Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Fat Fuck!

A few years ago (so…back when I was a toddler, of course) a gorgeous man approached me at the gym while I was sweating profusely and seconds away from cardiac arrest on the treadmill.

Number 1: I am not now, nor have I ever been, one of those weird people who lives for the gym. I don’t think vigorous exercise is akin to torture, I mean “enhanced interrogation techniques,” but I would much rather be eating something stuffed with butter…and cheese…and bacon!...while horizontal than trying to get my heart rate up to its maximum optimizing cardiovascular calorie burning zone. Or whatever.
And that is never going to be possible because I walk a lazy 18-minute mile while daydreaming and frantically searching through my ipod for something, ANYTHING to make that monotonous bullshit go by faster.

Number 2: When I work out (envision the air quotes) I wear a garbage bag. Not a literal hefty cinch sack, but its apparel equivalent: the loosely gathered drawstring yoga pant and voluminous loosely fitted undershirt. And my dangerously low self-esteem thinks that’s the way everyone at the gym should dress, regardless of size. I think that the gym, just like the hospital and jail and every other torturous hellhole, should be the great equalizer: everyone is miserable and teetering at the brink of death, therefore no one looks better than anyone else. I don’t wear lipstick to have a pap smear, and I wouldn’t wear it to spend an hour climbing the Stairmaster. Not so for some other women who frequent my gym. In the locker room, while I am trying to secure the immobility of these enormous boobs in their ironclad harness, other ladyfriends are clustered around the shared mirror straightening weaves and touching up makeup. The first time I witnessed it I thought for sure that they’d just finished a strenuous workout and were headed out to a fancy dinner or something. It never occurred to me that adjustments might need to be made prior to the actual workout.

If I have shit on my face it congeals and itches at the first hint of moisture, let alone the sticky tan paste that would form during half an hour of moderately-paced calisthenics. I would claw my fucking face off. But the furious dabbing of yellowy beige makeup sponges let me know that it was NOT SO for these hoes; there are big, muscle-y fish to be caught swimming around the free weights, and this blush and mascara and lip gloss are the hook that will snare them!

I caught sight of one of them through the smelly after-work masses, literally posing on the elliptical machine. She was moving so slowly the machine could not possibly have been ON, making “fuck me” eyes at all of the meatheads who walked by. She had her tits propped up so they rested just below her clavicle, and she was wearing those late 90s bikershorts with an actual leotard over it. My inner angry feminist was all“bitch, please” but that shit appeared to be working. That fake-ass Jane Fonda had dudes drooling all over her, while I was sitting on a dirty mat in a puddle of my own drool because my dumb ass thought using that mountain climbing machine was a smart idea and had debilitating cramps snaking up my whole right side.

So I am on the treadmill next to this smoking hot girl with a body like a rubber band. Lithe, lean, smooth, bendable limbs, running half-naked at a speed reasonably close to that of light, her pony tail bouncing staccato in my peripheral vision. The naked at the gym thing KILLS me. Not "locker room naked" as, for me, that is just a frantic messy whirlwind of ripped off work clothes and struggled into gym clothes with the least amount of possible exposure. But "naked on the machines naked." For every person drowning in comfortable rags, there are TWO with band-aid sized sports bras and “shorts” the size of my period underwear, lunging and squatting and doing backwards crossways upsidedown lateral raise lifts while balanced on an exercise ball and suspended in mid-air. And they make sure you see them in all of their tanned and toned glory: running faster than you without ever breaking stride. Or a sweat.

And this girl is pounding the shit out of the fucking treadmill, running so fucking fast that I felt like I might have been walking backward in comparison. I had set the timer for forty minutes, and I was halfway there. I usually hit a groove after fifteen minutes or so, when my muscles start to feel warm and limber and I stop bothering to wipe the drops of perspiration that collect at the tip of my nose.

I never look anyone in the eye while I’m there, for fear that one millisecond of eye contact and these health nuts will figure out that I’m a fraud, that I don’t really want to change my sedentary lifestyle, I just want to feel a little less guilty the next time I eat an entire pizza. My usual MO is to just stare at the calories burned counter, lost in fantasyland, imagining that bag of m+ms I ate on the way to the gym being melted off my thighs.

So color me surprised when I glanced up and noticed the most delicious piece of dark chocolate ass I’ve ever laid eyes on making his way over to me. He was doing that thing that confident, stunningly attractive people always seem to do while you are watching them; that gliding thing that makes them look like they are on invisible roller skates or some shit. Now I’m not one to sweat a motherfucker too tough, but I might have gaped a little bit.

This dude was outrageously fine. He was one of those naked people (fuck them!) in tight-fitting shorts and tank made out of that fancy sporty material that they only sell at those fancy sporty stores I’ve never seen the inside of. He looked like he had been cut from the face of a fucking mountain: taut skin stretched over hard bulging muscles, a road map of veins humming beneath the surface of his hairless arms and legs; slender, spectacularly defined legs leading down to those tiny athlete ankles, pecs you could eat your dinner off of, chiseled abs rippling under that clingy bodybuilder shirt.
Or something like that. I can’t be sure. Like I said, I just glanced.

Even Flo Jo's ass next to me slowed down to drink in this tall glass of water, and that snapped me right back to fat reality. Of course. He’s not coming over to talk to ME, he’s coming over to talk to this BITCH. His workout partner and physical equal. In that instant I pictured their life together: doing crunches and pull-ups, cooking healthy meals, giving birth to a tiny track team. So I turned up the volume on my jams and focused on trying to burn off those Oreos I had eaten, too.

But curiosity killed the cat, and when he was standing below me, beaming up (glorious teeth on this one, too), I stopped the music altogether thinking, I am going to vomit and then kill myself if I have to stand here and bear witness to this American Gladiator love connection. I looked at the timer, and was crushed to realize I still had twelve more minutes to go.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was a rich, deep velvet that made me die inside a little bit.
“Hi!” she said brightly, slowing her treadmill so that she could talk, and it was still twice the speed I was walking. Bitch. I could see the visions of their acrobatic future sex life dancing in her head.

He turned and smiled at her and nodded, and then turned back to me. “I was actually saying ‘hello’ to YOU.”

And then my heart stopped completely and my stomach fell out of my butt. “What?!” I said too aggressively.

But he continued to smile and extended his hand, which I wouldn’t shake for fear of how sweaty and clammy and gross mine would be. He introduced himself and started talking, and the whole time the only thing I could think about was how I was at the point in my workout where breathing with my mouth open is the ONLY option. I stopped the treadmill and stood there watching his teeth go up and down, making words I couldn’t comprehend through my thick haze of disbelief. So I just kept smiling and nodding while Daisy Duke started her treadmill up again, running so fast this time that her shoes started to smoke.

Our first date was at a Starbucks, because I do not believe in food dates. And not because I don’t believe in food. I believe in food more than I believe in most humans. In fact, it’s this love of food that made me pick Starbucks. Because talking and eating don’t go together. Either you never fucking speak or your fifty dollar steak gets cold, and mommy doesn’t play that.

I’ve seen more than my fair share of after-school specials, and even as I was pushing open the goddamned Starbucks door I expected this to be some cruel joke he and his jock friends decided to play on the miserable fat girl with the glasses, that they were all in the bar across the street, huddled over their beers giggling while watching me sit by myself at the table in the window.
But Gym Dude was already there when I walked in, dressed in form-fitting trendy clothes. I was suspicious the whole fucking time, trying valiantly not to like him too much, even though he was warm and relaxed and told hilarious stories that weren’t trying too hard.

Two venti mochas later I decided I was going to fuck him.

Fast forward a month, and we had been on several really nice dates at chichi places that required nicer shoes than any I had ever previously owned. We made out a few times, during which I’d resisted the urge to stick my hand in his pants (which took more inner strength than you could imagine).

We had our first apartment date on a Sunday, and he arrived bearing cake. After dinner, he asked me if I would mind eating it in front of him, which sounded weird, but not weird enough to stop me. He sat on my bed and watched me intently, licking his lips. I asked if he wanted some, and he politely declined. Ah well. His loss. That cake was fucking delicious.

The next time he brought brownies, which asked me to eat out of the pan with my fingers. The time after that? A rotisserie chicken, which he asked me to pick up whole when I ate some. Then a blueberry pie. It never really struck me as strange, I just thought he had really good manners. Although he never ate anything himself, he didn’t always sit and stare while I ate. He would busy himself looking through my cds or working on a crossword, but always making sure I was full. I thought it was sort of sexy even, a dude who appreciated a woman who likes to eat.
Weeks of this went by, trips to the movie theater and museums and night clubs punctuated by nights spent at my place or his stuffing ourselves (er…myself) full of sumptuous treats.

While I didn’t really have a reason why, a huge part of me was flooded with shame when I would think about gym dude and what it was we were (or weren’t) doing. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly was embarrassing about our relationship, but I knew deep down in my cholesterol-laden soul that something in the milk wasn’t clean. I didn’t tell anyone about what we were doing. It was my scrumptious little secret.

And then he gave me a reason to be filled with searing fucking shame. Four months and we still hadn’t had sex, which was fine by me as I had started to feel like a brown whale propped up on bloated feet and contortionist sexual positions seemed totally out of the question. He showed up late on a Saturday with two grocery bags of goodies. At that point he had begun to figure out what I liked, and I lit up like a Christmas tree when he pulled out a pint Chubby Hubby.

"Eat that naked,” he admonished softly.

I don’t know if it’s stupidity or what the fuck makes you not even think twice about something like that. But I didn’t, I just said “Okay!” and took all of my clothes off standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Can I have a spoon now?”

“Eat it slowly,” he said, handing me a spoon, and dropped his pants.

Now THIS is what the fuck I’m talking about! I’m a filthy whore in the worst way, and I had been chomping at the bit to get a piece of that action. Four months is like a lifetime to a dumb slut like me, and I was itching to get it on. Fat feet or not.

I ate the ice cream while he watched me and masturbated, twice, before pulling his pants back up and apologetically skulking out of my apartment, leaving me with a frozen hand and a confused look on my face. Ben and Jerry should make a flavor called Blueberry Balls.

You know, you always find a way to justify whatever gutter butt shit it is you’re doing, and I convinced myself it was worth a little sexual deviance to be that close to such smoldering manhood. Plus, I was saving a ton of fucking money on groceries! So I let him come over again.

We carried on like that for months, him awkwardly jerking off in my kitchen while I consumed fat grams by the thousand. I needed new pants and he bought them, telling me I was beautiful when I complained about the weight I was putting on.

I have a considerable number of stomach issues, and this little episode was murder on my guts; I would go days at a time without a formed stool, just rivers and rivers of liquid diarrhea. We still went out and did normal things, and that helped to enable the lie I’d formed in my head about how real our relationship was.

“The fetishistic practice of feederism can involve inducing weight gain to the point of helplessness. Feederism refers to the acts of feeding, encouraging eating, or being served large quantities of food. Sexual pleasure is derived from the act of eating itself, and/or from the process of becoming fatter.”

I read this information, or some similar derivative, in a pamphlet in Gym Dude’s bathroom while shitting out the half dozen or so Krispy Kremes I had eaten earlier that day. Krispy Kremes, I might add, that he had placed his gigantic erection through before asking me to eat them off of his penis and jerking off in my fucking face. That was the sugary glaze that broke this whore’s back, and after I nearly singed my fucking asshole cleaning my intestines out, I figured my blood pressure and I would be better off never calling hot ass gym dude ever again.

To this day I see him at the gym, flexing his glutes and pumping up his traps and delts and lats. I try to pretend I don’t see him, those glistening muscles straining against the wet fabric of his workout gear. My sphincter still shudders every time we make eye contact.
He has only spoken to me once since our escapades ended. I was on my way home after a workout, sweaty and gross beneath my winter coat. He flashed that dazzling smile at me and I felt my resolve start to give.

“I miss you, Sam” he said sadly in that gorgeous voice of his. “We had something special.”
“YOU had something special,” I snapped. “What I had was early-onset heart disease.”
He smiled. “Call me if you ever get hungry.”

And if I ever do I just might. He is really fucking hot. And that asshole still owes me an orgasm.