Tag Archives: fat

2016/08/30

Memorabilia

By dsholloway

K sold the ring his fiancee had given him. Some guy in the parking lot of a sandwich shop gave him $400, claiming that it was identical to the one he lost, a gift from his own fiancee.

K spent the first $100 at a strip club, folding his stack of dollars into paper airplanes and cascading them into the air, like a little squadron of warplanes, toward the pretty but malnourished stripper.

K spent the remaining $300 on a fat prostitute. He had no desire to sleep with the fat prostitute. Instead, he wanted to ride her, like she was a horse.

K used to be a skilled equestrian and won many awards. K fell in love with a pretty lady, also an equestrian, skilled. They were to marry, but things fell apart; K never rode again. K moved away and decorated his meager apartment with his awards. The urge to ride was strong, but he refused to return to horses.

K demanded the fat prostitute remove her clothes. Then he climbed atop her. He rode her vociferously, until they both collapsed into a heap of flesh.

K slept heavily. When he woke, the prostitute was gone, and so were his awards.

 

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2015/04/09

Frenetic Losses of Self

By dsholloway

She opens her briefcase. “Why you keep doing this,” she asks in accented English.  I can’t tell if she really wants to know.

“All I have left are fat ones. If you wanting pretty ones, you must ask early. They go first. Bitchy ones gone next for whatever reason–I don’t understand why. Then nice ones, girl next door. And so on. You wait till end of day, you stuck with fat women. Sorry. I told you before, you know?”
She readies her syringe.
I feel them flood my bloodstream. At this point it doesn’t matter what they look like, or if they’re nice or whatever. I collapse in a heap of myself, knowing that I’ll have to get off the floor momentarily. Knowing that, because the real pleasure is not in the high but in the anticipation of it, the fun is over.
“You need real woman,” she says as she collects my money.
I shrug, wondering if she’s flirting. “But what will you do without me,” I ask by way of humor.
“Don’t need you,” she replies. “All men are pathetic. Many customers.” She leaves.
I touch the hole in my arm and nod emphatically at nobody in particular.

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2014/09/30

When the Body is No Longer Marked

By dsholloway

Thus he woke to find that the woman’s name he gleefully got tattooed on his arm was now a different woman’s name. (I love you, he had said gazing into her eyes as the needle pierced his skin. He grimaced. But not because he loved her.)

Did you do this? He woke her up. It was of course impossible to alter something as permanent as a tattoo. But she was understanding as she absorbed his accusation. I didn’t. She rubbed her eyes and tamed her hair.

He studied the name. Then he kicked her out, proclaiming undying love for the woman whose name now inexplicably graced his arm.

That night he went to a karaoke bar. What’s your name he asked a lot of women. Then he went home.

Several weeks later he was at a steak house when a woman touched his arm saying that’s my name. She was fat, but it was probably a life lesson he told himself. He invited her to sit down. They talked. He found her pleasant but she was still fat. So when she politely excused herself “for a moment” he grabbed a steak knife and began digging at his tattoo.

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2014/07/17

Emotional Effusiveness

By dsholloway

“Why did you bring that thing back,” she asked, knowing the answer. “What would you have done,” K replied, reminding her that she had been present that evening at the fat man’s house; reminding her that she had been present when the fat man forced the painting on them, exclaiming, “This one is my favorite and I want you to have it.”

How the fat man could tell “this one” apart from the others was anyone’s guess: countless framed images of Nordic women in various states of ecstasy–heads cocked, hair tousled, etc.–and undress adorned the walls of his modest middle-class home.

(Although she pretended not to overhear, she had heard the fat man whisper something like, “This one reminds me of your girlfriend,” before handing K the painting that now occupied a prominent space in their alcove.)

“It’s creepy,” she huffed before marching into the bedroom.

“I’ll throw it out tomorrow,” K said meagerly.

When K woke up in the morning his girlfriend was gone from their bed. He found her in the painting next to the Nordic, face in a frozen, forced smile, eyes pleading but also seductive, body contorted erotically and unnaturally.

He decided to keep the painting.

 

 

 

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2013/11/03

The Medium of Immobilization

By dsholloway

Fatness doesn’t photograph well. That’s what I told her when she asked to be my muse. She shied from my gaze after that, hiding herself under blankets and layers of clothes. I walked in on her when she was in the bathroom doing something naked in front of the mirror. She screamed at me. That was in the summer.

She fucked somebody while I was away, somebody who liked fat women. I didn’t care. I fucked a skinny woman while I was away. She cared. She screamed at me. That was in the fall.

In the winter she approached me, wanting to be my muse again. Take your clothes off. I hadn’t bothered to look at her in months; her body–barely a body at all now–both horrified and aroused me. Let me get my camera. She fucked somebody again, recently. I cared this time. I hadn’t fucked anybody since the last time I did that, but that wasn’t why I cared.

In the spring she died of starvation. I took one last photo before having her buried.

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