Part 1

Lisha sat on her bed, staring at the headlines of the tabloid newspapers she had spread out around her nearly-naked body. "Lisha Goldrock Packs on the Pounds!" "Babe, The Beauty Becomes Babe, The Piglet!" "Lisha's Body Doubles!" "Is It Lisha Or The GoodDay Blimp?" And the photos that accompanied those stories: a shot of her face, taken from below, with her looking down, giving the impression of a massive double chin; another shot of her eating at the Golden Orb awards dinner, where the photographer must've waited for quite a while to get the shot of her with her mouth full, cheeks bulging, a forkful of pie in one hand and a glass of milk in the other; but the topper was the "Artist's Conception of Lisha Goldrock After One Year of Weight Gain" -- her face, surrounded by poorly-drawn jowls and triple chins, and her body replaced by one belonging to some circus fat lady in the 500-pound range.

Her right hand had been stroking the slight chubbiness of her butt beneath her bikini bottoms, while her left hand was alternately turning pages and popping chocolate candies in her mouth. As she perused the poorly-written articles about her "massive weight gain" and how her "family and friends were horrified by her insatiable appetite," her stroking hand maneuvered its way slowly to the gentle bulge of her newly-rounded belly. She could feel the soft blubber yielding beneath the gentle pressure of her fingers and when she looked down, she could see her poking index finger disappearing past the first knuckle in the softness. A little chill went up her spine.

Looking back at the papers, she spotted one story accompanied by a photo of her at the Orbs. She was wearing that white satin dress with the lace decolletage and a light lace shawl. The photo must've been taken after the awards in the reception area. She was standing with someone who was out of the frame and the photographer had captured her at a three-quarter angle, hands on hips, elbows akimbo, head thrown back in laughter at some obviously hysterical joke. Of course, that position had caused her to thrust her belly out, making her look as if she was six months pregnant. Y'gotta hand it to those paparazzi! she thought: When they want to make a point, they sure know how to find the right picture. Not that it would've been difficult that night, since there was no way in hell she should've been wearing that dress after gaining even one pound, and she had, after all, gained twelve.

Plus five more now, she thought and gave a little squeeze to her blubber. Then, the squeeze begat a stroke and the stroke begat a little excursion down below her panty-line, and pretty soon, three fingers were caressing her from the inside, leaving her -- nearly half-an-hour later -- quivering and shivering and sweating on a bed of randomly scattered pages from tabloid rags.

She propped herself up into a sitting position when she had regained some muscle control, folded her hands across her tummy and pursed her famous lips in thought. Why do I still get excited by this fat-thing? she asked herself. And -- she looked at the scattered pictures of herself -- why do the press go so crazy over twelve little pounds. Imagine if I'd REALLY gained weight, what contortions they'd go through. A memory played out in her mind and she smiled and dialed the phone.

The woman's voice on the other end was somewhat groggy, but Lisha didn't hesitate for a second, blurting out in mock-panic, "They're going to find out about Camp Lessamee, Emma. I don't know when, but its bound to happen." "Lee? Is that you? What time zone are you in? It's 3:30 in the morning!" "I'm in the same time zone as you, silly, but -- you don't think movie stars keep normal waking and sleeping hours, do you?" "No, but freelance graphic designers do! And what are you talking about that camp for, anyway?"

"Well," Lisha said, looking through the mess on the bed for a stray chocolate, "I'm sitting here, all wrapped up in the tabloids -- you've seen them, haven't you? -- and all they keep talking about is how fat I've gotten. Twelve pounds! Maybe seventeen pounds... Whatever. They're obsessed and they're going to start talking to people and they're bound to find out." She suddenly felt a lump halfway under her butt and she reached beneath, pulling out an orange-cream-filled chocolate, partially squashed, and gobbled it down.

"So, they find out," Emma was saying. "Big deal. They find out that you went to a weight-loss camp in the summer after tenth grade and you lost thirty pounds and you kept losing until you'd achieved the magnificent bod you've got now. They'll think that's great!"

"Hah!" Lisha exclaimed. "It's obvious that you're not well versed in the basic tenets of tabloid journalism. Rule number one: even the most positive events in a celebrity's life MUST have a negative angle, except for those covered by rule number two. Rule number two: you can ONLY be nice to a celebrity if they or a loved one is dying. And rule number three: after the death, see rule number one."

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then Emma said, "I guess I'm missing your point, because..." "It's this way: the girl with the body that everyone is envious of has gained some weight recently. That girl -- it suddenly comes to light -- used to be really, really fat. Ergo, just wait, and she's going to get really, really fat again! I mean, if I lost these fifteen, seventeen, whatever pounds right now, I'd be off the front pages of the tabs until I did something stupid like left Richard Cogg for Ethan Eagle or something. And it'd be over. But, if they find out about the camp thing: it's going to be like the daily report on the Lisha Goldrock Stocky Index. 'And the Goldrock Index closed up three pounds today on the results of a particularly calorie-laden meal in overseas eating. Analysts expect the index to close at over 200 pounds by the end of the summer.'"

Emma was laughing heartily at the other end of the connection. "Lee, what you need to do is to relax! I mean, I can just picture you right now: you're sitting on your bed, arms crossed, feet kicking in that little anxious dance thing. You've gotta stop worrying and driving yourself crazy. Slow down a little. Eleven movies in two-and-a-half years'll definitely make you nutty -- or, in your case, nuttier! Take some time to yourself. Drop a couple of pounds -- you know you can do it anytime you try. Just lose yourself in some exercise. Maybe we can get together in two weeks when I'm done with this nightmare annual report project -- we'll take a couple of days -- a long weekend, maybe -- and go to Mexico or something. Whaddaya say?"

"You've always been so damn sensible -- always able to calm me down. So, okay! But it can't be any more than two weeks: I've got another shoot coming up in a month."

The two weeks crawled by for Lisha. Two weeks meant two more issues of each of the tabloids -- twelve opportunities to see just how well the camera added weight to her somewhat chubby body. Normally, Emma would've been right about her ability to immerse herself in exercise, shed the weight, and put it all behind her. But not this time. In fact, the only thing she'd been able to put behind her was another five pounds on her burgeoning butt. The scale was reading 144, but the blurry photograph of her buying a pair of 32-waist jeans was accompanied by an article which quoted "reliable authorities" who estimated that she was pushing 170 pounds. Her agent had been no help: when she went to see her about some details of her next movie -- and about the other two movies Lisha was producing -- Randi greeted her with a "What have you DONE to yourself? Are you TRYING to cut short your career? Are you TRYING to make my life difficult?" And -- what was worrying Lisha more than anything -- she was actually enjoying the feeling of the new weight on her body. The tightness of her jeans and the softness of her flesh were becoming a nearly-endless source of fascination.

Compound those conflicts with Emma not returning her calls, and by the fourteenth day since she'd spoken with her girlfriend, Lisha was going batty. She was practically imprisoned in her own house by the hordes of photographers concealed in the bushes, and about the only solace she could find was in her well-stocked refrigerator. She was naked in the kitchen, on her third slice of a heat-and-serve Mrs. Jones' cherry pie, when the phone rang. She'd been screening her calls, but the answering machine was in her bedroom, and so she had to sprint through the entire house, just to hear who was calling. She was kind of enjoying the way her new layer of blubber jiggled and rippled as she ran up the stairs, and she was almost sad when she had to stop, just in time to hear Emma's voice saying, "Yoo-hoo! Lee! I know you're there! Unless you hate me for not calling..."

Lisha grabbed the phone, saying, "Well, I DO hate you, but that doesn't mean I can't forgive you -- with the proper apology." "Y'mean like, 'Oh, your highness, please accept my deepest apologies for the horrendous wrong I've done to you?' Fat chance of that! And speaking of fat, I'm looking at The Inquisitor and there's a picture of a bloated someone who resembles my friend Lee. Do you know anything about it?"

"Well," Lisha said, "that's an old picture." "Oh, so you took my advice and dropped a couple of pounds? Good!" "No, actually, I've gained a few more. Em -- I need to get away from here!" "Okay," Emma said, " this is obviously serious. It's Friday, and I can get away on Monday. So, why don't we figure out where to go, you go tonight, and I'll meet you there. So, where are we going? Mexico?" "Too hot." "The islands?" "Too hot." "Europe?" "Too many Europeans." So, where then?" "Well, I was thinking," Lisha said, then, "what about that place in the Hamptons that Stephen promised me for whenever I want. He's directing in Italy right now, so..." "Okay -- the Hamptons it is. You make the arrangements and I'll meet you."

The arrangements were simple -- a quick call to Italy and that was that. All she had to do was put on a disguise, get to the airport, and meet the limo driver who'd be waiting on the other side of the country. But what disguise? She looked through her wig collection -- pretty extensive for someone who'd only been doing this privacy thing for a couple of years -- and settled on a long redhead look. And clothes? She didn't hesitate for a second, smiling as she pulled out a pair of lime-green polyester stretchpants and a loosely flowing shift that were both made for a woman at least seventy-five pounds heavier than she was. There was a full-body girdle on the hanger with the outfit and she had a great time filling it full of pillows and towels until the clothes she'd chosen fit her properly. The makeup was next, and that was no problem, since she'd spent her first six months in Hollywood moonlighting as a makeup assistant for a couple of TV talk shows. Some color here, some shadows there -- suggest, suggest, suggest, the head cosmetician had always told her -- and within a couple of minutes all the experience she'd gained in making ordinary people look like movie stars was played in reverse. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she almost didn't recognize the two-hundred-and-fifty pound middle-aged housewife who was looking back at her. She debated putting curlers in the wig, but decided that that cliche was a little bit TOO much.

If you've got any comments or criticisms, you can post them on the WeightBoard or e-mail me at: melaniebel@aol.com.

And don't forget to visit my website at http://members.aol.com/melaniebel