me because the ball was now rolling. The next day at school was ripe with gossip, all about me. Me. ME. Me, me me! I even have a new nickname. It ain’t the cutest nickname in the world, but it’s a helluva lot better that “fatty.” And at least I’m getting laid.
So now, anyway, four kids from three different daddies later, I have an excuse for my obesity, “you try pumping out four kids and staying thin."