~BBW, Eating, ~Sex ~SWG
You want me to gain weight?
Yes.
I don't understand. You actually want me to put on weight, on purpose?
Yes.
The thing most women fight against, go on diets for, stop eating for, you actually want me to do? Deliberately?
Yes.
Do you know how perverse this is?
There was a pause.
Yes.
The conversation wasn't going well. We were sitting on the edge of the bed. I'd been touching her, loving her, stroking her hair and all points south, and I'd made a remark about her bony shoulders sticking out like sore thumbs, well more like sore shoulders, and I'd dared to suggest that maybe she could eat a bit more and put on weight, that she'd look great, that I'd love it, words like that. And now she was staring at me, incredulous, as though I'd suggested she cut off her legs.
We were old friends and new friends, Nikki and me. For four years or more we'd rubbed together in the same social circles, shared the same jokes, the same smart black clothing (almost the uniform of the urban professional), the same tight band of chums gathered up from university and after, from advertising, publishing, the slick jobs, the smart jobs.
There was Nikki, there was Dominic (that was me) -- and there was Amanda, Jonathan, Tarzan and Jane. The gang. The pack. You could always find us, in various combinations, once or twice a week, at some watering-hole or other, a movie, a bistro. People said we were just like the characters in Friends, except we didn't all sit around on sofas.
And that's how it was for ages, until something secret clicked between us. I had always thought Nikki looked stunning: medium height and build, auburn hair bouncing down to her neck, the face finely sculptured, brown eyes sparkling, honey-coloured skin smooth and flawless except for a cute teasing mole near one ear. Imagine Natalie Portman with a little of Neve Campbell thrown in. All this plus a slightly husky voice, as though the throat had been scorched -- by the sun, perhaps, or too many whiskies. Anyway, she wormed her way into me somehow, and vice versa. I started going back to her place. She began to come back to mine. By now we were having an affair.
It didn't really need to be secret neither of us were married or chained to permanent relationships. But considering the pack's tangled history it seemed safer to both of us. Before, Nikki had been with Tarzan that wasn't his real name, naturally, but with his mane of hair and brawny chest it suited him much better than Derek. He was fierce, too, possessive and jealous; and only countenanced Nikki leaving him when Jane - that wasn't her real name either - swung through the vines into his life, a pale thin wisp in need of a strong hand.
After that, behind everyone's backs, Nikki had had a fling with Amanda, both apparently testing the lesbian waters, and when that leaked out Jonathan -- we called him Jonty for a while but he didn't have enough personality to make it stick -- Jonathan got mad because he, it seemed, behind everyone's backs, had just started a thing with Amanda too. It was a miracle they all stayed friends. But time passed. Wounds healed, or appeared to.
Even so, once a flame became ignited between Nikki and myself, neither of us felt the need, shall we say, to broadcast it to the nation. We'd been seeing each other several times a week: talk, a light meal, and then the bedroom, two trim bodies interlocked. And now we'd reached this awkward moment, the pair of us, on the edge of the bed. The disbelief. The gimlet eyes. The dropped jaw. You actually think I'd look better heavier? she said.
You're already beautiful. This would just be an extra enhancement. Extra pounds, extra beauty. I knew it sounded lame.
Had I let the cat out of the bag too soon? Quite possible. Though looking back, I'm actually surprised I'd let the cat out at all; usually my inhibitions got in the way. The fact was, though, that any woman I was attracted to I always thought would be even more beautiful if they only weighed a little more. There is something so arousing about an attractive woman filling out, acquiring a little bit extra -- love handles, a midriff roll, a bulge on the tummy, a rounder face, just something extra somewhere. It didn't have to be a lot. Twenty pounds might do it.
Maybe want is the wrong word, I said.
It's an impolite word, I know that. Giving me orders like that. She was still flashing the gimlet eyes. I felt they were boring right through me.
So I shuffled the words around in my head and tried it another way. I should have said I would like it if you gained some weight. But I wouldn't want you to do anything you didn't want to do.
I could see her face softening a bit. She was pondering, definitely pondering, estimating the pros and cons -- and I suppose thinking about what I meant to her, and what she meant to me, and whether it was actually worth it to do something to please me. This I don't know about, she said, I'll think about it.
Could you think about it while eating?
I was incorrigible.
***
Next time we met up was on Friday night. Thank God It's Friday Night. We, the pack, had drifted into the habit of throwing off the working week by going to one restaurant or another. Cruising the cuisines, Jonathan called it, when he spoke at all: he did some job at the Arts Council and was famous for being the quiet one. Sometimes we called him The Jonathan, in homage to his distant personality. Not all of us could make it every time. Tarzan had his sales conferences to go to, in some provincial burg or other -- he worked for a garden equipment firm.
Amanda, who was in advertising, sometimes phoned in sick, especially during the hay fever season when the pollen aggravated her asthma. One day Jane, PA for a headhunter firm, well she was Phoebe really, accidentally flushed her cell phone down the toilet. So we lost track of her for a while. Maybe people sloped off here and there just because they wanted a change of routine, a different set of grinning faces and arms waving wine glasses around. It's possible.
Anyway, we were wrapped round the table, the full complement, at this lean cuisine emporium called Euphoric Eats. The walls were grey, the chairs and tables made of glass, and the food was served with such exquisite quartered radishes or dribbles of sauce that the plates looked like early abstract paintings. Nikki was eating a Kandinsky. The talk went in circles as usual, nothing worth documenting, unless you're keen to hear about Tarzan arriving in Manchester two hours late, or ten good reasons why they should have cancelled Frasier at least three years ago. I thought of eleven myself.
Since Nikki and I had been seeing each other -- I almost said dating -- these group sessions had acquired an extra frisson as the little nods, the winks, the secret in-jokes sprung up in cracks in the conversation. Each look I threw Nikki's way I lingered over, hoping our eyes would connect, lock together, and smoulder, just for a moment. If we sat opposite, as we did that night, we tried to rub ankles under the table. Childish, I know, but sometimes growing up doesn't seem a big accomplishment.
Glancing at her, I wondered as I so often did what twenty extra pounds would make of that face, or the breasts that sat astride her chest, breasts scarcely larger than the smallest lemon, or the gentle curve of her slender hips. The pounds would beautify, no doubt about it, that was inevitable, but where would they exactly fall? That was the adventure. But I was suddenly snatched out of my musings. She was speaking to me. The voice was quiet but nonchalant, as though what she said was of no importance, certainly not to the others.
That thing we talked about? she said. The answer's no, I'm afraid. In her left hand was her fork, with half a radish speared at the end. She wiggled it. She wasn't taunting me, was she?
Oh! That's OK. I tried not to look too crestfallen.
What answer's no? Tarzan's ears had pricked up: even though he and Nikki were history he still liked to think he had monitor's rights over her life. He adored other people's gossip, and I wasn't going to serve him up this morsel on a plate.
Oh -- I said, trying to keep my voice feather-light, I'd asked if I could borrow her Harry Potter books. Not for me. For a nephew. And she said -- .
I said no, Nikki said, eyes firm, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. I thought they might get damaged. After thinking about it
I gave her a look suggesting that enough was enough. I could already hear eyebrows being raised, supplementary questions forming on lips.
I asked if anyone had seen the new movie. Before anyone could reply, the waiter bustled by and gathered up plates. Further danger had been averted. To celebrate, Nikki slipped off a shoe -- I recognised the gentle thud -- and made a beeline for my left shin.
****
I mean, she said, on the phone that night, I put in hours at the gym. Every day I try to get there before work, even if for half an hour.
It's alright. Let's drop the whole thing. You look beautiful at whatever weight. Do you actually have any Harry Potter books, by the way?
No, she said, sounding mischievous -- I really liked that -- so you can't borrow them even if you wanted. But then she went on and on, about her body image, and being slim, and being 120 pounds for years, and women always needing to watch every morsel than went into their mouths, and I wouldn't understand, and what was so great about flesh anyway, and on and on, and I wished I'd never raised the whole thing. I wouldn't try that again, I decided. She'd just have to join the other women I'd had fantasies about and only get heavier in my dreams.
And that, for a while, was the end of things. Life in our little circle proceeded. Each time we looked at the world outside the world looked worse, so we gave up looking, clinked our wine glasses, and sped on our way.
Nikki and I continued to see each other for hot nights -- her flat or mine -- but both of us were beginning to feel the strain of keeping the lid on and not turning amorous in public. Amanda, I'm sure, already suspected; you can't keep shooting one another secret looks or shaping the lips into pretend kisses without someone noticing. The others, I guess, must have been even more self-absorbed than I thought. If that were possible.
We eventually concocted a coming out plan. We would announce that we were going on holiday together, just as friends, which was plausible -- friends go on holiday -- and then, once the holiday was done, we'd announce on our return that something happened.
Was this daft? Unnecessary? Possibly. But it made sense to us, and besides, we wanted the holiday for real. Venice was the chosen destination. It had the right romantic ring. We could come back with stories of love in a gondola, of laughter and pigeons in St Mark's Square, and that unique light over the lagoon, soft and clear, colouring everything with enchantment.
I remember the moment vividly. Everything here is either pasta or ice cream, she said. She was looking at the menu, at a restaurant tucked away on one of the watery fingers leading off the Grand Canal. We found it, like everything, by accident; I'd never been anywhere before and got lost so regularly.
I made no particular comment; I'd no wish to rake over old embers. Considering the fandango she'd made recently over the importance of her slim figure I thought she'd pass up the ice cream and have a fruit dessert, or no dessert at all. I was wrong.
She had ice cream the next day too. For a few meals she also adopted the Italian habit of treating pasta as a starter, then passing on to something else, something meaty, as the main course. And then the dessert. I know one thing, she said on our final evening; If I lived here for any length of time, I'd have a problem staying thin.
Oh God, I prayed silently that night, move Nikki's PR job to Italy! She worked for a company called B & F, Brilliant and Fab -- she kept telling them they should change the name. So far it had only spread wings in London. Clients included some British video labels, advertising campaigns for Levi jeans, and an association for battered wives. Nothing with an Italian connection. That's why I needed God's help.
So we returned to London, refreshed, a little sun-tanned, and we announced to the pack at the Frog and Fiddle wine bar, as per our plan, that intimacy had struck in a big way and we hoped they'd be happy for us. They all looked a little startled.
You two, you've - you've paired off? said Amanda.
Nikki nodded. So much for Amanda's intuition. She looked jealous, I thought; some old flame still flickering, I supposed.
I guess it was written in the stars, I said, wanting to say something light, airy, and romantic.
Ah, that's sweet, said The Jonathan.
Tarzan himself gave a ghastly smile of approval, which I didn't believe for a moment. Later, zipping up together in the gents, the vine swinger gave me a slap on the shoulder, and began to offer the fruits of his own experience with Nikki.
I found she was very good in bed, he said in a lordly tone. This I really didn't want to hear. Except on Thursdays. No good at all on Thursdays. Don't know why. Have you had that problem yet?
I said no we hadn't and, feeling pissed off by his condescension, suggested that one explanation might be that it was Tarzan who had the Thursday problem, not Nikki at all. He didn't appreciate that.
Anyway, life rolled on. Nikki returned to her Levis and videos, and I, at my publishing job, got my nose stuck into an utter chore copy-editing a book by some Harvard academic about invertebrates -- snails, slugs, snakes and the like. Not much happened otherwise. One Friday night Tarzan threw up over Jane -- he seemed to be having problems holding his liquor. The next night Jane threw up over Tarzan. The days passed.
It was a Thursday, as it happened. Nikki and I had been at the private opening of a new gallery exhibit at Tate Modern -- the theme was art works inspired by rock stars' underwear. We were just about to head for the sheets, giggling about whether any artist would ever be interested in our own private garments and deciding the chance was remote. Then Nikki, naked except for pale pink panties, began to play with the elastic and said in a rueful voice, You know I've put on a bit of weight?
Venice? I said, with a smile.
Venice, she said, not smiling at all. I stood on the scales this morning, and discovered I've put on three pounds. Almost four. Look. She pulled down her panties and pressed into her tummy with a finger. It didn't seem much different to me. But she was adamant: There's a bit of fat there. It's definitely softer. Those bloody restaurants!
It's really not noticeable, I said, wishing all the time that it was. How could she gain even a few pounds without me spotting? I checked her figure again; the same slimline shape, the hip bones clearly visible either side, slender arms, sculpted face framed by that gorgeous auburn hair. On the surface nothing looked changed. But then I peered a little more closely at her tummy. She was right! I realised now there was padding just below the belly-button -- not much, just a hint of new fat lying under the skin, raising and softening her figure by a few degrees, the degrees only an admirer of fat would spot, or someone copy-editing a book about tiny creatures.
She fetched a brush, sat on the bed's edge, and began to comb her hair. You probably like it, she said, without much relish.
As she sat, a tentative crease mark appeared across her midriff round her belly-button. I'd never noticed any crease before. It looked very cute.
I do, I said.
She grinned, rather malevolently I thought. Well the fat won't be here long, so you better enjoy it while you can.
Lead the way, I said breezily, pointing to the bedsheets. A grim smile appeared round her mouth, but then she settled down happily enough for our favourite sport. The big SA, as the group referred to it. The Sexual Act. In preparation I stroked her cheeks, and wondered if any ounces had secretly found their way there. What would she look like with a rounder face?
Mounting her body, feeling her tummy against mine, I tried to distinguish fact from wishful thinking. Was I really feeling that little cushion of flesh? Or was it my imagination? Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves. It was a good night. Thursdays always were.
Neither that night nor later did I ask Nikki exactly how she would be getting rid of her Venice pounds. I guessed she would go be going to the gym -- there was one in the basement of the new high-rise where her office was -- or adopting the diet of a rabbit. I disliked either option. So, it appears, did she. True, she made a big play once of bundling herself off early with gym gear and good intentions, but it was only once. The rest of her life -- and me, I guess -- just got in the way.
The year edged forward. Nikki thought up a cross-promotion between Levi jeans and her battered wives, but saw it shot down for reasons of bad taste.
Got to try these things, she said, philosophically. I myself learned more about snakes and snails than I ever wanted to. Tarzan announced that he was going on the wagon, and his drink of choice would now be lemon juice. That lasted about three days.
And then it gradually dawned on me that far from losing her Venice pounds, Nikki was actually gaining a few more. Indeed, after a month or so whenever my eyes caught sight of her au naturel as the French say, it seemed to me there was now a little more tummy fat for her waistbands to dig into. Her face, I noticed, was beginning to fill out too;
I can't say she had a double chin as she lay with her head on the pillow -- that would definitely have been an advance -- but I was certainly aware of a gradual erosion of definition around the jawline, the cheekbones, and the places inbetween. Without any urging on my part, my wish seemed to be coming true. Nikki, beautiful Nikki, had started to gain weight!
I wondered why and how. Holiday pounds, OK. Easily understood. But she'd shown such aversion to gaining before. Why was she doing nothing to lose the few pounds she'd added? I felt uneasy about raising the matter myself; I wanted to do nothing to upset the slow addition of flesh to that succulent body.
Nikki said nothing either. So for a while I just observed her, what she ate, what she drank, how she spent her time, and tried to fathom the changes. They were small but significant. She was extra busy at work, that was one thing; no time now for even a token session walking the treadmill and doing press-ups. Plenty of sitting. And Venice seemed to have activated a sweet tooth. I noticed a chocolate bar on her desk at home -- most un-Nikki like. And when we ate out, away from the pack, she would linger over the menu's desserts. Most times she declined, as she always used to do, but sometimes she gave in, and had ice cream or a tiramisu. She had obviously started to eat a little more, a little more often.
Did she know her weight was increasing? Hard to be certain. The changes were subtle enough to be able to ignored if she had a mind to. Yet I found it unlikely that Nikki hadn't at some point seen what I'd seen. Perhaps she'd ran an idle hand over her stomach and found it softer, or spotted the crease mark near her belly button, both features etched a little deeper now into the surrounding flesh.
I finally came to the conclusion that she was in two minds about the business. Deep down I think she knew she was gaining, yet she wanted to pretend to herself that she wasn't. What clinched it for me was a moment on the sofa as we sat in front of a TV programme neither of us was watching.
Instead of staring at the screen I had become transfixed by the far more interesting picture presented by Nikki's waist. She was wearing blue denim jeans, Levi's actually, taken home from work, and I couldn't help noticing the contrast between the roughened texture of the material and the softness and honeyed glow of the flesh that now peeped out in a little lip above the jeans and below her blouse, all along the front. The jean's top button looked to be pinching her; she couldn't have comfortable.
So I made a remark. Would you be more comfortable, I said, if you undid that button? I said nothing about whys and wherefores, about extra weight and tummy fat. But she shot me such a filthy look that I knew she'd got my drift. I'd spoiled her game, and smashed open the door to something she was trying to ignore.
No, I'm fine, she replied, sounding definitely peeved, embarrassed too. What made you say that?
Something in her eyes -- a hunted, vulnerable look -- made me back down. She needed to shatter her own illusions, not have me do it for her. Oh, just the way you're sitting, I guess.
There's plenty of room, she said, untruthfully. "Let's just watch this programme, shall we?
So we trained our eyes on the monster box -- some gormless couple, I remember, were staring in awe at the pink fright a make-over team had just made of their bedroom -- while both of us in our different ways thought about tummy fat, Levi jeans, and fear, and desire. Well, I know I did. It was a poignant moment.
Copyright Swordfish, 2004
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ROUND AND ROUND WITH NIKKI
By Swordfish
By Swordfish
You want me to gain weight?
Yes.
I don't understand. You actually want me to put on weight, on purpose?
Yes.
The thing most women fight against, go on diets for, stop eating for, you actually want me to do? Deliberately?
Yes.
Do you know how perverse this is?
There was a pause.
Yes.
The conversation wasn't going well. We were sitting on the edge of the bed. I'd been touching her, loving her, stroking her hair and all points south, and I'd made a remark about her bony shoulders sticking out like sore thumbs, well more like sore shoulders, and I'd dared to suggest that maybe she could eat a bit more and put on weight, that she'd look great, that I'd love it, words like that. And now she was staring at me, incredulous, as though I'd suggested she cut off her legs.
We were old friends and new friends, Nikki and me. For four years or more we'd rubbed together in the same social circles, shared the same jokes, the same smart black clothing (almost the uniform of the urban professional), the same tight band of chums gathered up from university and after, from advertising, publishing, the slick jobs, the smart jobs.
There was Nikki, there was Dominic (that was me) -- and there was Amanda, Jonathan, Tarzan and Jane. The gang. The pack. You could always find us, in various combinations, once or twice a week, at some watering-hole or other, a movie, a bistro. People said we were just like the characters in Friends, except we didn't all sit around on sofas.
And that's how it was for ages, until something secret clicked between us. I had always thought Nikki looked stunning: medium height and build, auburn hair bouncing down to her neck, the face finely sculptured, brown eyes sparkling, honey-coloured skin smooth and flawless except for a cute teasing mole near one ear. Imagine Natalie Portman with a little of Neve Campbell thrown in. All this plus a slightly husky voice, as though the throat had been scorched -- by the sun, perhaps, or too many whiskies. Anyway, she wormed her way into me somehow, and vice versa. I started going back to her place. She began to come back to mine. By now we were having an affair.
It didn't really need to be secret neither of us were married or chained to permanent relationships. But considering the pack's tangled history it seemed safer to both of us. Before, Nikki had been with Tarzan that wasn't his real name, naturally, but with his mane of hair and brawny chest it suited him much better than Derek. He was fierce, too, possessive and jealous; and only countenanced Nikki leaving him when Jane - that wasn't her real name either - swung through the vines into his life, a pale thin wisp in need of a strong hand.
After that, behind everyone's backs, Nikki had had a fling with Amanda, both apparently testing the lesbian waters, and when that leaked out Jonathan -- we called him Jonty for a while but he didn't have enough personality to make it stick -- Jonathan got mad because he, it seemed, behind everyone's backs, had just started a thing with Amanda too. It was a miracle they all stayed friends. But time passed. Wounds healed, or appeared to.
Even so, once a flame became ignited between Nikki and myself, neither of us felt the need, shall we say, to broadcast it to the nation. We'd been seeing each other several times a week: talk, a light meal, and then the bedroom, two trim bodies interlocked. And now we'd reached this awkward moment, the pair of us, on the edge of the bed. The disbelief. The gimlet eyes. The dropped jaw. You actually think I'd look better heavier? she said.
You're already beautiful. This would just be an extra enhancement. Extra pounds, extra beauty. I knew it sounded lame.
Had I let the cat out of the bag too soon? Quite possible. Though looking back, I'm actually surprised I'd let the cat out at all; usually my inhibitions got in the way. The fact was, though, that any woman I was attracted to I always thought would be even more beautiful if they only weighed a little more. There is something so arousing about an attractive woman filling out, acquiring a little bit extra -- love handles, a midriff roll, a bulge on the tummy, a rounder face, just something extra somewhere. It didn't have to be a lot. Twenty pounds might do it.
Maybe want is the wrong word, I said.
It's an impolite word, I know that. Giving me orders like that. She was still flashing the gimlet eyes. I felt they were boring right through me.
So I shuffled the words around in my head and tried it another way. I should have said I would like it if you gained some weight. But I wouldn't want you to do anything you didn't want to do.
I could see her face softening a bit. She was pondering, definitely pondering, estimating the pros and cons -- and I suppose thinking about what I meant to her, and what she meant to me, and whether it was actually worth it to do something to please me. This I don't know about, she said, I'll think about it.
Could you think about it while eating?
I was incorrigible.
***
Next time we met up was on Friday night. Thank God It's Friday Night. We, the pack, had drifted into the habit of throwing off the working week by going to one restaurant or another. Cruising the cuisines, Jonathan called it, when he spoke at all: he did some job at the Arts Council and was famous for being the quiet one. Sometimes we called him The Jonathan, in homage to his distant personality. Not all of us could make it every time. Tarzan had his sales conferences to go to, in some provincial burg or other -- he worked for a garden equipment firm.
Amanda, who was in advertising, sometimes phoned in sick, especially during the hay fever season when the pollen aggravated her asthma. One day Jane, PA for a headhunter firm, well she was Phoebe really, accidentally flushed her cell phone down the toilet. So we lost track of her for a while. Maybe people sloped off here and there just because they wanted a change of routine, a different set of grinning faces and arms waving wine glasses around. It's possible.
Anyway, we were wrapped round the table, the full complement, at this lean cuisine emporium called Euphoric Eats. The walls were grey, the chairs and tables made of glass, and the food was served with such exquisite quartered radishes or dribbles of sauce that the plates looked like early abstract paintings. Nikki was eating a Kandinsky. The talk went in circles as usual, nothing worth documenting, unless you're keen to hear about Tarzan arriving in Manchester two hours late, or ten good reasons why they should have cancelled Frasier at least three years ago. I thought of eleven myself.
Since Nikki and I had been seeing each other -- I almost said dating -- these group sessions had acquired an extra frisson as the little nods, the winks, the secret in-jokes sprung up in cracks in the conversation. Each look I threw Nikki's way I lingered over, hoping our eyes would connect, lock together, and smoulder, just for a moment. If we sat opposite, as we did that night, we tried to rub ankles under the table. Childish, I know, but sometimes growing up doesn't seem a big accomplishment.
Glancing at her, I wondered as I so often did what twenty extra pounds would make of that face, or the breasts that sat astride her chest, breasts scarcely larger than the smallest lemon, or the gentle curve of her slender hips. The pounds would beautify, no doubt about it, that was inevitable, but where would they exactly fall? That was the adventure. But I was suddenly snatched out of my musings. She was speaking to me. The voice was quiet but nonchalant, as though what she said was of no importance, certainly not to the others.
That thing we talked about? she said. The answer's no, I'm afraid. In her left hand was her fork, with half a radish speared at the end. She wiggled it. She wasn't taunting me, was she?
Oh! That's OK. I tried not to look too crestfallen.
What answer's no? Tarzan's ears had pricked up: even though he and Nikki were history he still liked to think he had monitor's rights over her life. He adored other people's gossip, and I wasn't going to serve him up this morsel on a plate.
Oh -- I said, trying to keep my voice feather-light, I'd asked if I could borrow her Harry Potter books. Not for me. For a nephew. And she said -- .
I said no, Nikki said, eyes firm, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. I thought they might get damaged. After thinking about it
I gave her a look suggesting that enough was enough. I could already hear eyebrows being raised, supplementary questions forming on lips.
I asked if anyone had seen the new movie. Before anyone could reply, the waiter bustled by and gathered up plates. Further danger had been averted. To celebrate, Nikki slipped off a shoe -- I recognised the gentle thud -- and made a beeline for my left shin.
****
I mean, she said, on the phone that night, I put in hours at the gym. Every day I try to get there before work, even if for half an hour.
It's alright. Let's drop the whole thing. You look beautiful at whatever weight. Do you actually have any Harry Potter books, by the way?
No, she said, sounding mischievous -- I really liked that -- so you can't borrow them even if you wanted. But then she went on and on, about her body image, and being slim, and being 120 pounds for years, and women always needing to watch every morsel than went into their mouths, and I wouldn't understand, and what was so great about flesh anyway, and on and on, and I wished I'd never raised the whole thing. I wouldn't try that again, I decided. She'd just have to join the other women I'd had fantasies about and only get heavier in my dreams.
And that, for a while, was the end of things. Life in our little circle proceeded. Each time we looked at the world outside the world looked worse, so we gave up looking, clinked our wine glasses, and sped on our way.
Nikki and I continued to see each other for hot nights -- her flat or mine -- but both of us were beginning to feel the strain of keeping the lid on and not turning amorous in public. Amanda, I'm sure, already suspected; you can't keep shooting one another secret looks or shaping the lips into pretend kisses without someone noticing. The others, I guess, must have been even more self-absorbed than I thought. If that were possible.
We eventually concocted a coming out plan. We would announce that we were going on holiday together, just as friends, which was plausible -- friends go on holiday -- and then, once the holiday was done, we'd announce on our return that something happened.
Was this daft? Unnecessary? Possibly. But it made sense to us, and besides, we wanted the holiday for real. Venice was the chosen destination. It had the right romantic ring. We could come back with stories of love in a gondola, of laughter and pigeons in St Mark's Square, and that unique light over the lagoon, soft and clear, colouring everything with enchantment.
I remember the moment vividly. Everything here is either pasta or ice cream, she said. She was looking at the menu, at a restaurant tucked away on one of the watery fingers leading off the Grand Canal. We found it, like everything, by accident; I'd never been anywhere before and got lost so regularly.
I made no particular comment; I'd no wish to rake over old embers. Considering the fandango she'd made recently over the importance of her slim figure I thought she'd pass up the ice cream and have a fruit dessert, or no dessert at all. I was wrong.
She had ice cream the next day too. For a few meals she also adopted the Italian habit of treating pasta as a starter, then passing on to something else, something meaty, as the main course. And then the dessert. I know one thing, she said on our final evening; If I lived here for any length of time, I'd have a problem staying thin.
Oh God, I prayed silently that night, move Nikki's PR job to Italy! She worked for a company called B & F, Brilliant and Fab -- she kept telling them they should change the name. So far it had only spread wings in London. Clients included some British video labels, advertising campaigns for Levi jeans, and an association for battered wives. Nothing with an Italian connection. That's why I needed God's help.
So we returned to London, refreshed, a little sun-tanned, and we announced to the pack at the Frog and Fiddle wine bar, as per our plan, that intimacy had struck in a big way and we hoped they'd be happy for us. They all looked a little startled.
You two, you've - you've paired off? said Amanda.
Nikki nodded. So much for Amanda's intuition. She looked jealous, I thought; some old flame still flickering, I supposed.
I guess it was written in the stars, I said, wanting to say something light, airy, and romantic.
Ah, that's sweet, said The Jonathan.
Tarzan himself gave a ghastly smile of approval, which I didn't believe for a moment. Later, zipping up together in the gents, the vine swinger gave me a slap on the shoulder, and began to offer the fruits of his own experience with Nikki.
I found she was very good in bed, he said in a lordly tone. This I really didn't want to hear. Except on Thursdays. No good at all on Thursdays. Don't know why. Have you had that problem yet?
I said no we hadn't and, feeling pissed off by his condescension, suggested that one explanation might be that it was Tarzan who had the Thursday problem, not Nikki at all. He didn't appreciate that.
Anyway, life rolled on. Nikki returned to her Levis and videos, and I, at my publishing job, got my nose stuck into an utter chore copy-editing a book by some Harvard academic about invertebrates -- snails, slugs, snakes and the like. Not much happened otherwise. One Friday night Tarzan threw up over Jane -- he seemed to be having problems holding his liquor. The next night Jane threw up over Tarzan. The days passed.
It was a Thursday, as it happened. Nikki and I had been at the private opening of a new gallery exhibit at Tate Modern -- the theme was art works inspired by rock stars' underwear. We were just about to head for the sheets, giggling about whether any artist would ever be interested in our own private garments and deciding the chance was remote. Then Nikki, naked except for pale pink panties, began to play with the elastic and said in a rueful voice, You know I've put on a bit of weight?
Venice? I said, with a smile.
Venice, she said, not smiling at all. I stood on the scales this morning, and discovered I've put on three pounds. Almost four. Look. She pulled down her panties and pressed into her tummy with a finger. It didn't seem much different to me. But she was adamant: There's a bit of fat there. It's definitely softer. Those bloody restaurants!
It's really not noticeable, I said, wishing all the time that it was. How could she gain even a few pounds without me spotting? I checked her figure again; the same slimline shape, the hip bones clearly visible either side, slender arms, sculpted face framed by that gorgeous auburn hair. On the surface nothing looked changed. But then I peered a little more closely at her tummy. She was right! I realised now there was padding just below the belly-button -- not much, just a hint of new fat lying under the skin, raising and softening her figure by a few degrees, the degrees only an admirer of fat would spot, or someone copy-editing a book about tiny creatures.
She fetched a brush, sat on the bed's edge, and began to comb her hair. You probably like it, she said, without much relish.
As she sat, a tentative crease mark appeared across her midriff round her belly-button. I'd never noticed any crease before. It looked very cute.
I do, I said.
She grinned, rather malevolently I thought. Well the fat won't be here long, so you better enjoy it while you can.
Lead the way, I said breezily, pointing to the bedsheets. A grim smile appeared round her mouth, but then she settled down happily enough for our favourite sport. The big SA, as the group referred to it. The Sexual Act. In preparation I stroked her cheeks, and wondered if any ounces had secretly found their way there. What would she look like with a rounder face?
Mounting her body, feeling her tummy against mine, I tried to distinguish fact from wishful thinking. Was I really feeling that little cushion of flesh? Or was it my imagination? Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves. It was a good night. Thursdays always were.
Neither that night nor later did I ask Nikki exactly how she would be getting rid of her Venice pounds. I guessed she would go be going to the gym -- there was one in the basement of the new high-rise where her office was -- or adopting the diet of a rabbit. I disliked either option. So, it appears, did she. True, she made a big play once of bundling herself off early with gym gear and good intentions, but it was only once. The rest of her life -- and me, I guess -- just got in the way.
The year edged forward. Nikki thought up a cross-promotion between Levi jeans and her battered wives, but saw it shot down for reasons of bad taste.
Got to try these things, she said, philosophically. I myself learned more about snakes and snails than I ever wanted to. Tarzan announced that he was going on the wagon, and his drink of choice would now be lemon juice. That lasted about three days.
And then it gradually dawned on me that far from losing her Venice pounds, Nikki was actually gaining a few more. Indeed, after a month or so whenever my eyes caught sight of her au naturel as the French say, it seemed to me there was now a little more tummy fat for her waistbands to dig into. Her face, I noticed, was beginning to fill out too;
I can't say she had a double chin as she lay with her head on the pillow -- that would definitely have been an advance -- but I was certainly aware of a gradual erosion of definition around the jawline, the cheekbones, and the places inbetween. Without any urging on my part, my wish seemed to be coming true. Nikki, beautiful Nikki, had started to gain weight!
I wondered why and how. Holiday pounds, OK. Easily understood. But she'd shown such aversion to gaining before. Why was she doing nothing to lose the few pounds she'd added? I felt uneasy about raising the matter myself; I wanted to do nothing to upset the slow addition of flesh to that succulent body.
Nikki said nothing either. So for a while I just observed her, what she ate, what she drank, how she spent her time, and tried to fathom the changes. They were small but significant. She was extra busy at work, that was one thing; no time now for even a token session walking the treadmill and doing press-ups. Plenty of sitting. And Venice seemed to have activated a sweet tooth. I noticed a chocolate bar on her desk at home -- most un-Nikki like. And when we ate out, away from the pack, she would linger over the menu's desserts. Most times she declined, as she always used to do, but sometimes she gave in, and had ice cream or a tiramisu. She had obviously started to eat a little more, a little more often.
Did she know her weight was increasing? Hard to be certain. The changes were subtle enough to be able to ignored if she had a mind to. Yet I found it unlikely that Nikki hadn't at some point seen what I'd seen. Perhaps she'd ran an idle hand over her stomach and found it softer, or spotted the crease mark near her belly button, both features etched a little deeper now into the surrounding flesh.
I finally came to the conclusion that she was in two minds about the business. Deep down I think she knew she was gaining, yet she wanted to pretend to herself that she wasn't. What clinched it for me was a moment on the sofa as we sat in front of a TV programme neither of us was watching.
Instead of staring at the screen I had become transfixed by the far more interesting picture presented by Nikki's waist. She was wearing blue denim jeans, Levi's actually, taken home from work, and I couldn't help noticing the contrast between the roughened texture of the material and the softness and honeyed glow of the flesh that now peeped out in a little lip above the jeans and below her blouse, all along the front. The jean's top button looked to be pinching her; she couldn't have comfortable.
So I made a remark. Would you be more comfortable, I said, if you undid that button? I said nothing about whys and wherefores, about extra weight and tummy fat. But she shot me such a filthy look that I knew she'd got my drift. I'd spoiled her game, and smashed open the door to something she was trying to ignore.
No, I'm fine, she replied, sounding definitely peeved, embarrassed too. What made you say that?
Something in her eyes -- a hunted, vulnerable look -- made me back down. She needed to shatter her own illusions, not have me do it for her. Oh, just the way you're sitting, I guess.
There's plenty of room, she said, untruthfully. "Let's just watch this programme, shall we?
So we trained our eyes on the monster box -- some gormless couple, I remember, were staring in awe at the pink fright a make-over team had just made of their bedroom -- while both of us in our different ways thought about tummy fat, Levi jeans, and fear, and desire. Well, I know I did. It was a poignant moment.
Copyright Swordfish, 2004
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