Weight Room Title Bar

How to Be A Hooters Girl
By Arbitrary Point

1 : Waking Up

Rebecca had pulled her lanky body out of bed to begin to get ready for the part-time job as an intern she held at The Springfield Times, and heard the phone ring right upon setting foot into the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom. She walked back into the room and picked it up after two and a half rings.

“Hello?” she asked, trying to supress a yawn. She stretched her thin arms above her head while resting the cordless telephone on her shoulder, waiting for a response on the other end of the line.

“Rebecca?” She recognized the voice of Sharon Culver, one of the senior editors of the Times, the woman who got her the job while she was away at college, due to a family connection. “It’s Sharon. I know we’ve been spreading you a little thin with paperwork and data entry ever since you started working here last month, but remember that feature I promised you?”

“Yes?” Rebecca asked, her interest piqued as she picked her head up from her shoulder and supported the telephone with her hand.

“Well, it may be a bit of a stretch, but I think it’s a perfect opportunity to do an exposé on a faceless corporation.” She was not getting to the point. “Mike, Mary and I have all concurred that with your drive and your age, you should go undercover and expose certain aspects of discrimination within the Hooters chain.”

Rebecca was totally shocked at the suggestion. The first thing that popped into her head was the underlying fact that she was not fit for the job, mentally or physically. She did not like cat-calls or lewd comments. Secondly, she was extremely thin and not the least bit full-figured. At 5’8” and 105 pounds, she would be like a fish out of water trying to keep up with the busty employees there.

“Why me?” she asked, continuing, “I don’t think I understand.”

There was a slight pause. “One particular feminist, Gloria Mitchell, has called time and again at the paper and demanded an investigation. Hooters claims it does not discriminate against women without.. um.. endowments. However, when actually observed, every single one of the women was incredibly voluptuous. We want you to apply, see if you get the job, and if so, continue working there for a period of one to two months and notice any harrasments.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to do such a thing,” Rebecca said, somewhat shocked.

“Well, we were anticipating a reaction like that, but, in addition to your pay at Hooters, that is, if you happen to get the job, we will double your pay at the Times and you won’t need to come in, because you’ll be on field report.” This seemed very appealing to her. She hated the monotony of the newspaper, and realized the dire financial situation she was in. She was barely keeping up tuition, groceries, and rent. She thought for a second.

“Sure,” she said, willingly, and awaited Sharon’s response.

“Great,” she began, “We’d like you to apply today at 4:00 p.m. and call us thereafter.”

With that, the conversation ended, and Rebecca managed to type the comic title “College Waif Extemporaneously Applies To Hooters” and fell into a deep early morning sleep, very content in the fact that she would have a few more hours of rest before she got up, went to class, and proceeded to apply to Hell.

2 : Getting Ready

Rebecca woke up around 10:30 that morning and proceeded to the bathroom first, like any other day. What a day for rollerblading, she thought to herself. She got up from her bed feeling extremely rested with a vague sense of relaxation, one she hadn’t felt since before she began this, her Freshman year at college. The first thing she did after hopping out of bed was open her storm window to the beautiful April day.

She went into the bathroom, laughing at the phone call five and a half hours before. She looked at herself in the mirror, almost to make sure she wasn’t a bombshell. Her dirty blonde hair fell down to shoulders, where collarbones could not be mistaken. Her breasts were almost nonexistent, small protrusions barely noticeable under a wifebeater tank, giving way to arms that were thin and wispy like birch branches. She hadn’t a hint of fat in her thighs, little to no curvature in her buttocks, nothing.

“Ha, a Hooters waitress!” she exclaimed, giggling at the reflection she saw in the mirror. She then paused a second, letting out a final half-chuckle, as her face turned solemn, and she realized she was 19 years old and had only a 12-year-old girl’s physical features.

She secretly longed for the day when she looked in the same bathroom mirror and saw a knockout in front of her, even though she played it off like she enjoyed her body in front of friends, even though she knew the day would never come.

Whatever solemnity that had come with the image in the mirror quickly faded as she opened the medicine cabinet hinged behind it, searching for a tylenol to quell her burgeoning headache. Within the span of four seconds, she found a bottle, took two capsules and began to undress, tanktop then panties, and carried her tight, naked body into the shower and closed the curtain in front of her.

Nearly eleven minutes later, Rebecca turned the shower head off, pulled her soaking hair back, and sucked in the last droplets of water surrounding her mouth. She pulled the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub, and took a purple towel off the rack and began to dry her upper body. She then went on to sop up water from her rather shapeless thighs, and finished off with her lanky legs and taut back.

Seeing that it was only 10:47, she decided it would be near idiotic to put some nice clothes on just yet, and she opted for the lazy way out, and put on her black silken panties and white tank she took off prior to the shower. She had only done such on weekends, mostly Sundays even, but she didn’t have to go to her three-hour Psychology seminar until noon, and she had time to kill by relaxing.

Since she lived alone, she had the opportunity to walk around her house with limited clothing, but of course, had there been so much as a pet there, she would have considered otherwise. Upon her stepping out of the bathroom, she walked down the hall to the kitchen and ate a bowl of Cheerios, again, something she really never had the luxury for except on weekends. She decided to watch some TV, and clicked onto Jerry Springer, and the subject of the program was “My Sexy Secret Life,” where one harmless-looking young woman started stripping. It was really nothing she hadn’t seen before on such a predictable show, but she laughed at the parallels in her own life that day, what she would tell her boyfriend back home. But there was absolutely no one with her.

To her, it was great not having to share a living space with anyone. Since working at the newspaper had been substantial to her financial support, she had not needed to seek out a roommate. In fact, while away, the only people to ever come into her apartment were her friends Cassandra and Mila, and her boyfriend of two years, Jeff. Since she was at school in Illinois, far away from her hometown of Mansfield, Connecticut, he only came over about once a month, either on airplane or driving under his own discretion. He was beginning to smother her. Whenever he was in town, they would go out to eat rather often. Rebecca would retort with his extreme niceties with questions like, “Do you want me to get fat?”

Rebecca had met Cassie and Mila at school at the beginning of the school year, and found common interest in studies, movies, literature, and music. They’d frequently meet at restaurants to just chat about school and life. Never Hooters, though. What a shift this would actually be.

Staring into the television, not really paying much attention to Jerry and his white trash, she looked up to the VCR to see that it was 11:47. “Holy shit,” she yelled very much aloud, and rushed to the bathroom to brush her teeth, still resounding with the bland aftertaste of cereal. She scurried to the adjacent bedroom and put on her size 2 khakis, right leg first, then a wooly forest green cardigan. She had not bothered this morning to pick out a t-shirt or something to wear over her wifebeater, so she just went with an unbuttoned cardigan and a tank to class.

She left her house, which was about a quarter mile from the school, at 11:53, and arrived at the parking lot in front of the Frans Zaftig lecture hall at 11:59, one minute early. It didn’t really matter, because Prof. Tarkenton started class fifteen minutes late, but usually, she came at quarter to twelve, to grab a coffee at the school café, and converse with her classmates; Mila was also a member of the seminar. She had to run in order to make it in time. As she opened the door to the lecture hall, she saw about 120 students already beginning to fall asleep, and her professor right in the middle of overhead use. She met eyes with Mila, who quickly turned away in disgust.

Rebecca began to wonder what the hell was going on. She eased her way very quietly to the twentieth row of seats, where Mila was taking notes, and sat down a seat away from her.

“What’s going on?” she asked Mila.

“Nothing, the same old Freudian garbage, except the fact that you’re two hours late, Rebecca,” she said, startling her. “Don’t you remember how the Alumni Committee were planning a ceremony for Bill Siratt?”

As soon as her friend asked her that particular question, Rebecca’s face turned quite red upon the realization that Mila was indeed right. Class had been pushed back to 9:00 in the morning on this Monday, the 11th of April, because the Dean of Admissions, William Siratt, had just recently announced his retirement, and there was a reception at the Zaftig building at 1:00 p.m. She thought it funny that she had talked about it with both Cassie and Mila the night before, and deemed the confusion as part of the insane proposition at five in the morning.

“Damn it all,” she said, not really meaning it, continuing, “I guess I just forgot.”

“Yeah, well, I was pretty much here by myself for over two hours listening to this drivel,” she said, obviously upset at the plague of boredom. “And what’s the matter with you? You dressed like hell. Plus, you didn’t even comb your hair.”

Rebecca thought about that comment for a brief second, then answered. “I got up late. Hey, why don’t we actually continue on with the notes?” she asked, changing the subject. “I don’t want to miss any more of this, even if it is bullshit. Let’s get coffee after the seminar.”

“Great idea, in theory, are you going to make it on time?” she asked, in a very deriding tone.

Knowing that her friend was only playing around, she ignored the question, and set her gaze at Professor Tarkenton, droll and like molasses, pouring over note after note of the same old garbage she could be learning in high school. Being totally uninterested in the class after about ten minutes, she began to daydream, thinking of the absolute luxury it would be to work at the restaurant. About the only serious amount of work she’d need to do would be to write a paper after two months in summation of her days at T ‘n A-ville, USA.

Before she knew it, it was quarter to twelve and the class was over, and she was left with only a quarter page of notes, paling in comparison to Mila’s 17 pages. She felt a sort of humiliation, even though this was the only seminar she really missed, and Freud was something she had already studied miles before. She really thought nothing of it, and picked up her pencil, notebook and pocketbook, and headed out the right exit alongside Mila.

“Y’know, you look like shit, too,” said Rebecca to Mila, making an obvious joke.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Mila retorted. She didn’t get it. “Where do you want to get coffee?”

“I’m in the mood for some Skipper’s,” she said, and proceeded to the passenger side of Mila’s off-white 1992 Grand Am, which was very similar to her forest green model of the next year. She saw a bunch of McDonald’s bags littered across the floor with empty boxes of fries with grease spots all over the insides, amidst a dirty sweatshirt or two and four old issues of Shape magazine.

Rebecca looked her friend over twice to see if the so-called Freshman 15 had kicked in. She was wearing a relatively tight Sleater-Kinney t-shirt, and her arms and stomach were as small and taut as ever. Her face had almost waif-like definition. Essentially, the only difference between the two Freshmen were facial characteristics, and the fact that Mila had an ass. It wasn’t much, but it was about three times as big as Rebecca’s tiny protrusion. There was no sign of weight gain. Still, she decided to rag on her cleaning habits.

“Mila, if you leave a pig sty behind you,” she began slyly, “You’re bound to become a pig sooner or later.”

“Yeah?” Mila questioned. “I’ve been eating like a horse lately. I’ve been in such a cramming session these days for the finals. All I do is go to class, get a two cheeseburger Extra Value Meal at McDonald’s, eat it at the dorm, then crash on my bed until the next morning. It’s a sad existence.” She laughed a bit, then continued, “But you and me, girl, we’ve got the metabolisms of spider monkeys. We can eat an entire ham steak and not gain an ounce.” The two girls both laughed for a couple seconds longer, and Mila hopped into the driver’s seat, and drove to Skipper’s, a local coffee shop about one hundred feet from Rebecca’s apartment.

As soon as they stepped inside, they ordered their coffee. Rebecca bought a hazelnut espresso, and Mila got a latté. While Julio, the man who typically took their orders and made them just the same, was making their coffee, they took a seat about five feet away from the register in the dimly lit café.

Mila positioned herself on a stool across from Rebecca, and offered, “What’s new?” Even though they never went more than three or four days without meeting each other somewhere, it was commonplace just to ask and find out. A lot can happen in three days.

“Well,” she began, half-sighing, the other half laughing. “The Times wants me to go undercover and apply at Hooters,” she said, cracking up, redfaced. “That’s what’s new.”

“Are you fucking serious?” asked Mila. “First of all, it’s degrading, to say the absolute least. And where’re those tits you supposedly have?” she asked, reaching over the table to give a mock feel of Rebecca’s chest, searching for voluptuous endowments, finding entirely nothing.

“That’s just it, I have no --” Rebecca began before being greatly interrupted by Julio. “Tits,” she completed, before Julio said:

“One latté, Mila, and as for you, Becca, one hazelnut espresso and two big boobs,” he said, laughing heartily. Rebecca’s face blushed.

“Yeah, so they’re going to pay me double, and let me keep the money from waitressing if I write a paper exposing any harrasment I find. They want me to apply this afternoon, so I’m going home after this,” she said, still redfaced.

“Well, it’s still very odd, very unfitting if you ask me,” Mila said.

Minutes later, they both finished, and got up; Mila dropped Rebecca off at her apartment, and she went into her apartment relieved she had told someone, and collapsed in front of her television set, the VCR’s analog read 1:32 p.m. Not much time left, she decided, but paid it no mind and continued watching The People’s Court.

At 3:10, after finally deciding to stop watching TV and do the bit of something she should do for the day, she picked herself up from the couch and went into her bedroom, rummaging for something sexy to wear amidst all the baggy, earth-toned stuff she had been frequenting. After about ten minutes of finding seemingly perfect pairs of leather pants from her high school days, and then putting those down because she had even become more waif-like since then, she gave up and simply put back what she had on before, minus the cardigan.

She looked herself over at the full-length mirror, nodding again at the reflection. If there was an ass under her size 2 cargo khakis, or a pair of breasts under her small wifebeater tank, damned if anyone saw them. She put her hair up with a scrunchie, grabbed her watch and purse, and headed out the door with a final feeling of malaise.

3 : On the Cusp

Rebecca unbuckled her seatbelt in front of the Hooters approximately fifteen minutes from her apartment. She saw the flashing lights in the window paling against the sunset, took a deep breath, and left her car, walking into the restaurant. Upon her entrance, she was greeted by the sight of putrid 20-year-old preps and older rednecks, amidst hugely endowed, slightly chunky Hooters girls.

She went up to the bar, and seeing no one, waited around for someone to help her. Within a minute and a half of sighs, a perhaps ninenteen-year-old waitress, fully decked out in whory regalia, popped up from underneath the bar.

“Can I help you?” she asked, in a very ditzy manner. The first thing Rebecca noticed were the breasts. What a rack this girl had, she thought. The Hooters tank barely concealed her nipples, even with her visible bra. Her butt was peeking out of the tight, standard-issue orange shorts. She was made up like a two-bit prostitute, but, oh was she ever jealous of her body. “Do you want something or what?” she demanded, and interrupted Rebecca’s fixation.

“What? Oh.. Right,” she pulled together. “Are you hiring for waitress positions?” she asked.

The girl’s tired face perked up at the sound of the inquiry. “Are we ever. Would you like an application?” she asked, reaching for a pile of forms before Rebecca could even say “please”. There was something quite fishy about this, she ventured, but thought nothing more of it as she scribbled her personal information down on the sheet. Five minutes later, she was finished with the application and handed it to the waitress equal in age but ten times her body.

“OK, Rebecca. Come with me,” she implored, adding further confusion to the matter. This was quick, she thought. Within five minutes, I’ve gone from customer to supposed employee. She was led in through the kitchen to a back room where a thin, handsome middle-aged man with glasses sat in front of a desk. There was a red vinyl chair across from the table, and a file cabinet to the right of it, nothing else.

“Hello,” he said. “I see you’re interested in joining the Hooters family. Have a seat.” She did. “Have a look at this while I ask you some questions.” He handed her a pamphlet with the seminal owl logo on it, and underneath it the title “How To Be A Hooters Girl”. Entranced by the perfect breasts and perfect behinds and perfect faces throughout the brochure, she piped in “yes” and “no” appropriately and filled in “Springfield U” and “for experience” as the specific answers.

Before she knew it, she had a Hooters uniform in her lap, and Mr. Neil Taylor, restaurant manager, had asked her to try it on and wait outside while he confer with Suzy, the buxom babe that gave her the application. She ventured to the bathroom, took off her clothes, and slipped into the shorts, too baggy. Baggy Hooters shorts! Even with her panty briefs, they were horrendously baggy. She also noticed they were a tad damp, a tad musty. She paid that no mind. She took them off, and inspected the label on the inseam, thinking they might have mistakenly given her a size Large or something. No matter, it was a small.

She put the hot pants back on, and made her way to the tank top. This, too, was a small, and also smelly and moist. Apparently, they had nothing smaller, less putrid, or less wet. She pulled the little white thing over her head and, instead of nicely complementing whatever breasts she had, all the top did was make the fact that she was wearing a bra more visible, more clunky and out of place. She looked in the mirror and almost shed a tear at the stringy piece of meat in front of her. She left the bathroom, walked across the floor of the restaurant (she heard laughs) and back to Mr. Taylor’s office. She took a seat on the red bench in front of the door and waited.

After twenty minutes of faraway and loud music, waitress screams, stupid masculine conversations, and itchy, damp clothes, she wondered exactly what the hell she was doing there. She opened Neil Taylor’s door, finding only him there, and told him she wasn’t interested anymore. There was a moment of silence before he said, “Fine, I understand. Leave your uniform by the door. If you ever need a job, we have your application. Keep Hooters in mind,” he said.

“Thanks, I will,” she replied, already beginning to take the tank top off, down the hall. Yeah, right.

4 : Playing the Part

Rebecca got home around ten after five, threw her pocketbook on the recliner a few feet away from her front door, and collapsed on her bed. In the corner of her eye, she saw her answering machine flash red on and off, and the message light read 1. She leaned over with ever-receding strength, and pressed play.

“Rebecca -- Hi, honey. I got an entire week off, can you believe it? I’m coming up next Monday. I hope you’re getting enough to eat. Don’t wait up .. See you then.” This was such a bright and resplendent cap to her failing day. It was only Monday night, but already she was anxious for his arrival in a week. She took her clothes off, including her underwear, and fell asleep much too early at 5:30, but, after the weird events of the day, it was expected for a woman to be weak.

* * *

She woke up at one in the afternoon, and cursed herself; she already missed two classes. Tuesday was an English seminar and Biology, and she woke up halfway through today’s lesson about genomes. “Fuck it, one missed class won’t hurt my perfect average,” she muttered to herself, and began to get ready to go by herself to Skipper’s, for a pastry and an espresso.

She walked nimbly to her bureau and opened the top drawer to get some underwear to clothe her naked body. She pulled out a white satin bra and a matching pair of panties, and put them on. The bra went on quite smoothly over her diminutive breasts, but her panties were a different story. She could fit them on alright, they had an elastic waistband, but something was weird. It was like she had to struggle a bit to get them on. She thought nothing more of it, fooled herself, and decided that she had accidentally shrunk them in her dryer. End of story.

She then went to her closet and took down a pair of khakis and an Apples In Stereo t-shirt. Putting one leg in the tan pants and managing to get the other in with absolutely no problem, she went on to button up her fly. The first three buttons were buttoned with rapidity, but the fourth and final one proved to be an immense struggle. She pulled and pulled against her rock-hard waist, to no benefit. After three minutes of sucking in her flat stomach, the button finally gave way. Highly confused, she stood there in tight agony, before realizing that those were her largest pants. Something really odd was going on, she realized it, but even so, she slapped on the t-shirt and walked out the door, into her car, and to Skipper’s.

She walked into Skipper’s at about 1:30 and approached Julio, a friendly constant, who was bent over behind the counter cleaning up the mid-day shit off the floor: dirt, cigarette butts, a flyer here and there. He popped up a few seconds later, smiling.

“What can I get you, Becca?” he asked, almost blushing.

“I’ll have a double hazelnut espresso, like always, and I’ll go for a chocolate biscotti.” She paused, recognizing a hunger that wasn’t there any other day. What was she, a diet model? “Let me try a piece of that black forest cake, a big one.. Oh, and one of those strawberry tortes, too. Thanks.” She almost couldn’t believe all of the words left her lips, but they did. She was ravenously starving, though; she needed the food.

Minutes later, Julio brought over the order. She gobbled up the biscotti in less than twenty seconds, to no satisfaction in her stomach. While nursing the coffee for five minutes, she ate the torte and devoured the black forest cake. When completely done, she wasn’t entirely full, but she didn’t want to seem like a pig, so she went up and paid for the portions that she considered measly, and headed for the door.

“Have a nice day,” he called, and Becca replied with a you-too. “Oh, and Becca --”


“You’ve got a great ass,” he said, aside, confusing matters more. “I’ve never noticed it before.”

“Why, thank you.” She shut the door behind her, ringing the bell. What a crazy guy, she thought. I have no butt. Absolutely nothing there. She even looked behind her to make sure, even though it was a swift glance, perhaps subconsciously intended. Yep. Nothing there.

With all the false-ass hubub, she almost forgot how famished she still was. However, it was 1:55. Five minutes from now, her Biology seminar that she had with both Mila and Cassie would come to a close. She raced in her car to the Zaftig building, and got there just in time to meet eyes with a hostile Mila and a complacent Cassie.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” Rebecca offered, edging ever so close to her friends. She was starving. She sometimes ate big meals, but it wasn’t out of hunger, it was just the simple fact that food was more readily available. This afternoon, she saw no excuse. There was great cause for worry.

“Just fine, you lazy cunt,” Mila retorted, fuming as much as she could without escaping a whispering tone. Cassie just laughed, not saying anything to the effect. Everyday, it was something else for Mila to get mad at, so it was really no matter to Becca at all. Within a minute, class was over, and everyone had left save the three girls.

“So, are you ready to go to Skipper’s, you truant?” Mila asked, laughing, nudging Becca. It was a given Julio would still be working, and she was definitely in the mood for a huge amount of food until she was full. She wasn’t even remotely satisfied, and she’d be damned if her friends find out about her gorging herself.

“Actually,” she began, thinking aloud, “It’d be great if we all actually ate out somewhere..”

“Like where?” perked Cassie, who had been an unfortunate victim of the Freshman 15, and perhaps then some. She arrived at school in September as tiny as Rebecca and Mila, if not tinier. The ready availability of food and alcohol provided her with a shell of fat on her thighs, arms and face, and gave her a bit of a behind, but where most of the junk’s calories had gone were straight to her chest. She had nothing, not even breast buds, and, after the eight months at college, she grew to fit a size 34D cup. If the two other girls were jealous, they didn’t show it.

“I don’t know, maybe Italian?” Rebecca couldn’t believe she said that. God, Italian, she thought. So rich, so delicious! She was surprised to hear everyone concur, and so they went to Nulli’s, home to some of the greasiest fare in Springfield.

There was a very handsome waiter that seated them named Vinnie. Mila, no matter how much McDonald’s she supposedly ate whole, ordered a small salad. Cassie ordered a slice of pizza, she was trying to cut back, she insisted. When it came time for Rebecca to order, she couldn’t believe that she was still deathly hungry.

“Let’s see.. I’ll have three slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza, a three cheese calzone, um..” Mila and Cassie’s eyes bugged out of their heads. “.. a Spaghetti and meatball platter, and a side of garlic bread.” This should do it, she thought silently to herself.

“Can you do that for me?” she asked, coyly.

Vinnie smiled. “Absolutely. It would be a sin not to. It’ll be ten minutes.”

Cassie and Mila just gave her one of those looks like, “You just killed my dog with your bare hands.” Rebecca blushed, saying, “I’m hungry, Mila. You said yourself that you’ve been eating like a horse.”

“Yeah,” Mila began, “but I’ve never actually looked like one. You might need a trough for that order.” Minutes later, the mountain of food came, and she took her time to enjoy herself instead of rushing through like at Skipper’s. After finishing the pizza and spaghetti, she worked on the calzone in a rushing crescendo of moans of pleasure. “Mmm, this is so fucking good!” she screamed, orgasmically. She tore through the bread, and afterwards let out a sigh of satisfaction. She was finally full.

Her friends’ jaws dropped, wondering what the hell was happening in front of their eyes. Before accepting the bill, she asked for a canoli, to everyone’s dismay. While she took the red and white checkered napkin from her lap, Mila and Cassandra were shocked and looked down at Rebecca’s lap.

“Becca, stand up and turn around,” asked Cassie, shocked.

“What?” Rebecca asked, halfway through her standing up. Her friends had just viewed one of the most out of place things they’d ever see. Her’s thighs were quite full and meaty, and she had an ass that rivaled Jennifer Lopez’s. Her leather pants were stretched to their limit. It was some sight.

“Your ass is huge!” In disbelief, she looked behind her, noticing what she hadn’t before. She blushed horrendously, and turned around, saying, “I don’t know what the hell is..”

Before she could say a thing, Vinnie came back with the canoli, and the three girls left. As she drove down the street, Rebecca shoved the pastry into her mouth. There was still some room left, she figured, as the cream stayed around her mouth minutes after she had eaten it.

After being so embarrased as to not even talking to her friends, she ran into her apartment after dropping her friends off, and played the one message on her machine. “Rebecca, this is Sharon. I’m reluctant to say this, but we’re going to have to ask you to clean out your desk as soon as possible. We can’t have an employee that can’t do such a simple thing like give us a phone call. Thanks.”

Rebecca shed a single tear, completely downtrodden about forgetting to give her boss one ring. She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do for money now. This was a horrible end to a highly confusing day. The only thing she could think of to comfort her was food, and she ran to her kitchen, sobbing. She had the patience to put a white chocolate cake in the oven, but decided she couldn’t wait, and cleared out an entire gallon of peanut butter cup ice cream.

Forty minutes later, the timer buzzed, signaling that the cake was done, and another hunger pang. She tried to tell herself, “No, you don’t need the cake now.” Her other half said, “Just one piece.” Before she knew it, she had cut herself ten pieces while watching “Good Will Hunting” and finished the entire thing around 6:00 p.m., took her clothes off again, and fell asleep early, again.

* * *

Rebecca was having a dream about being at a sumptuous feast with all the Pulitzer prizewinners, and Nelson Mandela was at her side, handing her over a piece of Italian bread. Smiling, she took it from him and took one bite out of it, and it was gone.

Moments later, she was woken up by the sharpest craving for food yet. She shot out of bed, naked, like a cannon and ran towards the kitchen, ripping the cap off a pressurized whipped cream can and let its contents enter her mouth, taking huge gulps every couple of seconds until the 3/4-full can was completely empty. She stood there, suffering, until she had yanked several slices of cheese, about two and a half apples, five Pop Tarts, and half a jar of raspberry jelly from the pantry and stuffed herself for at least ten minutes.

She groggily picked her head up from the kitchen table where she was sitting and looked at the clock on the stove: 3:25 p.m. Missed class again. Who cares? She heard the phone ring. Ehh.. the answering machine would surely pick it up. Time passed, even though our unbridled heroine could care less. She heard a set of keys rattle at the door, but before she could make it to the front of her apartment, Mila had already made her way through the door and was shocked at what she saw.

It was as if she was tooling around in computer graphics and pasted her friend’s head on an underwear model’s body. There Rebecca stood, stark naked, with a ring of red jelly around her mouth; the legs, the thighs, the hips, the ass.. the breasts of someone else entirely. Her breasts were the first things that sruck her upon busting in. They were magnificently bountiful, bordering on perfect. Awestruck, the two just stood there for about 30 seconds, staring at each other.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” Mila demanded.

Rebecca just smiled, asking, “What do you mean?”

5 : Confusion

The time on the clock now read 6:27 p.m. Neither of them cared, as Rebecca now looked down at Mila’s hands, cupping her colossal boobs.

“Oh my god!” she screamed, and woke. The utter shock and confusion surrounding her was as forceful as a Mack truck. People wake up from dreams or hazes and find themselves back to reality. Rebecca woke up to a faceful of body. She was compounded by tits and ass. Before she could acgknowledge Mila’s presence, she ran to her bedroom and fished out her bathrobe. Unsurprisingly, it was too small. Too tight. It didn’t cover much. You could see her tight inner thighs, and her breasts were bouncing in and out of the confines of the plush black cotton.

“I,” she began, “have no idea what the fuck is going on.” She looked down, and, amidst utter astonishment, felt herself tingle. She felt hot. She felt like a woman. She was hot; she was a woman, finally.

“Whatever the hell it is, you need some clothes.” Mila looked her over one more time, and said, “Get changed. Find something, and for God’s sake, wipe your mouth.” Rebecca giggled a bit before actually doing so.

While Mila waited dumbfounded and watching some crap on MTV, her naked friend rummaged through her bureau, closets, and plastic bins looking for something, anything, that could possibly fit her. She opted not to look in her underwear drawer, as obviously none of her bras would cover her uncharacteristically large breasts, and the only use her panties would serve would be to get in the way and bunch up under any pair of pants or dress she owned.

A-ha! A wifebeater would undoubtedly work! She tugged the ribbed, white cotton over her upper body and straightened the tank out. She took a good look at herself in the mirror for the first time. Gone was the pulled-taut 12-year-old physique she bemoaned, replaced magically by a bombshell with her face plastered on. She giggled at the erect nipples on gigantic tits peeking through the wifebeater, and the unclothed crotch betwixt two suddenly supple and meaty thighs.

Pulling herself out of her sexual daydream, she looked high and low for an article of clothing to cloak her lower parts. She scoffed at the idea of a dress or skirt, and already began faraway plans of donating her size 1 and 2 items to her younger sister. Hmm.. Those leather pants that didn’t quite fit before seemed like the right way out. She slid them over her full calves and anticipatory thighs with great discomfort, almost as if she was trying to fit sardines back into a tin and then close it back up in two seconds. After toying with the zipper and button for almost four minutes, she made a tight squeeze to the bathroom to brush her teeth and take a pee.

Her eyes caught the scale, and for a second, she dared not to step foot on it. She gave up moments later and decided she would fool herself no longer. The dial jotted back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The red pointer stopped at 115. She had gained ten pounds in three days! At first, she was ashamed, before she pulled her senses and knew that the excess weight was clearly not fat, but beautiful ass, beautiful legs, and gorgeous breasts.

For some reason, she opened up her mirror and took out her compact, something she never did unless she was invited to a wedding or, harumph, prom. She began to put blush on her cheeks, and didn’t stop or feel pasty like she usually would. She giggled again, daubled herself up with cherry red lipstick and light eyeliner. She tied her flowing hair up with a scrunchie.

Tugging at her chest and circling her nipples with her fingers, she felt whole.

Rebecca half-skipped out of there with a spring in her step and a bounce in her chest. She ran her hands up and down her soft, bare arms, and greeted Mila with an ear-to-ear grin and a curious tip-toed stance she never used before.

“You ready?” she asked, noticing for the first time how frumpy her friend looked. She should really do something with that head of hair, she thought. She tugged at the seat of her tight pants to make sure she was still hot.

“Oh, get over yourself,” snapped Mila, and off they were to Smith’s, a local self- contained department store.

6 : Filling Out Nicely

Never had clothes so excited Rebecca, and simultaneously disgusted Mila. The very idea of articles exquisitely designed to conform to the various shapes and sizes of woman all of a sudden seemed to appease her. She now had shape, and incredible size to match.

Size 8, it turned out. She had gone up 6 sizes, and she loved the number as it rolled off her tongue. Her breasts measured a pitch-perfect 34D cup. She felt proud of herself, giddy, as if she had just won a spelling bee. She barely contained the urge to jump up and down in the dressing room.

Mila was waiting, playing Super Mario World on a GameBoy, as Rebecca tried on a vast array of skimpy clothing that she would later purchase and nearly max out her father’s credit card account with. If there was a sexy pair of hip-hugger jeans that showed off her flat stomach and curves just right, she had to get them. If there was a halter top that teased off her boobs enough, she had to get it. Essentially, anything that made her look like a slut, she had to get it. It made her friend want to puke.

It took almost 20 minutes for the cashier to ring everything up. Even she had to stare with wild amazement at the sea of tank tops, hot pants, short skirts, stiletto heels, and shiny lingerie totaling nearly a thousand dollars. She made Mila carry four of her bags, as she strutted out of the store, head high, attempting to make her chest even higher. Mila wondered what was up with one of her best friends, and Rebecca wondered only what was up with the high prices for the “clearance” DKNY button-down blouse and pleated leather skirt combo. Something was definitely wrong.

“Y’know,” started Mila, hiding her concern, “maybe going shopping for clothes wasn’t such a great idea.” She half-braced herself for no apparent reason.

“What the hell do you mean? I was bursting out of my clothes! Besides, a girl always likes a change of pace.” She smiled, as if the world depended on her looks.

Mila dared not refute such a stupid maxim. “Um,” she conjured, “Wanna just get a bite to eat?” Here it comes, she thought.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Rebecca exclaimed, and immediately clutched the arm of her friend. What a weirdo, Mila thought. After careful consideration for her lately oftimes deprived stomach, the two decided on McDonald’s.

Mila got her usual: a two cheeseburger extra value meal. It took Rebecca nearly five minutes to decide on something to eat, because for some inane reason, in the back of her head, she thought of her figure. She didn’t want to taint it, she told herself. She was about to get a McSalad Shaker, but decided against it, and, amidst conflicting thoughts, ordered five Big Macs and two bucket size fries. A supersize Coke.

Mila had never seen anyone tear through food as violently and expeditiously as Rebecca did just then. She was done with every morsel of food in less than three minutes, and let out a manly belch, which ricocheted through the innards of the restaurant. She patted herself on the stomach, which was only slightly peeking over the waistband of her impossibly tight leather pants. She giggled and flicked her auburn hair back.

Mila felt she just had to ask. “Why so hungry all the time?” she asked coyly.

Rebecca developed an angry, stupid expression on her cute and made-up face. She rubbed both hands down both arms, and blew her hair exasperatedly. “Are you calling me fat?” Unbelievably, she started to cry. Mila never saw her cry. She had remained, as long as they knew each other, a rigid, sarcastic girl. There was something seriously wrong.

“No, no, silly! I just figured you might have been worrying about getting fat!” A pause, perhaps a miscalculation. Rebecca did seem to calm down a bit, though. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m done.”

With that, the two girls, now almost entirely dissimilar in demeanor and physical appearance, got up from the cheap booth to throw away their junk food. All of a sudden, without any warning, Rebecca saw stars. Very dull, grey stars. Before she could mutter, “Ooh, my head,” she had hit the floor chest-first. She was smiling when she landed.

* * *

Rebecca was woken up by a sterile smell and beams of light pouring into her eyes. She groaned and gave a half-yawn before she remembered just who she was. She began to study her surroundings. Thoughts of college and trivial pursuit had not entered her brain in a very long time.

She was alone in a hospital room, with a terrific view of an adjacent branch’s building. “Why the hell am I here?” she wondered aloud, then remembered the blackout. She was in a hospital gown, dolled up in hospital sheets, tucked into a hospital bed. She had an IV stuck to her arm.

She yawned again, and this time took full advantage of her face muscles. Wait a second.. There was something weird, she realized, during the yawn. Her chin rested on her neck. This was really strange. She groggily picked herself up from the bed, looked in the mirror, and for the umpteenth time, was shocked at what she saw.

She knew how Kate Winslet and Mariah Carey must have felt when they looked in the mirror one day and realized their million-dollar careers did not match their twenty-pound weight gains. Even though she was only a college girl, and had absolutely nothing to worry about, she was horrified by the chubby visage.

She felt around underneath her hospital johnny, inevitably finding fresh cellulite on her thighs, love handles, and even bigger breasts. It was not until she wobbily got up and looked at her chubby cheeks, her chubby mammaries, her chubby ass, that she was truly floored. Luckily, a man came in before she could faint again.

She just stared at the man, trying to speak, to ask, “What the hell is wrong with me?”, but all she could do was give a futile pained expression, squeezing her breasts. The orderly blushed. “The doctor will be with you in just a moment.”

A middle-aged wiry fellow came in, clipboard in hand, sighing. “Well, you may or you may not know that it’s Saturday.” He paused as Rebecca looked around the sunlight-ensconsed room and felt her breath on his coat. “You had a pretty bad spill earlier this week, and, for the longest time, we couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong with you, until you started putting on weight.”

Even with the precursory knowledge of herself in the mirror, she still couldn’t believe it. She was looking for excuses, and, while in hot pursuit, became amazed by the size of her breasts. They were suddenly these mammoth things she ignored in comatose bliss. She supressed a yawn with her hand, noticing once more her positively double chin and pudgy fingers. The last statement had stuck with her: “until you started putting on weight.”

“How much weight did I gain, exactly?”

“Forty pounds.” The doctor blushed. What were his sentiments? It almost seemed like he got some sort of strange kick out of bringing her such horrible news.

All she could think of was how disgusting she looked, and how Jeff would surely become estranged. Only it was more like, “I’m so fat, Jeff is gonna dump me.” She did not think in coherent, educated sentences anymore; she was too wrapped up in physical and social appearances.

The doctor went on, unabated. “It took us about two days to figure out that you suffer from an extremely rare debilitation called Metabolarditis.” Rebecca tried to follow but was too preoccupied. “You led a good chunk of your life eating a bunch of food with little effects. Usually, a person’s metabolism naturally and slowly declines by the time he or she reaches your age. Yours didn’t. All the empty calories piled up and had nowhere to go, and they just began to be distributed throughout your body in your sleep.”

“Thus, the number one side effect of the condition is weight gain. The others are that your complexion becomes much fairer, as does your hair.” She now noticed something in the mirror she had overlooked: She had curly blonde hair, and a much smoother face.

Before she could really think, Jeff came traipsing through the door, papers in hand, asking, “So, is she ready for her position at Hooters yet?”

Rebecca, confused, asked, “What are you doing here?”

It was at this point that she recognized the Hooters uniform in his left hand. He had a raging hardon.