“Fuck!”
“What’s wrong?”
“When did I become such a fat ass?!”
There is nothing more humbling for a grown man of leisure than to see himself naked in a full length mirror. No, it’s more than humbling. It’s damned humiliating. Embarrassing. So much so that not only is swimming out of the question – wearing a t-shirt to try and cover it up makes everything worse. Man-boobs make for a lousy wet t-shirt contest – but nudity in general becomes an unpleasant experience. Clothes shopping. Sex. Forget about it . And for some reason, the fact that it was Saturday night didn’t seem help, either.
“Honey,” I could hear the consolation in her voice. “You’re not that fat.”
Not THAT fat, I thought. “I could rent out my stomach to be the bass drum for a rock band.”
“Hon…”
“I could get a job as a body double for Marlon Brando.”
“He’s dead isn’t he?”
“Even better. I’m pasty enough.”
“Hon…”
“I could…”
“Hey!” I looked up from my belly button to see her in the standing in the bathroom door. “Stop it. You’re fine.” She came up behind me and put her arms around me. She had to squeeze a little so her fingers would meet.
“You’re supposed to say that.”
She sighed. Even supportive women have their limits. I turned my attention back to the pasty round gut that took up most of the mirror. Disgusting. Who was this fat naked guy facing me? When the hell did he show up? The gut isn’t just a little spare tire. It could have its own license plate.
“If you don’t like it,” she said, walking away, “do something about it.”
“Like what?” I asked. Sit ups? I tried imagining myself on the floor, wallowing like a some beached whale. I thought about doing calisthenics in junior high gym… drunk Mr. Maynard wandering around, ignoring the guys as the girls did jumping jacks. Miserable fat fuck. Maybe all I needed was a degree in social studies, a pair of coaches shorts, a whistle, and a pint of Old Granddad hidden in my desk drawer to make myself feel more like a man.
It’s not that I’m against exercise. I like to walk around. I take the bus or the light rail so I can have the excuse to walk around. I can’t even use money as an excuse – the complex we live in has a workout room complete with machines and free weights. All I’d have to do is walk up there. In the past, I’d done my fair share of physical labor, and most of it didn’t bother me because it kept me in shape. Then, I had to go and get educated. I wasn’t sure that college did anything to expand my mind – but it sure as shit expanded my waistline.
I stood there, trying to imagine myself thinner… use that process of positive visualization. I thought of Mr. Maynard’s advice about how to hit a baseball. “Imagine that you’re hittin’ it,” he’d say. “See yourself do it. Then do it.” I knew better even then. Be the ball. My ass. All that positive visualization crap did was show you what it was you would never probably achieve. I tried visualizing myself working out. I tried imagining myself jogging. I’d seen enough people do it. Nearly everyone in Arizona was a health nut; when the weather wasn’t unbearable, they’d be out in morning and the evening – a legion of shorts that were too short, running shoes that cost too much, sports bras with not enough give. And those little digital step counters. They ran by me everyday, twice a day, in their I-Pod created microworld running their way to a longer healthier life. They voted in the smoking ban. Potato chips were being replaced with baked granola snacks that looked like sun dried pieces of cat shit. They’d even gone after beer and come up with an ass tasting low-carb beer. All the booze without the beer gut. Chicken shit bastards, I thought. If you can’t take the pressure, get out of the way for the rest of us.
“Get more exercise,” she said.
“Sure.”
“We could take walks together,” she offered. “In the evening.”
She was being sweet. Except I knew how it would actually pan out. We’d agree to it, then one or both of us would conveniently “forget.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Sure.”
“You could spend less time at the bar,” she responded. She probably heard the absence of conviction in my voice.
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Well… how many nights have you been there this week?”
“That’s beside the point.”
I heard her sigh. She thought I was spending too much time up the street; usually, she didn’t say much about it unless we were low on money. Had to give her credit, though… she knew right when to bring it up. “What I need,” I followed up quickly, “is a bicycle.”
“Why?”
“If I had one I could ride it around,” I said. “Get more exercise.”
“Don’t you remember the last time you had a bicycle?”
I did. But I wasn’t going to let her get too much of a foothold. I walked out of the bathroom so I could face her. “That’s also beside the point,” I said. She was sitting out on the couch, watching some show on PBS about how marsupials mate.
“We were living in St. Louis, remember?” she continued. There was no stopping her when she knew she was right. “You bought that bicycle and it SAT on the patio until the tires went flat. You ended up giving it away.”
“It would be different this time.”
She shook her head. “Honey, I don’t care how you look. It’s not that big of a deal.” She looked up at me. “Would you care if I got fat?”
Trick question. One that you never answer. It’s one of those things you learn in the first six months of marriage – that and to never go clothes shopping together. Perfectly good relationships go straight to hell in isles of department stores every single day.
“We’re not talking about you,” I answered. “You’re perfect.” I caught her smile. “We’re talking about the fact that my stomach would need its own seat if we were flying coach.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she said. “Really. It’s not that bad.”
Not THAT bad.
“We could go to the workout room,” she offered.
“Sure.”
“
Well I don’t know what to tell you. I make suggestions and you shrug. Either do something about it or quit bitching.” She was getting aggravated with me.
“We need to stop buying junk food,” I said.
“That’s not fair.” I must’ve hit deep.
“Why?”
“Why should I suffer just because you don’t have any willpower? Just because it’s there doesn’t mean you HAVE to eat it.”
I suddenly remembered all of the nicotine gum up in the cabinet from when she tried to quit smoking. I didn’t bring it up.
“Maybe we should stop buying beer,” she countered.
Now it was getting personal. “You keep telling me I spend too much time at the bar,” I said.
“And?”
“And so I buy beer to keep here. It saves us money.”
She sighed. “We’re not talking about money.”
“Sometimes I think you like me this way,” I said.
“Huh?”
“You like me fat,” I accused. “If I’m fat then no one else will want me.”
That got her attention. “You want someone else?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just saying…”
“So it’s MY fault you can’t turn down a second helping of food or drink light beer?”
“No,” I answered. It wasn’t going well. “Of course not. It’s just…”
“You want one of those skinny little whores you see on campus?”
Fuck. “No, of course not. Look, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just… look I just feel like shit, ok? You know you’re beautiful.”
“Am I?”
“You are,” I said. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.” I edged closer to her. My limp dick was about eye level with her. She smiled. I wasn’t sure if she was smiling because I was being sweet or because there’s something fundamentally comic about a fat naked man with a softie. I wasn’t lying to her; as far as I was concerned, she was gorgeous.
“You gonna do something with that?” she asked.
I stepped back to give her room to stand up. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I’m supposed to go out tonight,” she said. “I have to get ready soon. We could mess around before I take a shower.?
“Who’re you going out with?”
“The usual.”
That meant the fag boy patrol… a group of gay guys she liked to go clubbing with. I knew them and I liked them well enough. But I got the feeling early on that they found me just a little too… something. I think I scared one or two of them early on by accident. I’m never good at first impressions, and even before the watermelon that was my stomach appeared, I tended to lumber around like a drunken rube. So, except for the rare occasion when we were at some gathering or another, I rarely interacted with them. I doubt it bothered them that much. I didn’t go to clubs. I never cared for the scene, and I couldn’t dance worth a shit anyway.
“You could come out with us, you know.”
“Where you going?”
She rattled off the name of one of the clubs they frequented that advertised itself as a straight friendly gay club. “That’s ok. I’ll sit this one out.”
“You might like it, she said, standing up. “They make good drinks there. You could sit at the bar and make fun of people. You could even come out on the dance floor with me.”
“Yeah. And they could sell tickets. SHAMU DOES THE ELECTRIC SLIDE.”
“When did YOU ever do the electric slide?”
“Never.”
She shook her head. “You’re such a dork.”
“What’s that say about you?” I leaned in to kiss her. She kissed me first and I felt my manhood starting to kick into action.
“That I like dorks.”
She slid past me and walked into the bedroom. I followed her. By the time I got there, she was almost completely naked. Glorious. We got into bed and started messing around. I was nervous about getting on top of her; she seemed to know this and straddled me. It was short, sweet and fast, the way people fuck when it’s with purpose. She rode me hard until we both came. When she was finished she dismounted and walked into the bathroom to take shower. I laid there until she got out.
“You gonna lay there all night?” she asked.
“I might.”
She smiled. “Suit yourself.”
“You think you’ll be out late?” I asked.
She shrugged. “The usual.”
She got ready to go pretty quickly. She wasn’t one of those women who tried on forty different outfits or fretted over her make-up. But when she was ready to go, she looked absolutely stunning. She kissed me goodbye and walked out the door to go and meet her friends. After she left, I laid on the bed a minute. Then I took a shower, got dressed, and walked up to the bar.
