Chapter One – Friday, June 09, 2006
Even fat girls get the urge to be touched and pleasured sometimes, and because I knew that there would never be someone else’s hands on me, I was obligated to step to the plate and as quickly as possible release my build up. And so it was this morning as the sun penetrated my curtains, casting a spotlight on me and the bed. I had been dreaming about Kurt Cobain, which is so weird because what black chick dreams of a dead rocker who looked like his music: grunge? And yet, there I was, in my dream, watching Nirvana perform Smells like Teen Spirit and remembering how I used to headbang to that song with my white girlfriends and feel free and happy. I banged a lot of shit out of my head with Nirvana’s music, and after listening to it, I always felt better. Lighter. And the idea of me being weightless woke my nipples up first, making them stiff against my t-shirt. With my eyes closed, my hands found my breasts and caressed them for about five minutes until my breathing became deeper. I didn’t moan. I didn’t sigh. I didn’t bite my lower lip sexily. I did, however, roll over and promptly stuff a pillow between my legs and concentrate. By the tenth quiet pumping of the pillow, the ache that seldom settled between my legs would explode, and this need to make me feel good would be over.
By the eighth rock against the pillow, I was ready for the explosion so that I could get up and start my day. My breathing labored, and my heavy breasts swayed with the rocking. The explosion never came. On the ninth rock, the phone rang, disconnecting me from my morning tryst. I grunted and fell to the bed before leaning over to the nightstand and checking the Caller ID. It was Emma, one of my best girlfriends.
“Yeah,” I said, answering the phone.
“What are you doing?”
“If I didn’t know better, I would think you had someone over there for all the heavy breathing.”
“What do you want, girl?”
“Can I get a ride with you this morning? Tony’s going to take my car in to be looked at.”
“I can drop you off,” I replied. “I have a doctor’s appointment this morning.”
“It’s about time you’re going.”
“We’re not even getting into that again. I’ll see you in about 45 minutes.”
After hanging up the phone, I stared at my white ceiling and walls. Six months ago, when I finally moved into my first home after years in dormitories and then tiny efficiencies, and then small apartments, I told myself I would be able to decorate, to make the entire house reflective of me, yet it was still pretty bland and lifeless.
I stood gingerly and felt my left leg give. I fell back to the bed and massaged my swollen calf and foot. After about five minutes, I limped myself to the bathroom to begin another day of the same ol’.
I should’ve told Emma I’d be there in an hour because it normally takes four outfit changes before I finally pick something that is loose enough for me to feel comfortable in. My mother would say the outfit hid my body, and in my opinion, anything that could hide me was definitely a good thing.
After sifting through my walk-in closet, browsing through clothes that ranged in sizes from 18 to 24, I finally selected a long, brown skirt with a matching loose t-shirt: size 22. I quickly pinned my wet, curly hair into a bun and glanced at the mirror only to make sure my face wasn’t too shiny. My glance turned into a stare that turned into an examination of my big brown eyes and round brown cheeks. I finally turned away when I caught sight of the slight indentation beneath my chin, alerting me to a second one to follow.
I turned out the lights and headed out, but not before grabbing an almost-full bag of chewy chocolate chip cookies that sat on the island in the kitchen. They were finished before I pulled out the driveway.
I saw Emma’s long, lean legs as I pulled alongside the curb to pick her up. Though we have only ever lived two blocks apart, growing up and now in our own homes, Emma was not one to walk. Back in the day, she was too stylish to walk; she wore Guess jeans and Tretorns and silk blouses with shoulder pads. God forbid she get a sweat stain on that silk blouse. Now, she was still stylish, but she cashed in her jeans for short skirts and her Tretorns for heels. She stood on the sidewalk, teetering on her Mary Jane stiletto heels. She dressed, what she called “sexy-professional,” in a black-white pinstriped suit, with a skirt so short, the hem didn’t know what a knee was anymore.
Emma bent at the waist and tossed her silky, dark brown hair over her shoulder and flashed her bright blue-gray eyes and smile at me.
“So, stranger, can I get a ride?” she asked in her normal husky voice.
I bit the inside of my cheek. She couldn’t help it if she was beautiful.
“To wherever your heart desires,” was my come back, deepening my soft voice for effect.
She laughed and slid in. Her scent, which I can only define as summer, drifted over to me. I was immediately affected by the brightness that seemed to exude from her. She looked out the window and blew a kiss to Tony, who stood at the door of their brownstone, waving.
“Love you,” she said.
“Lord,” I said, sighing. “You two act like you never see each other.”
I put the car in motion.
“Well, Tony is always working at the restaurant,” Emma whined. “Now that people are coming in droves, he wants to be seen.”
“His food will sell whether his mug’s there or not. He helped put some of the pounds on this mighty frame here.”
Emma laughed. “He is good.”
“Ew,” I said before stopping at a red light. “That ‘is’ was way too suggestive. I need a shower or a moist towelette.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Then why you laughing?”
I flipped the radio on only to hear hard bass and a string of bleeps.
“Why they put this on the air if you can’t hear the words?” I asked.
Emma scrunched her nose up. “I don’t like all that rap and hip hop mess.”
“Usually, neither do I, especially when it’s full of ass and that’s it. But I have to say the beat
Emma closed her eyes for a second, then responded, “Yeah, no, still don’t get the appeal.”
“It’s a black thing. We’re attracted to beats and rhythms.”
Emma play-punched my arm.
I shrugged. “Don’t be mad ‘cause you white and are part of the rhythmless nation.”
“For your information,” Emma began, “I am French, Portuguese…”
“I know about your 31 flavors, Em.” I laughed. “You’re the United Nations. I get it.”
“You’re awfully catty this morning, Jay,” Emma said. “Where’s my normal happy Jayden?”
I feigned a smile. “I’m not catty, Em. I was just playing with you.”
I could feel Emma’s blue-gray’s on me before she asked, “Is it about the doctor visit? Are
“Not really,” I lied. “What, he’s going to tell me—I’m fat? That’s pretty obvious.”
“Jayden,” Emma said in her stern voice.
I focused on the road.
“Something could be seriously wrong, Jay,” Emma whispered. She reached a tiny, perfectly manicured hand to me and rested it on my arm.
“I doubt it.”
“You have that limp and soreness in your leg for how long?”
“How about we wait to hear what Dr. Cavanaugh has to say?”
Emma crossed her arms and replied, “Fine.”
After seconds of the most awkward silence ever, she added, “Did you eat breakfast this morning?”
I shook my head no.
“Have time for breakfast?”
“Look, I’m sorry if I was a bit harsh, okay?” Emma said. “I love you, and I want you to be okay.”
“I know. I’m not mad at you.”
“So, can I treat you to breakfast?”
“How about KD’s?”
I pulled into the left lane and turned at the intersection.
“KD’s will do.” I already knew I would get the big breakfast with orange juice. I’d throw in the comment that I would probably skip lunch because of the doctor and my counseling appointment after that. A big breakfast was okay if it counted for two meals. Yeah, that’s what I’d tell her if her eyebrow shot up at my order request.
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