Last week, I was feeling fat. I had lost the last memory of the last time a bar random had hit on me in any burrough; I had worn a pair of ugly jeans two days in a row; and my online “dates” on Monday, Wednesday AND Thursday had spanned the range of American Gothic meets Starbucks on 42nd st, I’d sleep with you already and we both didn’t like it.” and Didn’t you go to college with my dad? (which is not normally a bad thing, but i think this man ACTUALLY went to school with my father.)
It has nothing to do with my diet. I never feel fat after I eat. Ever. I could stare you down at 20 paces, eating a double cheese burger, sucking down Oreo-cookie frappachino, all the while wiping cottage cheese off my H&M blouse, still feeling like a dainty lady. It’s just hard not to feel fat here in NYC. I’m 29, gay, middle class and I hang out in Chelsea. Weight issues come with the territory.
Note: If I where located ANYWHERE else in the USA, excluding NYC’s distant redheaded stepchild of a sister LA, I’d be considered full figured or voluptuous at best. At a svelte 6’2 230 lbs. (Don’t gasp..i wear it well) I’d have a man, a white picket fence and a modeling contract by now. Alas…
Everyone I know in THIS city is slim and trim and carrying the nuevo six pack that doesn’t require a bottle opener. And that’s just the “normal queens”. The PP’s or Professional Pretties, as I like to call them (blog/essay to come soon), are sporting greater and far more magnificent abs than the rest, flashier than the mere six pack—with bleached teeth to boot. Although, like an controversial play-thing, I wouldn’t doubt if they’re made in China and come with lead poisoning.
I’m too broke too afford a gym that’s not at a prison yard. (I tried. They wouldn’t let me in without having committed a felony…lame.)
The uptown gyms require a six month membership and a six pack, although they wave the member ship fee if you have a killer ass. Still, I’d need better credit and 6 months at a crappy gym just to show myself. I was offered a couple buddy passes by a friend but apparently that only gets you into the showers.
Attempting to work up the energy to run, I walked around Bedstuy, Brooklyn wearing nothing but a floor length scarf and cowboy boots with a 50.00 dollar bill hanging outta my daisy duke fatty jeans. To no avail.
So, in lieu of actual exercise, and needing to burn some calories… I went to a sex party. For fat men. For fat black men, and their fans. (Do fat black men have a fan base? Apparently so according to Craigslist.)
I was at a cross roads, and this seemed to be the easiest way to figure it out. Just how fat am I? Fat enough to be chased? Slim enough to need therapy for my fatty issues? Should I reconsider my All “Dollar-Menu” double cheese burger diet? Or just add and extra set of fries to it so I can find a man for my new years eve kiss?
Being a fatty, like most things—gay, republican, Obama supporter, vegan—it’s a state of mind. Do I have the mind of a “fatty” in the body of a “almost-fatty” who’s slowly becoming a “full blown fatty”? Or am I a skinny person, trapped beneath layers of Kansas cake, Midwest maple syrup and southern saddle bag gravy?
The chasers would show me. Or the Chubs would show me. Either way, by then end of the evening, I would have my answer.
Theory: If I…or X, plus my bulbous booty or (B) is introduced to a preexisting contingent of fatties (Fatties A) and its opposites (Chasers Y),
which parties would be found most compatible. IE: X/B+A=Y or X/B+Y=A Right?
You see, Chubs aren’t into other Chubs. Sheer physics won’t allow it. And they can sense their own kind. Either the Chubs would greet me at the door, pinch my fat nip and send me on my way…or the chasers would be on my heels the moment I walked through the door, pinning me down and snuggling against my flesh pillows.
And Chasers…well, contrary to popular belief,don’t actually “chase” anything. What would be the point? Their targets are typically slow moving, unless fueled by rage or booze. For the most part, a chaser just lies there, looking waifishly thin, hungry, and horny—much like a supermodel. In fact, most chasers are secretly supermodels. They covet anyone that can eat whatever they want, enjoy wearing as little clothing as possible and inevitably, nude pictures of themselves pop up all over the Internet. Look at the cast of “Top Model” 15 waifishly thin, hungry women-chasing around their chubby: Tyra Banks.
The plan was simple: Enter the room. Disrobe. See who flinches.
If I am chased by a big man, then I’m a skinny bitch like I’ve always not so secretly wanted to be, and I can go about my merry way. If he’s well hung (in my experience they are usually not. Note: life can be cruel. ) maybe ill toss a bj their way, in thanks for the confidence boost.
If I am leered at by a skinny bitch, the kind I secretly loathe, and yet want so desperately to be. I will be saddened. I will officially call myself a fatty and enjoy the attention that comes my way.
Win-Win, right?
I tromped up to the Bronx at approximately 2:15 am, early Sunday morning. To mere mortals, this would sound like an invite to date rape and pillage. But to a 6’2 200-something pound (I just had a burger, not sure what i weight now) queen who lives in Bedstuy, Bk, this was just another stroll in the (bang-bang-bang) park.
I arrived at the door and was greeted by two black bears wearing matching puff-painted shirts with the rainbow patterned words ” Big Black and Booty-ful” across the top. Their respective names where stitched in ever so delicately with Large Yellow and Brown kindergarten craft yarn.
Randy and Rich. ( surely, these couldn’t be their real names. I’ve never met a black man named Rich. ever. And if there is a black man named Rich, is he really standing in front of me wearing a jock strap, beret, love lumps and a puff-painted Haynes t-shirt?)
I passed through the kitchen and noticed they had made appetizers and punch. Or someone brought them (gasp! Was this a naked bear orgy pot luck party? Was I supposed to BRING something?) I think there where collard greens in a pot on the stove, but I didn’t open to verify and by the looks of things neither did anyone else.
Randy or Rich, I couldn’t tell which, looked at me and whispered to the other, in this..”I’m gonna eat you” sorta way. They winked, grinned and I was instructed to disrobe and head into the living room for the festivities. Did their interest in me mean I was a Chaser? I need more research. And a bj…(I mean, I had come all this way…)
I didn’t think about this part. In all of my planning, why did this scene never occur to me.
Men. Tons of Large. LARGE. LARGE Sweaty men. The room stank with body sweat, collard greens, and febreeze as butt ass naked men, and others in other forms of various dis-dress; sat around on a leather sofa (LEATHER!!! that poor couch!) starring at each other. Stroking. Fondling themselves, jiggling their jiggles, cupping their “breasts”-a thing that I didn’t think any gay man would be interested in. I was shocked.
Then I was, for a brief moment, proud.
It’s one thing to be a Greek god or portrait, standing naked amongst your peers, inspiring jealously and hatred all while laying on the pier with your shirt off and banana hammock showing. It’s a whole other vision to be a fatty in an actual hammock finishing off a banana split.
I fluffed up my bits a bit and headed deeper into the living room, and there I beheld the largest black man I had ever seen. Larger than the two who had greeted me at the door, or the man laying on the love seat, (or was it a futon?) Larger than any man I had ever met before, as dark as the night itself, and carrying, as expected, a very very tiny penis. (Life is cruel.)
Far more interesting, than his penis or his size, where the two, very attractive, waifshly thin, club kids. By the looks of them, they had been sober for only a few hours, droopy eyed and sweaty. They where wearing matching bikini briefs-bleached pure white. Their panties glowed and popped out of the darkness. Their firm Lil butts, where supported by this large black man’s even larger forearms, there, the rested and sucked on his nipples like a baby hungry for it’s 5Th meal of the day.
I circled the apartment. Bounced around a polish bear with a nipple ring. Nothing.
I attempted to flaunt my junk at a person who, in that light, I had mistaken for a lamp or some sort of decorative stripping pole. Nothing.
I actually pinched my own fat nipple and looked at a man directly in the eye. A slight hesitation and…nothing.
No! I had come all this way. Was no one going to make a pass? I had to know: was I a fatty or not?
I entered the darkest room in the house, a bedroom (hopefully not their own) completely darkened with bedroom sheets on the widows, then illuminated with indoor Christmas lights and the glow of an I-pod nano in the corner playing Bee-and Cee’s Waynen’s greatest hits.
The center piece to the room? A vibrating water-bed. (oh, randy and rich, where does one get a water-bed?)
I found a quiet corner and propped myself up near the slightly cracked window and glowing I-pod in order to show off the wears. Another bit of fluffing and…bingo I got a hit.
And damn it! It’s a Couple. A big one and a little one, both leering and beckoning me to come over. The littlest one, a bottom of course, with huge wiener (life is cruel) and his lover. Both covered in so much sweat they looked like Cher’s back-up dancers: glitter queens of the late 90’s. I couldn’t do it. Did it matter? I had been here this whole time, grab a couple of looks from both tribes and amply opportunities to have my bits bothered if i wanted to. Did I want to? That’s when it came to me. The formula. X/B=X
It’s okay to be somewhere in the middle, getting a little bit of both, whenever you want it. I’d rather be out here, butt ass naked and breathing fresh air than smack dab in the middle of all that. Bingo! Enlightenment. Fatty issues resolved. Duh, It doesn’t matter whether or not your fat or thin as long as your getting your junk played with.
As I thought about ways to begin my tactful escape all eyes turned to me, why where they looking at me? No. It was the water-bed and it was slowing it’s shake…
It was no water-bed, but the large black man from earlier in the evening, and from underneath him, like clowns climbing outta a circus car, came the two boys, covered in sweat, not their own, and happily heaving and out of breath. There was a flourish in the room. Like a car crash had just occurred, some headed deeper into the chaos, grabbing and groping after nipples, and sweaty exposed flesh. Others, like myself, had scene the collision, felt we had done all we could, and headed, out of their area and to our cellphones so we could exclaim to our friends on the other end..”you will not BELIEVE what just happened!”
I headed back to the kitchen, shoes and cellphone in hand, to grab a plate of greens and hail a cab. I had earned one. The pot of greens was empty.
“We’re all out…with all us fatties in one room, you can’t expect a meatball hot dish to last too long..”
”Ha! I’m sure, Rich, I’m sure.”
