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H. BlickenstorferC. H. Blickenstorfer'@о=▀Щ(╝@Аv╙Є╠ч@ЇЪ(╝▄еhO└ eoЗlДlДllДlДlДlДlДЎДЎДЎДЎДЎДЎД Е"ЎДBЖ="Е"Е"Е"Е"Е"Е"Е"Е_ЕЖЖЖЖЖЖ&ЖX╫ЖABЖlД"Е<="Е"Е"Е"ЕBЖ"ЕlДlД"Е"Е"Е"Е"Е"ЕlД"ЕlД"Е_ЕАД,мДJlДlДlДlД"Е_Е"Е="ЕLila By Newsfella Dinner was winding down, except for dessert; there had been a kind of quiche to start, spaghetti, a chicken dish with sausage, garlic bread and salad, and what was left was mostly just bones and crumbs and three people breathing hard. I loved Joan's cooking, but I what I loved more about dinner was Joan herself, who was fat in a way that I had always found irresistible, with thick rolls of flab jiggling beneath her yellow shift, fat pillowy arms, fat delectably oozing between the slats of her chair, enticing swags of fat trembling just above her knees . . . even her toes, down to the magenta nails, were fat. I would have loved to see if I could get my arms around her, to run my fingers down the folds on her back, but of course I couldn't dream of it with Paul right there . . . I wasn't sure he could get out of his chair fast enough to kill me, but he was also my boss, and I'd be sure to lose my job as well. Joan stood to begin clearing the dishes, and her belly shifted alluringly under her dress, from a truck tire lying on her lap to a jiggling beachball. I stood and followed her into the kitchen with an empty platter, wondering if there was room for me to squeeze past her in the space between the sink and the counter. There wasn't. But I was rewarded by the look in her eyes when she opened the box full of cannolis and napoleans and creampuffs I had brought for dessert. A look, I suppose, about as hungry as the one I was giving her, but with a lot better prospects of being fulfilled. "Oh, Alan, I love cannoli," she exclaimed. "How did you know?" This is a hard question? I thought. "I didn't know," I lied. "I got them because I like them." She began lovingly arranging the pastries on a tray. Halfway through she quickly popped a creampuff in her mouth, then looked up at me guiltily. "I didn't see that," I said. "And I'd never tell anyway." She gave me a complicit smile, then brushed past me into the dining room, buttocks swaying. We worked our way down the mound of pastries. I leaned back, sipped my coffee, stretched. I was always stuffed after dinner at Paul and Joan's, and even though I am not nearly as fat as either of them, it always felt good. "This has been a wonderful dinner," I said. "As always." "And you're welcome, as always," Joan said. "I hope you'll come back often. And forgive me for saying that I hope next time you'll bring a date." Wouldn't I love to. I knew just what she'd look like, too. "Paul keeps me so busy, every decent girl is home asleep by the time I leave the office," I said. Then I had a thought. "Maybe you have a friend you could introduce me to." "Oh, of course! Why didn't I think of that? Paul? Who can we set Alan up with? Rose?" "She's nice," he grunted. "Lovely girl, but unfortunately, couldn't count to twenty without taking her shoes off. I think we can do better. What about Susie?" "Susie is engaged to Ray, I told you that just last night," Joan said with a withering glance at her husband. "What about Melanie?" Paul looked doubtful. "She's a little . . ." he made a vague gesture with his hands two feet apart. "Then Katie?" "Doreen?" "Angela?" "A little what?" I interrupted. "Melanie is a little what?" "A little on the heavy side," Paul said. "But she's got a great personality." "That's okay," I said quickly. "About Melanie being heavy. In fact I prefer it." Joan put down a fork into a half-eaten napolean and looked at me across the table. "Wait a minute," she said. "You prefer heavy women?" My throat had gone dry. I nodded. "How heavy do you like them?" I took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eyes. "About as heavy as you," I said evenly. "Oh!" she squealed with delight. "Paul, why didn't you TELL me?" "How should I know?" he erupted. "He works for me, I don't look at the pinups in his apartment." "That's WONDERFUL, Alan! I have . . . well, I have a group of girls I get together with every couple of weeks, and we eat and talk and . . ." "Mostly, the times I've seen them, they eat," Paul said. "Well, we do, but you don't mind that, Paul, do you? I saw the way you were looking at Stella last week, in that blue dress she was about to bust out of. Not that I can blame you. It's a good thing she's married." "Not so good for me," I said, trying to imagine a woman who could turn the head of a man lucky enough to be married to Joan. "Don't worry, Alan, there's plenty of others," Joan said. "TONS of others." She giggled. "There's Nina." "Nina is sweet, but I think Eileen has more going for her," Paul said, with a knowing wink in my direction. "Yes, more every week," Joan said. "She's a big girl. I think Eileen probably is 300 pounds now. How does that sound, Al?" "Better than 299, not as good as 301," I said. If this went on much longer I was going to burst a blood vessel somewhere unmentionable. "But she's so tall!" Joan protested. "I just don't see them as a couple, no offense. Wait! I know! The girl for Alan is Lila." "Lila?" Paul said. "The only Lila I know is Sylvia's niece, and she's... a nice girl, but, like, a size 14." "Well, you obviously haven't seen her in quite a while, because I saw her myself at Ben and Jerry's the other day for the first time in over a year, and I can tell you, she's not a size 14 any more. Half of her is a size 14." I swallowed. "Can I have both halves, then?" Joan giggled. "You'll want them when you see them, all right. Listen, next week is the company picnic. I want you to bring Lila. Call her as soon as you get home, and if she's doing something else, tell her to change her plans, because she's coming here, okay?" "How can I say no?" "You can't," Joan said. "Paul's your boss. And you'd do anything to make the boss's wife happy, wouldn't you?" More than you know, I thought. "This is great," she said, with a happy giggle that made her tummy heave and bounce in a way that almost stopped my heart. "Does anyone want that last cannoli?" Saturday afternoon I found myself at the door to Lila's apartment, having thought about not much else for the past week. How fat was she, really, I wondered? I realized that Joan hadn't exactly said, only that cryptic remark about half of her being a size 14. Did that make her a 28? Or was Joan just using an expression? And how fat would that be, anyway? My former wife had never even told me her dress size, although once I saw a label on some mail-order clothes she'd bought. It was 20 1/2, whatever that means. I hoped Lila was fatter than that, anyway. I rang the bell. The door opened. I hate to sound greedy, but my first thought was that she wasn't as fat as the girl I'd been dreaming about. Of course, if she were, she wouldn't have been able to fit through the door, much less get up to open it. And she wasn't as fat as Joan, but I didn't really expect her to be; not many women are. But my heart skipped a beat as I saw that she was fatter than my ex-wife, fatter than any of the women I'd dated before or since, fatter even than my second-cousin Sally was the day I fell in love, watching her go back for thirds on cake at my sister's wedding. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed a sweet, round face, red lips formed a tentative smile. A summery print dress bulged over her belly and clung alluringly to her wide, meaty hips. Below, her calves were round and shapely, with just a tantalizing hint of the delicious saddlebags of fat above her knees. "Hi," she said shyly. "I'm Lila." My car heaved and bobbed as she settled into her seat and pulled the belt tight across her belly. The party was already well underway when we arrived at Paul and Joan's house. There were tents and tables in Paul's huge yard, and employees, customers and people I'd never seen before were standing impatiently in lines for drinks, filling their plates from rich platters of food, nibbling hors s'oeuvres from trays passed by waiters. I didn't see Paul or Joan, but as I was heading with Lila for an empty bench I heard my name called, and looked around to see a thin, intense, suspiciously golden-haired woman tanned to the color of bark waving to me from a nearby table. This was Edie, our office manager. She was holding a half-filled champagne glass at a rakish angle, and it seemed that it must have been filled and emptied several times that day already. "Alan!" she exclaimed gaily. "I was hoping to see you here!" Really? Why? I thought to myself. I turned to introduce Lila. "Charmed," Edie murmured langorously, in a kind of cinema parody of bored hauteur. "You must, of course, be a friend of Joan's." "Not exactly," Lila said evenly. "My aunt is, though." Edie's smirk could not have been more explicit: she was going to rescue poor Alan from his blind date. "Please come and sit with me. Everyone else here from the office seems afraid to approach me. I'm not that bad a girl, am I?" No, just scheming, vindictive, shallow and obsessive, I thought. "I was just on my way to introduce Lila to Sam and Alexandra," I lied. "Well, you needn't bother because I happen to know they're not here, Sam's kid is getting married this afternoon," Edie replied sweetly. We sat. Immediately a waiter appeared with flutes of champagne for us; Edie drained what was left in her glass and helped herself to another. Then a tray of hors d'oeuvres appeared: miniature tacos, red potatoes hollowed out and filled with a dab of sour cream and topped with caviar, skewers of grilled beef and pork with peanut dipping sauces. I love watching women in the presence of food, even thin women. I love to see how their eyes widen with temptation, to sense their longing, and imagine how nice it would be if they gave in to the impulse to stuff themselves silly. Once in a while they did, which was fun to watch even if the evidence was sweated off in the gym within 36 hours. At the office, Edie was infamous among all the women in double-digit dress sizes for the rigor of her diet: fat-free plain yogurt, a celery stalk and seltzer were the only things I had seen pass her lips in the months I had been there. Now, after a good number of glasses of champagne, another side of Edie was clearly struggling to come out. Her bony fingers passed over the plate and, as if possessed by a will of their own, twitched and almost grabbed for a taco; then recoiled, fluttered past the skewers and plucked a small, stuffed potato and deposited it in the exact center of a white plate. The tray passed to Lila, and she, unhesitatingly, betraying nothing in her eyes, picked up an identical potato and did the same. I scooped up three or four tacos, several potatoes and a fistful of skewers and heaped them carelessly on two plates. "Oh!" Edie gasped, "I hope that's all for you, Alan, because there's a limit to how bad I can be in one week, and I already made a total pig of myself with a frozen yogurt after work Wednesday and I've been paying for it at the gym ever since." "It's for me and anyone else who'd like to share it," I said, "and I don't think having hors d'oeuvres at a party constitutes being bad. That's what parties are for, I thought. To eat good food, among other things." "Well, women know better," Edie said, "don't we, Lulu?" Edie took one small bite of her potato and then quickly crushed the rest into a cocktail napkin with an angry motion of her bony fist, put the crumpled mess on her plate and shoved it aside. Lila, eyeing her, took an even smaller bite of her potato and set it down. I watched the two women in amazement, then started in on a taco. "These are good," I said encouragingly. Edie shook her head violently. "No, thank you, Alan, I'm really not very hungry," Lila said softly. The waiter reappeared, this time with a platter of tempura. Edie's eyes went wide and she recoiled in what appeared to be genuine horror. "Not for ME!" she exclaimed. "I just have to LOOK at fried food and I turn into a water buffalo! Take them away now!" she commanded. The waiter, shaken, walked quickly away. Lila watched his back for a moment, then stood up and turned to me. "Take me home, please, Alan." "Home?" I said, stupidly. "Yes. I'm afraid I'm not feeling well and I don't want to spoil your afternoon. It's only a short drive and you can be back here in a few minutes." She turned to Edie. "A pleasure meeting you," she said evenly. "Sorry to hear about that frozen yogurt, but I'm sure it won't happen again." She began walking quickly toward the driveway. Tell me I've got a one-track mind, but for a second all I could do was stare at her fat, swaying bottom in admiration. By the time I caught up to her she was breathing hard, but her eyes were stony. "Lila," I said, touching her pudgy arm. "She was awful." "Just take me home, please." I helped her into the car. "Wouldn't you like some lunch? You haven't eaten anything." "I'm not hungry," she said, her voice drawing sparks. "Then coffee," I implored. "We haven't even talked. I don't blame you for being angry. I should have said something to her, but sometimes . . . I didn't think quickly enough. But if I take you home . . . well, that's what she wants. Why hand her that victory?" We were approaching Lou's, the diner where I ate most of my meals. It was good, and cheap, although I could afford better, and the portions were huge; but mostly I liked flirting with the waitress. Robin insisted she was saving herself for a boyfriend in the Air Force, and I was willing to let matters go at that, since despite one of the largest pairs of breasts I'd ever seen on a young woman, and the tempting way her belly-fat hung over the tabletop when she leaned over to take my empty dishes, her backside was as dismayingly flat as a boy's. I turned into the driveway. "Just coffee," Lila said firmly. Robin was on duty. Her eyes widened in surprise as she spotted us from across the dining room, and as we settled into a booth she languidly flounced over and presented us with immense leatherette- bound, embossed and tasselled menus 16 pages long, featuring dishes from every nation, region and province in Europe, Asia and North America. She then proceeded to recite from memory a list of specials longer than the credits to "The Ten Commandments." What she didn't do was say hello or acknowledge me in any way, which puzzled me, but then the things women do often have. I ordered moussaka, which I happened to know came in a serving the size of a shoebox. "A cup of coffee, please," Lila said coolly. Robin's eyebrows shot up in mild surprise, but she said nothing. "I'm so sorry, Alan," Lila said. "It's all right," I said. "I've walked out of better parties in my life." "I just don't want you to be angry with Joan. She had no way of knowing." "Angry? Why on earth would I be angry with Joan?" "I really have been away for two years, and I'm sure when my aunt told her I was back she didn't mention that...you know." She shrugged. "I've changed a lot. I put on a lot of weight." "She knew," I said. "And she didn't tell you? That was cruel." "Of course she told me! Lila, don't you understand? I wanted to meet you anyway. No, that's not it: I wanted to meet you BECAUSE of it." "Because I'm heavy? Are you serious?" "I am totally serious." "Alan, do you LIKE big women?" "I adore them, Lila." I had had just enough experience with fat girls to know recognize that we were still in the stage of mild euphemism. "Heavy." "Big." All true, but not exactly the point. Sooner or later one of us would use the F word. Lila wasn't just "heavy." She was fat. Fat! The sight of so much fat, the very thought of it, never failed to thrill me. If I reached under the table and touched her leg, I would be touching fat, luscious mounds of it. Fat hung from her belly in folds, swayed and quivered on her arms. Fat from eating fat, the sweet fruit of appetite. Fat! I even loved the sound of the word. But Lila looked like she was near tears. "Lila," I said, taking her hand, feeling the soft pudgy bracelet of flesh that began just above the wrist. "What's wrong?" "What's wrong? What do you think is wrong? Where in the hell were you when I was in high school?" Her tears dissolved into a giggle, then we both were giggling, then laughing out loud, all the tension of the first date, the awful experience with Edie, her anxieties and mine dissolving in the sound of two people suddenly comfortable and happy with each other. After a moment she composed herself. "Alan," she said, "I have to ask you something." "Of course, Lila." "Can I...can I change my order?" She had stuffed potato skins to start, in homage to the hors d'oeuvre she barely got to eat, except these were coated with a runny layer of melted cheddar and chunks of thick-cut bacon. Then fried chicken. "When the waiter pulled away that platter of tempura, I saw my whole life pass before my eyes," she said. "If you really had brought me home, I would have been out the back door and over to Colonel Sanders before you reached the corner." Potato salad, cornbread, biscuits, gravy, a wedge of my moussaka. Rolling her eyes with pleasure as she ate. Washed down with a large Coke. Robin the waitress stared at us from across the restaurant. There was no mistaking her look. She was jealous. "So tell me about high school. You were heavy then too?" She nodded, smiling a bit at the memory. "Huge. For high school, I mean. Although just a few weeks ago I found some of my skirts from back then and I could barely get them up around my butt." She giggled. "And then college. No parents to nag me about my weight. All-night pizza places. Pot. I didn't do a lot of drugs, really, just enough to get the munchies. Even the thin girls gained weight in my dorm. Some of them ate just as much as I did, maybe more. I just didn't throw it up after the way they did." "Well, that's to your credit." "The truth is...this is going to sound weird. I actually liked being...." She couldn't quite say it. "Fat," I said softly. "Fat," she said, taking a deep breath. "Loved it. I loved food, I always have. So many good things to eat in the world, and we've got to go around denying ourselves, parceling it out in little meager bits, then gobbling it late at night with no one watching and throwing it all up again. I thought that was sick, not weighing...whatever I weighed. "But it wasn't just eating I loved. It was also the feeling I got after. The food filling my stomach, my belly pressing against my clothes, my body getting fatter and fatter. I would go to thrift stores and try on the biggest dresses they had, and imagine I was so fat I couldn't fit into them. I used to stuff a pillow under my clothes to see how I would look if I put on 100 pounds, just to inspire me to eat more." She looked at me in an appraising way. "That must sound very strange to you." "Only," I said, "because I went through college dreaming that I might meet a girl just like you." Robin suddenly appeared at our table, having seemingly made up her mind to be cheerful. "Would anyone care for dessert?" she asked brightly. We couldn't decide between the brownies or the rice pudding, so we ordered them both. The brownies were the size of a paperback book, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream the size of a softball. Lila's eyes gleamed. "And so what happened then?" "Oh," Lila said, her face clouding. "I just turned all against myself. I got out of college, I had a degree in art and no real job, no boyfriend, not much self-esteem, and so I decided that what was wrong with me was, I was fat. A slob. A pig. I used to cut pictures of pigs out of children's books and paste them on the mirrors, the refrigerator, the closet door, so everywhere I turned, that's what I saw: a pig. And I decided to be 'good.' I was as good as a girl could be. I ate more stupid grapefruits than there are in Florida, I took a bag of carrots with me everywhere I went, crunch, crunch, crunch. Do you want to know how good I was? I got a research grant and I went to Italy for three months. When I was in college, I had a friend who I would binge with. She was only, like, a size 20, but I only wish I could eat like her. She was American, but she lived in Italy as a teenager, and she used to tell me about the food there. The pastas, the sausages, the cheeses, the desserts. We would get a pizza and she would tell me how much better the pizzas were in Italy. She told me about girls in the villages who weighed 200 pounds when they got married, and kept right on getting fatter. I used to dream about moving there and marrying some Italian peasant and becoming the fattest woman in the whole town. I would sit down after dinner and eat a whole bag of Fritos, and the whole time I was thinking about what I would eat if I ever got to Italy. "And now I was finally going there, except I was thin. I was so terrified of gaining weight. I took hypnotism to convince me that the food in Italy was terrible. I packed five pounds of carrots into my luggage so I would have stuff to munch on until I could find a vegetable store. I arranged to work past closing hours at the museum, so I wouldn't have time to go to a restaurant later. I am the only person except for Bob Dole who spent three months in Italy and actually LOST WEIGHT there." "I was in Italy, too," I said dreamily. "With my ex-wife, a honeymoon. Your friend was right about the food. We never even got to any museums, we spent all our time in restaurants." "Was she fat?" Lila asked. "She was by the time we left," I said. I couldn't help it, the memory still made me smile, of how she looked trying to get back into her dress for the flight home. Lila looked miserable. "What happened when you got back to the States?" I asked. "I think, maybe, I just used up all my will-power there. Or I decided, this isn't worth it, to live this crazy way to look like a movie star, which I was never going to be anyway. Or maybe it was just, I got back and they opened a Haagen-Dazs on my corner." She brightened. "Let's just say, I went off my diet. With a great big bang. It is kind of crazy, to eat breadsticks and carrots for three months in Italy, where they have the best cakes in the world, and then come back here and the first thing I have is a whole bag of Stella d'Oro cookies from the supermarket." She giggled. "And now you see the results." She leaned back in her booth and cupped her fat round belly in her plump hands. "Any second thoughts? Now's the time to speak up." "How about more ice-cream?" "That's a nice answer, Alan, but honestly, I'm completely stuffed. Maybe later." She grinned. "If we pass a place on the way home." I drove her home, admiring the ripples of fat on her arms, the way the seatbelt cut a band through the soft flesh of her belly. It was late afternoon when he got to her door; a breeze had started up, riffling her hair, but the street was quiet, empty, expectant. I was face to face with the fattest girl I had ever dated. Our bellies touched. I leaned forward. "Would you like to come inside for a bit?" she whispered. Afterwards, there were many times when we made love slowly, langorously, luxuriously soaking up each others' bodies; but not this time. She unhooked the waistband of her pants, and her belly came to full, jiggling life, fat layered on fat; stepped out of them with ponderous legs; tossed aside her blouse and released her huge breasts. I touched one nipple, watched her arch her back with pleasure. Eyes closed, head back, hair hanging down toward the twin globes of her ass. We fell into bed, full bellies sloshing as we rolled and frolicked: now tender, now full of heat and passion, sweat and saliva mixing on our bodies, smells mingled, flesh entwined. Rolled over and felt the weight of her fat crushing me into the bed: all those calories distilled into one glorious substance, rolls and mounds of it, immense, insatiable, concentrated. I realized then that as much enjoyment as Lila had gotten from gorging herself at lunch, it was only the first installment on the pleasure were both having now, and would have for as long as we were together. This is the real meaning of "having your cake and eating it too." What is it the diet freaks say? "A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips"? Precisely! Who would want it any other way? Of course, I didn't understand all this at the time, only that I had found the woman I desired more than any other, and that I would never let her go. Hours later, by the light of a streetlamp spilling into her bedroom, we stood side by side and faced the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. There were no pictures of pigs on it, but a photograph of an immense, smiling Polynesian woman in a muu-muu. According to the caption, she weighed more than 600 pounds, and under the picture Lila had written: "go for it!" "Look, Lila," I said. "What do you see?" "What do YOU see?" "Two fat people in love," I said. "You're not fat," she said. She pinched up a little flesh on my side. "Not by my standards, anyway." "I might be, if I stay with you. How would you feel about that?" "Oh, I think it'll be all right," she said dreamily. "We'll have dinner with Paul and Joan every Saturday night and then come home and make love just like we did." "How fat are you, baby?" "Mmmm. Guess." I had no idea. Really. "Two hundred....and fifty?" "I am highly insulted." "Low?" "Way low." "Come on, then." "Oh," she murmured. "More like three hundred." "Three hundred pounds! God, Lila." "I said more like three hundred." "Meaning what?" "Three hundred and twenty. Are you satisfied?" "As long as you are. Tell me, what do you think Joan weighs?" "God, men are such pigs!" "I'm just wondering. I never really knew this stuff. I have to learn sizes, too, if I'm going to buy you gifts." "Well, if that's what your interest is, I'm in favor of it. As for Joan, I told you, I haven't seen her since I moved back here, but two years ago, I would say she weighed 450, easy." "Lucky guy, Paul." She moved from my side. "Where are you going, sweetheart?" "To the kitchen for some ice cream, darling," she called over her shoulder. "Maybe you can be lucky someday, too." Monday morning, at the office, Edie seemed even more tense and gaunt than usual, but said nothing. Just before lunch I popped into Paul's office. "I'm sorry we left before seeing you Saturday. It was a wonderful party, but Lila and I were actually hitting it off pretty well, and we wanted to go somewhere to talk..." "Don't mention it, we had plenty to do. But Joan's dying to know how you got along with Lila. I take it well?" "Very well." "Joan was right about....you know." Funny. Even between us, we couldn't quite say what we meant. "A hundred percent. Three hundred and twenty percent." Paul smiled. "You think you'll be seeing more of her?" "The more there is, the more I hope to see." "You know, you've been working pretty hard and I've been looking for some way for the company to reward you. There's that big conference coming up in Rome next month, and I was planning to go myself - Joan adores Italian food - but maybe we can take a cruise instead. Why don't you go, take an extra week or two to relax. All on the company." "That would be lovely, Paul, thanks very much." "And, I don't know, I'm sure this is a little soon. But if you really do hit it off with Lila....well, I think we could figure out a way to put her on as a consultant. If you think she'd like Italy." "Paul," I said carefully, "I think it's exactly what she's been dreaming about." 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